Men of the Year Read online

  Men of the Year

  Between the Lines Publishing, LLC

  Published by Between the Lines Publishing, LLC (USA) as

  Willow River Press (imprint)

  410 Caribou Trail, Lutsen, Minnesota 55612, USA

  www.btwnthelines.com

  Copyright © 2019 Colleen McMillan. All Rights Reserved

  Cover artist: Jim Tetlow

  Men of the Year by Colleen McMillan

  Paperback ISBN: 978-1-950502-14-1

  Also Available in Ebook format

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopied, recorded or otherwise), without the prior written consent of the publisher, except by a reviewer who wishes to quote brief passages in connection with a review written for insertion in a magazine, newspaper, broadcast, website, blog, or other outlet

  This book is dedicated to Andra, who loved a good story

  Before

  The water park was crowded, but she didn’t mind. Pete walked from the snack bar with fruit juice and chips, nothing she usually ate, but they were on their anniversary date, so no food was off limits. Pete said she had better things to worry about than her “already awesome” figure, but a girl had to watch what she ate to maintain the body.

  Children ran by, chased by frantic mothers wielding sunscreen, and she imagined her friend Alicia racing after her kids: their blond hair glowed in the sun, and Alicia’s arms pumped up and down as she ran behind the speedy toddler, her youngest. How exactly did kids get so fast? Maybe it wasn’t that they were fast; maybe it was because their parents had to lug diaper bags around.

  Pete settled into the folding chair next to her, and she sighed.

  “This was a great idea. It’s so hot today.”

  “The water feels pretty good,” he said and handed her a juice and Doritos.

  “Didn’t they have cool ranch?”

  “Picky much?” She shoved his arm and he mimed falling out of his chair. “No need for violence. They’re just chips.”

  “But I love cool ranch so,” she said in her best Scarlett O’Hara voice.

  “My dear,” answered Pete as Rhett Butler, “I don’t give a damn.”

  They laughed and spilled some juice while a group of expectant mothers glared. When Pete leaned over and kissed her, the mothers flew into a squawking tizzy, whispering that there were young children about, and such displays made them sick.

  “Tough crowd today,” she said and giggled. Pete attacked her, tickling and trying to kiss her nose. “Stop! I’ll pee!”

  “You’ll be fine. You only peed that one time.”

  “Shut up I did not!”

  They wrestled in her chair until a lifeguard sauntered by and gave them the “settle down” eyes. Each retreated to his and her chair and lay back. She reached into her tote and pulled the sunscreen away from her spare clothes and Vogue.

  “Honey can you get my back? I’m going to lie on my stomach.”

  “Sure.”

  She lay down on her stomach and tilted her head to the side. Sunglasses askew, she saw half of Pete in shade and half in sunlight.

  “Where are we going for dinner?”

  “That trick won’t work.”

  “What trick?”

  “The one where you ask me so many times that I eventually give in and spill.”

  “You’re no fun.”

  He knelt beside her chair and looked hard into her eyes. This was his serious face; one she rarely saw. He reserved it for his parents when they drank too much or for her mother, who pried into their relationship like a Maine tourist into a lobster claw. He thought it was none of her business what he and Cassie did.

  “I didn’t mean it. You’re tons of fun,” she said.

  “There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you, for a long time.”

  “What is it?” She started to sweat more from nervousness than the sun. A lotion smear whitened her nose, and Pete reached over and wiped it away gently. “Come on Pete what’s wrong? You know I hate surprises.”

  He grinned and pulled a small black box from his backpack. It fit in his palm. Her heart beat faster than it ever had, even more so than when they’d first made love on a Mexican beach. The memory of this milestone flooded back, and she smelled roasting, powdery sand and the fresh ocean air. Seagulls cried in the distance and a small party blared music down the beach near the market where they drank margaritas each night. She felt his lips and hands and fingers again, all caressing her body. The towel rumpled beneath them, and his hands in her hair. He laughed at her braided cornrows when she got them, but he twined a few strands around his fingers and pulled lightly until she gasped.

  “Cassandra McTiernan, will you make me the happiest man in Minnesota and the universe and marry me?”

  The crashing Pacific waves disappeared, replaced by splashing children and piped-in oldies music. Her hair lay plastered against her head, and she felt her skin crisping in the sun. This was the moment she had waited for since she first read “Cinderella.” Pete wasn’t a prince, but he was damn close. No one had ever made her feel more special, even her father. She thought of the necklace he bought her in Mexico that sat in her tote, the puka shells small and adorable. She wanted to clutch it in her hands as she thought about all the reasons to say yes and if there was any reason to say no. When she couldn’t think of any, instead of reminding him that he’d taken his sweet time asking, she said,

  “Yes. Of course, I’ll marry you.”

  “You know I’m stressed about the flowers, why are you calling me now?”

  She walked from the florist, seething. When she called earlier that week, the clerk assured her that her arrangements would be ready in two days, in plenty of time for the ceremony. Now, the store manager informed her that someone sold some of the lilies needed for her bridesmaids’ bouquets. He did not divulge the employee’s name; fearing brides’ wrath was commonplace for him, and he saw no reason to doom his employees in the same fashion.

  She texted her mother and explained that she didn’t want to talk to anyone for at least an hour, especially about the wedding. She felt like eating another doughnut but tried to think about something else. A doughnut was the last thing she needed.

  So, her mother called the instant she sent her text.

  “Don’t be so catty. I just needed to tell you that your cousin’s been in an accident and can’t make it to the wedding.”

  “But she’s one of my bridesmaids! The lineup will be screwed!”

  Her footsteps echoed off the sidewalk pavement, and other walkers scooted out of her way when they saw her unwavering posture. One man mumbled, “Crazy bitch,” as she elbowed past him.

  “Cram it d-bag!” she yelled. “Not you Mom.”

  “I was saying, before you screamed in my ear, that her sister can fill in.”

  “I hate Jessie. Everyone knows I hate her.”

  “But they’re twins, and Jessie will fit in the dress.”

  “I told you not to mention dresses.” She had needed to let out her dress even more at her last fitting. If she’d known how stressful the wedding would be, Cassie would have subscribed to a food management program before planning started.

  “Sorry dear.”

  “I can’t worry about the flowers or Jessie anymore. Tell Aunt Judy it’s fine if Jessie agrees to do it, and can you try and talk some sense into the florist? He won’t give me a discount even though they sold my flowers to some civil
ian.”

  “Anything else?”

  “No. I’m meeting Pete for lunch. We still need to get his ring! Can you believe he left it so last minute? I told him to pick it up three weeks ago!”

  “Good-bye Cassie.” Her mother hung up, and Cassie tried to erase her tone of voice from her eardrums. She sounded shriller as the wedding crept closer, and she hated it. She missed the days when she was calm. Where had those days gone?

  She walked the four blocks to the café, figuring any exercise would help, and saw Pete’s truck parked outside. Good. He was already there. Maybe they could get all their errands done in a couple hours. At least the gift registry was finished early, because she couldn’t get Pete to confirm anything else for the ceremony or reception after they left Target months ago. At first, she didn’t mind planning everything, but as more details piled up, she wanted Pete to step in and take on some responsibilities. When he didn’t, it fueled her frustration. She yelled at him once. Seeing that it did no good, she brushed him aside and continued the planning solo.

  As she neared the café, a gorgeous blond woman passed her and smiled, and Cassie wished she had her body back. If she were her old self, she would have been able to smile back at the model-esque woman. Someday she’d be healthy and fit again. As soon as the wedding was over.

  The tiny café smelled divine. She ogled the fresh pastry case but fended off her craving. She needed to fit in her dress, and she pushed away the thought of it being two sizes bigger than her first fitting. No need to worry about that now. They had two days left before becoming Mr. and Mrs. Horowitz. She knew Pete couldn’t wait for the circus to be over. “I can’t believe this got so huge,” he said after they told their parents.

  “I have a big family, and yours isn’t small.”

  “I know. I just wanted it to be quiet, more intimate.”

  She saw him sitting near the window, staring outside. He wore his usual uniform of long-sleeved t-shirt, jeans, and fancy sneakers. He loved his overly expensive athletic shoes that had nothing to do with sports. His pensive look clouded his face, the one she despised. Lately it signaled a sour, whiny monologue about how things had gotten too big. She had pared the guest list down as far as her mother allowed, but it was still too big for Pete. His sullenness killed whatever good feelings she had. She barely had any left.

  “Hey,” she said and plopped down across from him, setting her planner on the table. She leaned over to kiss him, but his lips stayed pursed and tight. Great. Something else was bothering him. She couldn’t take much more sulking. “What is it now?”

  “There’s something I need to tell you.”

  “Did the tux fitting not go well?” In a small way she hoped it had been a disaster, then he would feel how awful she felt for gaining so much weight. She blushed and found a guilty expression crowding her smile away.

  “I didn’t go.”

  “What? But the wedding’s in two days! That was your final fitting!”

  “I called and canceled the appointment.”

  “Are you nuts? When are you supposed to fit it in now?” She grabbed her planner from the table and looked through it. “There’s no way you can do it tomorrow! That’s the groom’s dinner. Your parents are flying in.”

  “I called them. They’re not coming.”

  She dropped the planner and gaped at him. What the hell was going on? Did his parents suddenly disapprove of her? They loved her!

  “Is something wrong? You’re freaking me out.”

  He wouldn’t look at her when he said, “The wedding’s off.”

  Whoever made up the expression “hit like a ton of bricks” must have been a woman dumped by her fiancé two days before her wedding. Cassie’s limbs went numb and limp. What did he mean? The wedding’s off? The wedding they (she) had been planning for almost nine months? The wedding he had wanted?

  “Off?”

  “Dammit, you always do this!” He pounded his fists on the table, and she glanced up, startled. “You make me feel terrible when it’s not my fault! I should’ve just called you. This is a nightmare.”

  “Nightmare? You have no idea what I’m feeling right now.”

  “I never do! All we ever talk about anymore is the stupid wedding! If I’d known you’d get so obsessed and so…” He looked her up and down.

  “Fat. You forgot to finish that last part.”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  “Yes, it is!” She threw the planner at him and tears streamed down her cheeks. She hated crying, mainly because she’d been sobbing over her ever-expanding midsection since January. “I’m sorry about the weight! Do you think I like looking this way?”

  “I didn’t mean—”

  “We don’t have to call off the wedding for that! I can lose weight, Pete.”

  “It’s not just that.” He looked outside again and stopped, petrified.

  She followed his gaze and saw the stunning blond she’d passed on the sidewalk strut by the window. She looked inside and saw Cassie glaring back. She dropped her eyes and fled. At least she had the decency to do that.

  “You’re cheating on me?”

  Whatever repentance Pete felt disappeared when she said, “cheating.” He sat up straight and looked directly in her eyes, like he had when he proposed.

  “It’s over. I’m sorry.”

  He stood up and she grabbed his hand.

  “Pete, please.” She begged him with her eyes to remember their time together. The five years they were happy. She wanted him to think of their first date, the time they went skinny dipping in the winter, and when they’d had the pregnancy scare and got excited for a second when they thought they might have a baby together.

  “You can keep the ring.”

  As Pete left the café, Cassie realized that whenever she thought of him, she’d smell fresh-baked pastries. Muffins, doughnuts, candy, bagels, cookies. Clotted cream, caramel, chocolate fudge, and white flour. The sugary scent made her retch, and she ran for the bathroom to throw up. She knew she’d never touch one again.

  Lots of crying

  May

  A girl’s twenty-ninth birthday should be normal. There’s no anxiety or excitement about hitting the big 3-0, no twenty-five Jell-O shots like on your twenty-fifth. Things should go as planned: brunch with Dad who tells agonizingly long stories about his youth, which you secretly love; coffee with Mom, whose flowers are flourishing and who still cannot believe that you don’t have a boyfriend; light lunch with a work colleague or two where you discuss the newest addition to the office; and dinner and drinks with your three best friends where you bitch and moan about problems you’re having with your Dad, Mom, and work.

  Make that three EX-best friends.

  It started as a normal birthday in May, the most beautiful month in Minnesota. The sun’s not too hot, the humidity hasn’t started its oppressive regime, and the mosquitoes are hiding in forest puddles. Birds and flowers sing May’s praises, and though I’m allergic to pollen, I don’t mind the blossoms outside in my apartment window-box. Just keep a box of Kleenex handy and you’ll be fine.

  I wake up at six, like I do every morning, feed my cat Prospero, brush my teeth, throw my red hair up in a ponytail, grab my t-shirt, shorts, and shoes and head outside for a run. I live on the fifth floor of my building, so I take the stairs. Anything I can do to keep this body from returning to its former state, which will not be discussed right now. The sun has just come up, so the residual evening coolness rests like a dust layer on the sidewalk. As my feet go faster, my ankles tingle from the chill. It won’t be that way for long. It doesn’t take much to make me overheat. Stupid pale skin.

  After three miles around the neighborhood I turn back at Bentley Park Grocery. I live in a pleasant area of the city: tallish old-style brick buildings with awnings and minimal street traffic. Long streets with stylish names and greenery growing in the sidewalk cracks. It could be described as an arty district, but I suppose it’s a bit posher than that. Not upper class but n
ot disintegrating like other Twin Cities neighborhoods.

  When I run, I see people walking their dogs, jogging like me, or waiting in line at Minnie’s Café for the best chai latte in the state. They stand like sleepwalkers next to green cast-iron tables with umbrellas down and chairs are pushed in. Tiny flowerpots rest on each table. Minnie keeps sweet pea, peonies, and Gerber daisies for the table arrangements, and bright yellow daffodils and hardy lilac bushes are planted against the walls. Minnie has an employee whose only job is to take care of her flowers.

  When I get home, the sun is out but not too hot. I run up the stairs and list off the day’s itinerary in my head. But first I have to call my mom for our daily chat.

  When I was thirteen my mom and dad sat me down for a “talk.” It was the talk many children dread, but I was ready for it. It had been coming for a long time. Parents never think their kids pick up on all the little spats and negative body language. They think they’re so careful and clever, but when it comes to concealment, they’re about as useful as Jacques Clouseau on a police investigation. Mom and Dad explained that they were getting a divorce, that it wasn’t my fault, that they still loved me blah blah blah. Of course, they still loved me. It was each other they couldn’t stand.

  I call Mom every morning to give her yesterday’s happenings and any juicy gossip I might have heard.

  “Hello?” she answers, in a questioning tone, as if she has no idea who’s calling. She’s at work, slaving away in her office on some sort of financial business. Always in a hurry and very important, that’s my Mom.

  “Hi Mom. What’s going on?”

  “Oh, Cassandra, it’s you,” she sighs, a dramatic edge in her tone. “Just the usual crap they throw at me in the morning. I can’t work with these idiots much longer.” She says this every morning and has yet to quit her job.

  “I know, but things will be better tomorrow.”

  “Not likely, but where else would I find a job these days?” That’s another topic she likes—the economy. “Anything new today? Did you watch Dancing last night?” Mom enjoys reality TV shows where ordinary people dance, sing, cook, yell, buy wedding dresses, or try to lose weight, and she feels that I should follow their progress as well.