Chapter Eight - Kimbra

"Yes, you're a grown woman and we want him to know that if it'll get your man to propose, he can stay in your room."

"M-Mom..." I struggle to find appropriate words. How on God's green earth does she think that sleeping with someone in my parents' house is going to be romantic?

"It's all right. You know, despite this issue that we're seeing the doctor about, your dad and I are still quite active—"

My body shakes in denial as I interrupt. "The race. Crap. How did I forget about the race?"

"Well, I don't know, dear. It's only the biggest spectacle in racing. Your dad and brother aren't too happy about missing it. They were hoping to take Timothy. But there's the big family pig roast on Sunday. Dad had to give the tickets away. He gave them to Scott McKinney. You know, Darrin's father. By the way, your dad said Scott seemed disappointed that you are bringing a plus-one from New York. Apparently, Darrin was hoping..." she rambles.

My stomach twists. Darrin?

No. "Mom?"

"Oh! Did you get Timothy's measurements? I need those today. Besides filling in for his friend from California, Kurt wants Timothy at the bachelor party. You know, I'm not a big fan of parties the night before the wedding. Remember that incident with Jimmy..."

My neck stiffens as I feel the anxiety build. I can't avoid this any longer. No matter how badly I don't want to attend the perfect wedding or return to Indiana and field all the questions about why I'm not married, why I'm living far away in New York, or why I have a life instead of being pregnant with baby number three at twenty-five years old, I have to put on my big-girl panties and face the music.

"Mom," I try to interrupt as I push my way through a crowd of obviously lost tourists. "Mom, um, Timothy..."

"Kimberly, you're breaking up. What did you say?"

"We're not..."

"Kimberly Ann, I RSVP'd for you plus-one."

The anxiety grows as she says exactly what I expect.

"That was six months ago. Oh my Lord," she continues without taking a breath. "Tell me you're not single again! I was afraid this was why you weren't giving me his measurements. Why didn't you tell me? You know your aunt and uncle paid for a sit-down dinner. The reception is at the Hyatt. It's very fancy, place settings with real silverware and everything. Oh dear Lord in Heaven, don't tell me that I have to tell them you don't have a plus-one. I know! I can call Darrin. Do you want me to call him?"

Nothing like a little down-home guilt. I take a deep breath and tap the microphone of my Bluetooth. "No. Not Darrin. I-I'm...said...see...going...Thursday...rental car..." I say as I disconnect the call.

One day she's going to catch on.

In the meantime, I'm going to bask in the reprieve.

I told her...well, I tried to tell her.

My thoughts fill with the details of my upcoming trip of disgrace. I need to book a flight and a rental car. I need to buy a dress. If only my plus-one was as easy. I practice my responses in my head. "Children? No, not yet....no, no dog either...Married? No...Yes, I'm sure he's out there somewhere too...Yes, I suppose I'm sort of married to my job...." And then there's the abundance of disapproving looks from my aunt, grandmother, and mother as I sit in my assigned seat at the reception next to an empty chair or next to Darrin McKinney, Indiana's shoe king.