Seven

Seven

80 days until the wedding

"It was a pleasure meeting you, Ms. James."

A smile is sent in my direction from behind a dark wood desk and I immediately smile back, but soon realize the original smile is straining the person's cheeks. I refuse to let it phase me, though, and retain my smile as I stand up. I keep my head held high and my shoulders back, not in an obnoxious way, but just in that perfectly confident way. Perfect your posture and you'll perfect your confidence. You'll be confident to a perfect extent.

After I step out of the building, I untuck my green blouse from my tan slacks and pull the curly strands of my hair up into a high ponytail. The ponytail only adds an extra bounce to my step as I aimlessly stride down the sidewalk. The sun makes a home on my skin and helps keep my head up. I find myself keeping my eyes closed a little longer in a blink because the warmth feels so good. Such a contrast to the air conditioning that chilled my spine only moments before.

I do a little window shopping and then end up doing some actual shopping only because I'm addicted to buying lotion. Coco butter, vanilla, avocado, and even apricot. I stock up on any kind of lotion that not only smells good, but also makes your skin incredibly soft. Some people do yoga, while I find Zen in hoarding lotion bottles.

My phone starts vibrating and in my haste to get it from inside my purse I almost hit a solid five people with my shopping bags. Ironically, my phone stops ringing the second my hand finally clasps around it. I fight the urge to throw it to the pavement, and instead start walking again, unsure if I want to head home, or continue my lotion splurge. My phone derails those thoughts when it starts vibrating in my hand again, and I triumphantly answer it on the second ring.

"Hello?"

"Avery! Thank god! I've been trying to reach you for over an hour now."

My steps falter. "Aubrey, is everything okay?"

"No! Everything is not okay!"

"What's wrong? Are you hurt? Is mom okay? Is dad okay? What about Ben? Did grandma get stuck in an elevator again?!" My mind conjures up the worst possible scenarios to every worst possible situation only to be interrupted by Aubrey's laugh.

"Everyone's fine, Avery. At least I think they are, I mean, I haven't spoken to mom since yesterday."

"Then what the hell is going on?"

"Oh right." The words are whispered before I hear some shuffling on the other line and then the sound of a lock being turned. "Okay, so I'm hiding in the bathroom."

"What? Why?" A couple walking past me throws me an accusing look, but I immediately turn my body a little so they see the phone clutched to my ear.

"Because I need your help."

Once again, my brain goes into emergency mode. "Is something going on at work? Are you..." I sweep my gaze around the sidewalk before deciding on lowering my voice. "Are you being harassed? Because I swear!" I decide that I don't care if I look like a crazy lotion girl flailing her arms on the side of the street. "I will go crazy Avery on their ass!"

Just the thought of someone doing that to my sister has my veins burning with rage, and although I don't doubt that she can take care of herself, I also know she'd do the same for me if need be.

"No, silly, I'm fine. Everything's fine."

"Then why are you hiding in the bathroom?" This time I'm thrown a worried look from the glass window of a shop I stop in front of. I send the concerned employee a smile. I'd take concern over accusing any day. We need more of that in society.

"I'm hiding in the bathroom because—" A flush echoes on the other line, and Aubrey whispers a quick, "crap." Literally, I think and sputter out a laugh at the thought. "I'm in the bathroom because I already took my lunch break." The rapid, whispered words only make me laugh again only this time out loud.

"And you needed to let it out sooner than expected?"

"No!" Aubrey's immediate response has me only picturing her flustered face. A rare break in her usual prefect façade that not many people have the privilege of seeing. "No." Her voice is back to a whisper. "I realized that I already took my lunch break today, but I forgot that I needed to send out the wedding invitations."

My mouth drops open before I can stop it. "The wedding is in almost two months and you still haven't sent out invitations?" Considering the kind of "makes a to-do list for their to-do list" person Aubrey is, I figured she'd be not only one, but a solid five steps ahead when it came to wedding planning.

"That's why I'm calling you, Avery, because I was wondering if you could just pick them up at the card store for me." My first thought is, why can't she just get them after work. "They're closing early today, and by the time I get off it's going to be too late." Aubrey's rambling brings me to another thought that if she waited this long, one extra day isn't going to hurt. "I want to get them mailed out before the weekend so they can get to people faster." My third, and finally thought, is that out of all the people she could bother with this task, why on earth did she call me? "I'm really sorry to bother you, Avery, I just know you took off today and they're already paid for, so all you have to do is make sure they look good and then bring them home." Another flush resounds in my ear and a sigh escapes my lips. "Pretty please with sugar on top?" Aubrey's whispered plea has a small, reluctant smile forming on my lips.

"What are maid of honor's for?"

Aubrey squeals, but then I suppose remembering she's still in a bathroom stall, she conceals it. "Thank you, Avery, you're the best!"

"Yeah, yeah, I know, but I still don't understand why you're in the bathroom."

"Because I don't want everyone to know my business."

"Yeah." I scoff. "That's why you walk around flaunting that big ole' ring on your finger."

She laughs an all-knowing laugh. "Just wait until someone scoops you up."

"Whatever you say." I reach up to itch my nose and find myself remembering the shopping bags weighing down my arms.

We share a chorus of "goodbyes" and "love yous" before I hang up and finally begin walking again.

I get about three steps before remembering the two-hour parking meter I left my mom's car at. That's when crazy lotion girl starts running.

****

It's gold, but not in that obnoxious, trying to be something you're not kind of way. It's gold in a simply classic and elegant kind of way. Both of their names are printed out in gold curvy calligraphy and are surrounded by a gold flower crown. The date below has the same glint to it, in contrast to the off-white cardstock it's printed on. The bottom is perforated, so you can rip off your RSVP and mail it back.

It's simple and straight to the point. It's simply beautiful. Just how I imagine their wedding is going to be, despite my reluctance to help plan for it all.

After I place the surprisingly heavy box of invitations onto my kitchen table, I find that my feet won't let me walk away from it. Instead, I end up sitting down at the table and pulling out the few stacks of invitations along with their adjoined white envelopes. I separate them into piles and find myself counting out two-hundred and two guests. It's an oddly specific number, and, oddly enough, I find myself questioning the fact that I don't think I've even met fifty people in the twenty-two years I've been present on this earth. My eyes then drift back to the two gold names imprinted in front of me, and that's when I finally stand up from my seat.

Seeing as I have the house to myself, my footsteps echo as I trek up the stairs and end up in my room. My eyes immediately land on Aubrey's old, and I suppose pretend, current bed. Specifically, my eyes find the light pink binder with gold polka dots on it, resting there on the purple comforter. Just like any modern bride, that is her wedding binder. However, I know for a fact that the dent in the back and the countless magazine clippings and fabric swatches sticking out of the sides prove that this binder has been in the works for years. Yes, Aubrey James has been, and always will be, a low-key scrap booker. While I, on the other hand, will always get too distracted by the amount of glue I get stuck on my hands.

When I open it up and immediately see the deep purple color scheme her and Ben finally decided on, my fingers itch to continue flipping through the plastic covered pages to see the original only Aubrey-oriented options. A folded lined piece of paper sitting in the side pocket reminds me of my purpose, though, and I grab it before closing the binder back up.

I sit myself back down at the kitchen table with a pen in my hand and determination floating around my head. Although it doesn't pay, it doesn't hurt to play maid of honor for the day.

****

Sprawled out on the couch, I exchanged my pants and blouse for a comfy t-shirt and athletic shorts. I hear keys rustling outside the door and the annoyed grunt that resounds when they don't succeed in unlocking the door the first time tells me it's my dad arriving home from work.

His steps bounce around my head as my heavy eyelids are seconds away from closing for what I deem a well-deserved nap.

A slam on the coffee table startles me, but when I see Cluckie the chicken sitting there in his cage, I slowly sit upright. My eyes dart up to meet the awaiting gaze of my dad, and the determined crinkle in his brow says it all.

"Get rid of it." Are the only four words that leave his lips before he heads into the kitchen to start making dinner. Those are the same four words that have been repeated by him, and my mom many times since Cluckie's unexpected arrival. Despite Grandma Josephine being an advocate for his adoption, my parents have been constant advocates for his relocation.

My grandma's probably the only reason my dad hasn't left him on the side of the road, and as I continue to stare at the fidgeting and slightly sickly-looking animal I can't help but feel that roadkill isn't an option. The chicken didn't choose the caged life, the caged life chose him. Or at least that crazy guy in the even crazier jump suit did when he plopped him at our door step.

I run into the other room to grab my laptop and sit back down with it in my lap. I decide the only place to turn to in times like these is Google.

First and foremost, my fingers type out the words: what to do with a spare chicken? That is my first mistake seeing as I'm only given leftover chicken recipes, and my second mistake is staring at a recipe for the supposed "best buffalo wings on this planet" for a little too long. My third and final mistake is glancing back up at Cluckie to consider if he would make the best buffalo wings on this planet. I immediately scratch that thought when his little wattles jiggle with his movements.

New plan.

I google Cluck-My-Buck, and surprisingly a few things come up. Luckily none of them involve the words scam, prank, psycho, or even eco-friendly raised rotisserie chicken. I'm also pleased to find that the so-called company has an official website.

My content is short lived, though.

All this time I've been trying to find the humor in this. The possibility that this was all just a dream. The logo at the very top even reads,'We've got all your chicken needs!'

But aside from the creepy ads on the right side of the page, the only thing my eyes can focus on are the small, capitalized, bold words that read, 'No returns, changes, or exchanges.'

If only I had a Twitter because then there would be only one thing left to do.

#SaveCluckie