And why I don’t know the script.
“Well, okay then,” Karissa says. She makes a big show out of emptying her margarita into the sink. “We can talk, but I won’t go against my late father, as I’m sure you understand.” She pouts. I don’t like it. I can’t stop cringing. I’m getting hiccups in my stomach, a new sensation that feels a lot like nervous anticipation for something awful.
“We need to zip the garment bags up first. And you really need two?” Arizona says, gesturing to the gowns. “You already planning the second wedding? With husband number two?” She puts a hand on her chest to stop herself from saying more. “Shit. Sorry. I want to talk nicely. I’m sorry. Okay. Let me start over, but can we zip those up first, because they’re distracting me.”
Karissa blinks and gets this funny Zen look on her face.
“Sure. Let’s start over. Arizona, can I get you a drink?” she says. She has the beginning of a smile on her lips, but she doesn’t let it come through fully. It’s a power move, like she’ll forgive Arizona if Arizona will take one.
Arizona is desperate to say no, but yes is easier.
“Thank you. That’s nice,” Arizona says, and Karissa pours her a margarita. Pours herself one too, even after the whole show of pouring it out. She crosses her arms and watches Arizona take a sip. Roxanne clears her throat, and I look at my phone and try to think of a succinct way to alert Bernardo to the massive power struggle quietly going down in my kitchen. Arizona sort of sputters on the alcohol or the salt or the lemon-lime sourness of the drink. Karissa zips up the dresses, and Arizona relaxes a little in spite of herself. Something bad is happening.
“You wanted to chat about something?” Karissa says, like all is right with the world. There’s a glimmer of the person she was before. Cool. At ease. Open and wounded and pretty and wild. She pulls up a bar stool, offers one to Arizona. Leans in too far, aggressively far, to hear her speak. Their faces are inches away from each other. She puts a hand on Arizona’s skinny arm. “Let’s have a conversation. You liking your drink?”
Arizona takes another strained sip. Nods and musters a weak smile. Probably silently hates herself.
“Don’t marry my dad,” Arizona says.
Roxanne lets out a huge exhale and I drink, a long painful suck on the rim. Karissa nods and leans forward one more precarious inch like she’s super, super interested. She knew this was coming.
“I see, tell me more,” she says. I’ve seen Karissa plenty drunk before. But I’ve never seen her like this.
“Don’t do it,” Arizona says again. “It will destroy my relationship with him, and the marriage is gonna last, like, two years tops anyways, and you’re going to hate yourself and he’s a terrible husband, and I will make your life hell if you do. So I’m asking you. Girl to girl. Like, honestly. For your own good. Because he has only had terrible marriages. Don’t do it.”
I keep going on my margarita and pour myself another as soon as the first one is done. Karissa doesn’t say anything but stares at Arizona until she drinks more. The silence is excruciating.
“Maybe we should go out?” Roxanne interrupts the quiet. “We could just, like, walk? Around?”
“Keep drinking, Arizona,” Karissa says. I don’t know why my sister’s still listening to the command, except that maybe she thinks if she obeys everything else Karissa says, Karissa will give in and leave my father. It’s terrible logic, but Arizona has a desperate, delusional look on her face, almost as desperate and delusional as Karissa’s, which begs the question: Is this how my father makes women feel?
I feel a little desperate and delusional this summer too.
“You don’t need him,” Arizona says. “You’re . . . look at you. You’re some goddess. Who should be with, like, a puppeteer. Or a poet. Or a merman. You don’t need to be with my father. He’ll ruin you. You’ve lost so much in your life. And you will lose him too. I don’t want to see that happen to you.”
“Don’t pretend to give a shit about me,” Karissa says. “Don’t say awful things and pretend it’s because you’re such a nice person.”
Arizona picks at her knuckle, even though there’s nothing there to pick.