Page 15 of Bridesmaid to Bride

“Absolutely. You should’ve seen me on the back nine. I was like poetry in motion.” He chuckles, and Eva joins in.

Poetry in motion? I choke back a snort. Maybe a limerick in sand traps. And was a very sore loser about it, I might add.

“I love a comeback kid.” Eva sips her wine.

I want to jump in, tell her the truth. But I clamp down on my tongue, hard enough to wince. Not my circus, not my clowns. They head out to the beach, thank God.

Time to mingle.

I stride up to the beachside outdoor bar and approach a group of women who’re chatting as the sea breeze flips their dress hems. I’m about to introduce myself when a sonic boom of Southern charm blasts through the chatter. Even before I see them, his all too familiar country twang and her high-pitched squeaky laugh smack me in the forehead.

What the hell are my parents doing here?

I wince as heads swivel in unison.

“This place is fancier than Club Med!” booms my dad, strutting across the patio in his mustard-yellow corduroy suit.

Mom follows, braless, and wide-eyed beneath her too-big sun hat, waving her hands littered with costume jewelry. Spying me, she yells, “They gave us towels just for wiping our hands, Westie! Neat!”

The guests—a collection of New York’s elite and international jet-setters—stifle their giggles behind manicured hands and designer clutches. Not to mention all the camera operators, who are now getting sucked into us like a black hole.

“Mom, Dad,” I say, plastering on a stiff smile. “You came?”

“Came? With bells on!” Dad does some sort of bad Saturday Night Fever maneuver that reminds me why I’m an abysmal dancer. “You know we’re tight with Zach since he crashed on our couch for a week.”

“Everyone’s looking at us,” Mom whispers, as if she’s just stepped into Oz.

“Yep, they sure are,” I murmur, my cheeks hot. I love them, but right now, I wish I could hit ctrl+alt+del on this scene.

I manage to steer them toward a less conspicuous corner of the patio, but it doesn’t help as Tyson, the head camera operator, follows us. And, as fate would have it, we bump into Neil, looking every inch the legal eagle in his tailored suit. I can practically smell mahogany and leather-bound books.

“West, your parents?” he says with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. Neil’s never met my parents—they live two hours away from Atlanta, and he doesn’t come to visit Eva often.

“Yup, these are my folks.” I brace for impact. “Bonnie and Buck.”

“Sure is nice to meet you, Mr. Steinberg!” Mom gushes, pumping his hand with an enthusiasm reserved for winning bingo numbers. “Did you get that fancy suit at The Sharp Suiter? They’ve got great threads.”

Neil’s polite front twitches. “Ah, no, this was custom made.” He adjusts his cufflinks as if to prove their authenticity.

“Custom, huh?” Dad chimes in, eyeing Neil’s attire. “Fancy schmancy.”

A server glides by, offering a tray of unidentifiable seafood appetizers, and Mom inspects a delicate puff pastry as though it’s a grenade.

“Is this one of those blowfish dishes?” Mom asks. “Saw a video on YouTube about it—deadly stuff if it ain’t done right.”

“Uh, no ma’am, it’s a vol-au-vent with truffle mousse.” The server somehow keeps a straight face.

“Truffle what?” Dad squints at the pastry, then shrugs and pops it into his mouth. Looking at Mom, he says, “Tastes like mushrooms and chicken, dear. You’ll like it.”

“West, your parents mentioned the groom stayed with them?” Neil’s clearly trying to steer the conversation anywhere else. This crowd doesn’t understand what it took for my parents to get where they are. I’m hellified proud of them, but they’re a bit loud at times.

“Ah, yeah, Zach needed a place to crash for a stint,” I say.

“It was during that rough patch with Paige,” Dad cuts in. “They had a big ugly breakup over his pug, Balls.”

“Really?” Neil raises a brow.

“Paige wanted Zach to get rid of Balls ’cause he was too rough with Coco Chanel, and he was a dirty, smelly mess,” my dad says with the subtlety of a foghorn. “But Zach wouldn’t have none of it. Showed real backbone!”

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