Free I Take You by Eliza Kennedy Page B

official.
    “Lily?” Mattie is looking at me intently.
    “What? Oh, sorry.” I roll down the window. It’s really warm in here all of a sudden. “If you think it’s a big deal, I’ll talk to Will about it.”
    “Wonderful! You’ll be glad you did.”
    My phone rings. I answer. “Hola, madrasta bonita!”
    “If you marry that poor boy, you’re both going to regret it for the rest of your lives,” Ana says.
    I lean back against the headrest. “Will you please fuck off?”
    Mattie jumps a little in her seat. “Sorry!” I whisper. Back to Ana: “I’m not changing my mind. Deal with it.”
    “Then how about this,” she says. “Postpone. Give yourselves time to get to know each other better. If you still want to get married, we all reconvene here in six months. What do you say?”
    I have to be careful—Ana’s persuasive as hell, and her inner conviction can be contagious. When I was little, she was always conning me into doing things I didn’t want to do—attending rallies, campaigning with her, trying weird foods. She’s passionate and dramatic and always, always right. Which often makes her very, very annoying.
    “Sorry,” I say. “Not doing it.”
    “Dammit, Lilybear. You’re so stubborn.”
    “Wonder where I learned that.”
    “You worthless piece of shit!” she cries loudly.
    I hold the phone away from my ear. “That’s a little harsh, don’t you think?”
    “Not you,” she says absently. “I’m reading an e-mail.”
    “Yeah? Glad to know you’re maintaining a single-minded focus on my concerns.”
    “This is
ridiculous
,” she hisses, and I hear the clatter of keys as she starts typing angrily.
    “Is there anything else I can help you with?”
    “No,” she says, her mind clearly elsewhere. “I mean yes. Give me your friend’s number. The designer. I need help finding a dress.”
    “You don’t have a dress for the wedding?”
    “When do I have time to shop?” she protests. “And frankly, I didn’t think you’d actually go through with it.”
    I give her Freddy’s number.
    “Now,” Ana continues, “if you start having second thoughts—”
    I hang up on her as Mattie pulls up to a weather-beaten grey house with purple trim. The crooked front porch is bursting with plants and flowers. The hand-painted sign reads ROSE’S FLOWERS AND GIFTS.
    “Here we are!” Mattie chirps.
    I gape at her. “You brought me to a sex shop?”
    She looks mortified. “No no no! This is—”
    “Mattie, that’s disgusting! I don’t go for that sort of thing!”
    “I would never—”
    I pat her thigh. “Relax. I’m only teasing you.”
    “Oh,” she says, slightly mollified. “Well, that’s—”
    “This is obviously a funeral parlor,” I say.
    “What? No!”
    Three drinks on an empty stomach and I’m tormenting this poor woman. I apologize, and we go inside, where I meet Rose, a pleasant woman with pink cheeks and a halo of frizzy white hair. She has a folder of paperwork spread on the counter in front of her.
    “These are the plans Martin worked up,” she says. “It’s a lovely start. But I think I can make a few improvements.”
    Rose and Mattie bend their heads together. I check my e-mail and work voice mail. My phone pings with a text.
    —Hw do I tzpe on ths fubking thig,
    It’s Gran. I type back:
    —pls stop spamming me
    About five minutes later, I get:
    —Y7 idio8
    This is fun.
    —youre one of those internet perverts, arent you. im going to report you to the FTC
    —ths sht
    —youre sick, mister, you know that? sick
    She finally calls, sputtering with rage.
    “Texting is supposed to save time,” I tell her. “It doesn’t make any sense for someone in your condition.”
    “What the hell?” she snaps. “What condition?”
    “One foot and all ten fingers in the grave.” I pull a couple of sprigs of baby’s breath out of a vase and start crumbling them between my fingers. “What’s up?”
    “I need to add a guest. Assuming you’re still going