Borrow-A-Bridesmaid (12 page)

And then the doors to MT are sliding open and a smile is greeting me on the other side.

It takes me a second to register that it's Kalil, hands on his hips. Having seen him only behind the wheel, I've never seen the full effect before. It doesn't disappoint. He's crazy tall, but more muscular than gangly. A twinkle in his eyes, he blinks at me with absurdly long eyelashes. I could philosophize about his eyelashes.

Without thinking, I run toward him and pull him into a hug, jubilant with my newfound freedom. My arms loop around his waist, soaking up his warmth with my head on his chest and his arms loop-and-a-halfing me.

We finally pull apart. Kalil takes in the exhausted look on my face. “Bad day?”

“I quit!”

He grins broadly and offers me his arm, and we walk past the security line, empty now, though the robot lady is still giving her tireless lecture about the 3-1-1 rule. As she launches into the part about sharp objects, Kalil inclines his head toward mine. “That's definitely cause for celebration. How about that drink?”

Thirteen

O
nstage at Ned Devine's Irish pub, two guys with popped collars and guitars are playing acoustic versions of rap songs. They're starting on “It's Getting Hot in Here” when we arrive. I followed Kalil the couple miles here, his taillights winking at me. I rolled down the window, imagining exhaling the whole airport experience and letting the warm breeze take it away.

We settle into a corner booth under a blinking Guinness sign with our drinks as I tell Kalil about shoving my badge at Sal. He relaxes against the back of the booth and surveys me. “I'm going to punch Sal in the face the next time I see him.”

I tell him my fantasy about dumping a plate of spaghetti on Sal's head. He cracks up laughing, trying not to spit beer all over the table.

“Shit.” He manages to swallow in time to avoid spraying me. “What I wouldn't give to see that.”

I sense him watching me as I sip my gin and tonic. Normally, I'm a beer girl all the way, but oh yeah, tonight's a night for harder liquor.

“Hey.” He sets down his glass and pats the space next to him in the round booth. “Come over here.”

I hesitate, aware of crossing into new territory.
You are now leaving Charlie-land. Entering Kalil-town.
I worry that Kalil's touch, however sweet, will erase my sense memories of Charlie. As if my memories of Charlie are as fragile as an Etch A Sketch drawing, and Kalil's touch will gently shake them away into oblivion.

But there won't be any more Charlie touches, will there? My passport no longer works in Charlie-land.

I grab my glass, filled with the sweet clear liquid of oblivion, and slide over until my right shoulder is nestled against Kalil.

He puts an arm around me. “That's better.” I lean in to him and he tips his head over onto mine like Lin does when I'm sad.

“I'm so glad I ran into you tonight,” I say.

“Me, too.” He tightens his grip around me, a surprisingly strong grip. He smells like cologne, some manly scent I can't name, but it sends a flicker of nervousness through my stomach despite the alcohol.

“Want to know something hilarious?” I ask.

“Of course.”

“Remember that wedding I was telling you about? Well, I'm not just any bridesmaid. I'm a hired bridesmaid.”

At first he's quiet, looking at me quizzically, one dark eyebrow cocked, and then he bursts out laughing. “You're going to have to explain that one.”

I tell him the story, starting from the night when my cash-hungry fingers clicked their way onto Craigslist to the current saga with Alex.

“Wow,” he says as I finish. “Maybe you could add a few more wedding jobs now that you've chucked the Book Nook.” He leans forward, his elbows on the table, pushing back his now-empty glass.

“I've thought about that. But I don't know if that's what I really want. I actually have no idea, you know, about—well, anything. I'm not on the ball about any aspect of my life. In fact, the ball is an Indiana Jones boulder rolling behind me.” My words come out in a rush. I should be embarrassed about all this whiny disclosure, only a) the alcohol makes my lips looser and b) he's a good listener. I like the way he listens with his eyes, those long eyelashes a delicate net to catch every little fluttering word.

When I close my eyes, my mind Etch A Sketches an image of Charlie and me waltzing at the Portrait Gallery. As we danced, I felt like a sliding tile puzzle inside me was slowly maneuvering itself into place, piece by piece, moment by moment. I try not to think of Charlie's screenplay, of ancient looks. I try to dispel thoughts of him and his e-mail. Kalil is right here, and Charlie is on the other side of the continent. Cornfields and national parks and miles of interstate in between.

“Well, it could be worse,” Kalil is saying. “You could have been completely smushed by said boulder. Instead, you can get smashed.” He nods toward our empty glasses as he sits up and puts a hand on my thigh. With his fingers spread out, his hand breaches the entire width of my thigh, as if he's playing an octave. I feel like I've lit up where he touched me, tentacles of light and warmth spreading out as nerves fire north-south and east-west. “Another G and T?”

I nod, watching him slide out of the booth and amble to the bar. As he waits for the drinks, he chats with the bartender, pushing back those strands of hair that always seem to sneak out of place no matter how many times he tucks them behind his ears. He turns, sees me looking at him, and winks. The alcohol makes me brave: I don't look away, just return the wink and lean back against the booth, still feeling warm from his touch. The Popped Collars are doing a surprisingly good rendition of “Bust a Move,” and I smile to myself.

When he returns, we're quiet for a bit as we drink. He's got another Guinness, and he's scored me two lime wedges.

He licks a bit of froth from his top lip, looking thoughtful. That mouth! “You think you could get me hooked up as a groomsman? You know, if people wouldn't mind a Muslim groomsman in a Christian wedding.”

“Why not?” I pause. “Muslim, huh?”

“Mm-hmm.” His lips are already back on his glass.

“I'm kind of floating out there in agnostic land. Much to the chagrin of my Southern Baptist parents. Add that to the fact that I live with a gay man.” I roll my eyes. “I think there are prayer groups at their church dedicated to my salvation.”

“Ha! Well, I'm mostly out there with you. I mean, I don't live with any gay men, uh, unless there's something my brother's not telling me, but I'm a pretty bad Muslim. First of all,” he taps his glass, “I shouldn't be drinking this stuff.”

“Oh.” I take another drink, then lift my glass. “Cheers to us and our devious ways!” We clink glasses. “Not drinking, that's a tough one.”

“So is praying five times a day. I started off, you know, in the break room, hoping no one would walk in. But, of course, people did. Turns out Muslims in airports make people really nervous. After a while I gave up and decided I'd do it once or twice at home. A few months later, the only praying I was doing was during
Monday Night Football
.”

“How about your parents?”

“They— Well, okay. I've sort of led them to believe I'm super-devout. It seemed like the path of least resistance.” He drains his glass and sighs. “My brother and I don't really do any of the things we're supposed to, you know, praying and stuff.”

“You sound like you feel guilty about it. It's your choice.”

“Yeah, but it's not quite that simple. I mean, growing up, we tried so hard to keep all the traditions. My parents came over here from Pakistan when my brother and I were really little, and they want so badly for us to keep the faith.” He frowns, looks into his glass. “I think some part of me wants that, too. Maybe when I stop reading all that atheist existentialism, I can veer back toward religion.”

“That's a lot to balance. Your own beliefs, your parents' expectations.”

He nods. “I'll figure it out. Just not tonight.”

Hands free from having finished his drink, he slides his arm around my shoulders again. It's so long, it's like a Go-Go-Gadget arm. I giggle to myself, the lime-infused alcohol bubbling up to my brain.

“How'd we get on religion, anyway?” he asks. “I thought we were trying to figure out your career.”

I shake my head. “That's hopeless.”

He gives me a curious smile. “What do you like? I'm guessing shelving
Magic Treehouse
books isn't your passion.”

“How could you tell?”

“C'mon. You know all my dorky hobbies. Fantasy football, reading philosophy.” He leans in close. “On a really inspired day, I go to the Library of Congress to read. Philosophy absorbs better if read in the proximity of large marble columns and sculpted gold leaves.”

I consider him, running a finger around the top of my glass. “I don't think I knew how weird you were, before.”

He rolls his eyes. “So let me inside
your
weird little mind.”

And I do. I tell him about the Melting Girl. He listens thoughtfully, then suggests a companion piece: Precipitation Boy. When I give him a quizzical look, he says, “You know, I'll precipitate out of the atmosphere when people least expect it. BOOM! I'm in line in front of you at McDonald's. BOOM! I'm saving you from a robbery.”

“A robbery?”

“I'd definitely use my power for good.”

“You mean except butting in front of people to get your Egg McMuffin.”

“Except for that.”

“And here Melting Girl is using her power to hide from the world.” My finger stops midloop on the rim of my glass.

“Your writing—will you hide that from the world, too?” he and his inviting brown eyes ask.

I bite my lip. “So far, yes, with the exception of my college lit journal.”

He nods. “Don't let the world put its grubby fingerprints and judgments all over it. They'll convince you there's an objective reality and that your creation is not good enough. There's no objective reality; it's all absurd. As your writing suggests. Catering to other people just to have your work published will taint it. What matters is that you keep creating. For you.”

I was about to tell him about the
City Paper
job, but I swallow it back down with the last gulp of limey G&T. I want so much to tell Charlie about the contest—since I got his e-mail I've been composing draft replies.

But back to Kalil-town. Something about his comment bothers me on a deep level, but I can't tell why. Like trying to read the bottom line of an eye chart, it's not clear no matter how hard I squint. The alcohol doesn't help: My peripheral vision is beginning to Ferris-wheel. I try to focus on a couple in a corner booth. They're eating fried pickles and looking everywhere but at each other. I nudge Kalil. “What do you think their story is?”

He follows my gaze. “What do you mean?”

“Over here, we have longtime married couple Dave and Kimberley Cardigan. Their love life has gone a little dry, so they've come to Ned Devine's to do something different. But their attempts at reigniting the spark were thwarted by the subduing effects of the infamous fried Devine dills.”

Kalil frowns at me. “I have no idea what you're talking about.”

Even through the boozy haze, his words cause a small sting in my gut. “I'm just interested in people's stories.”

He considers Dave and Kimberley for a brief moment before turning back to me. “And I'm only interested in yours at the moment.”

The sting dissipates as he massages the back of my neck. “So what do I do with my life, O Wise One?” I ask.

One of his fingertips grazes the top of my hand, draws an incoherent message across the thin layer of skin. Then he flips it over to examine my palm, running a finger across each creased tributary. He looks into my eyes as if about to share a revelation. “I have no idea.” He grins, then says sheepishly, “But you're not totally bad off.”

“How's that?”

“Well, there's this tram driver who has a huge crush on you and wants to pay for your bar tab.”

“Oh, really?” I giggle again. Honestly, I don't usually giggle, but the gin and tonic is stirring my brain with a swizzle stick. “Well, that's something.”

“Something good or something bad?” He peeks at me with those eyes. I see a tiny reflection of myself in them.

My cheeks flush, and I look down at my empty glass. “Good, definitely good. I was seriously considering hopping on a flight to Fiji and never returning.”

He pulls me close, whispering in my ear, his lips grazing my skin, his breath warm. “Don't do that. Who would I drink with?”

I shrug. “Marcus?” We burst out laughing.

Hours later, after guzzling water and sobering up, we find ourselves out in the parking lot, standing next to my car. One of his long arms pins me against the car door. My eyes find the North Star before falling back down to meet his.

“Good night, you sexy agnostic bookseller, you,” he whispers. And then he stoops down and kisses me. I feel like I've lit up again everywhere he's touched me—my lips, my waist—his fingers casting neon prints across the small of my back. I close my eyes and kiss him back, the imprint of the starry sky glowing on the inside of my eyelids.

Another Etch A Sketch memory of Charlie and me outside the reception hall. But I shake it off and lose myself in the moment. The whole world is Ferris-wheel spinning, and I let it take me for a ride.