“I sealed my fate when I opened the door.” I lifted the glass to my mouth, allowing the crisp Reisling to wet my lips and linger in my mouth before continuing: “How’s that for an oxymoron? Sealed… Opened? The story of my life!”
“You’re so fuckin dramatic,” Cassie said.
“Oh yeah, you’re right. I need to dial it back a notch. Getting engaged to a swinger isn’t something to be dramatic over.”
“You’re the one that said 'yes'.”
“Thanks for the support, Cass.”
“Look Taylor, you can still say 'no'.”
“I love him.”
“So who’s the moron now?” she said, tapping my foot with her toes to get me to look at her, whereupon she winked.
“Touche,” I smiled.
“Seriously, if you’re not comfortable with him being a fuckin swinger then stop seeing him. End the engagement.”
“I can’t.” I poured another glass of Reisling while Cassie waved her hand at me like we were at a blackjack table and she was staying put.
“You can do anything you want.”
“Cassie! It’s just not that cut and dry!”
We looked at each other and for the first time that evening, I noticed Cassie was wearing a red infinity scarf which immediately transported me back into the swingers club George took me to the week before where the theme seemed to be red, red, and more red.
“Anyway,” Cassie said, breaking the silence. “What happened? When you went inside?”
“So what the hell are you talking about ‘you sealed your fate’?”
“I was talking about the dollhouse! When I opened the door to the dollhouse and saw the engagement ring!”
We both laughed and tossed back the remnants in our wine glasses.
“I have to admit,” Cassie said, picking up the wine bottle opener from the coffee table between us and fidgeting with it. “He scores points for creative proposals.”
Cassie shot a look at me and before she could speak, I quickly added, “I know it’s all a bunch of shit and this whole thing is just fucked up.”
“As long as you know,” she said.
“I need to end this.” Standing up and feeling a bit unsteady, I sashayed into the kitchen for another bottle of wine.
“Ya kinda do,” Cassie said, tossing the corkscrew opener onto the loveseat where I draped myself after opening the second bottle of Reilsing and pouring myself another glass of it. “If for nothing else, before your dad finds out he’s only five years younger than him.”
“Four,” I said.
“He’s only four years younger.”
“Christ, Taylor,” she said, holding out her empty glass for a refill.