Borrow-A-Bridesmaid (23 page)

In the middle of a meditative breath, I'm interrupted by a voice so clear it sounds like it's coming from behind the shower curtain. I pull the curtain back, but all I find are hotel-style shampoo and body wash dispensers. My peripheral vision catches an air vent in front of the window. Voices rise through it and echo across the tile floor. An instinct unique to my new role as supersleuth has me squatting down noiselessly and pressing my ear to the vent.

“This is part of the deal,” a woman's voice says—unmistakably Holly's.

“What deal? There's no deal! This is our future. And I didn't sign up for that.” Charlie. My heart pounds.

“What else are you going to do? Serve coffee and work on your stupid screenplay?”

A sharp intake of breath. “Let's talk about this later.”

“There's nothing to talk about. Grow up! You need the job of a grown man, not a fucking adolescent.”

“I'm not selling out.”

“You can tell her yourself, then.”

“I will. But right now they're waiting on us outside.”

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

A door slams. Another sharp intake of breath, followed by a prolonged exhale. I imagine Charlie in the room below me, hands spread on the counter, staring himself down in the mirror. Maybe his tie dangles over the sink, soaking up little droplets of water.

I try to peer into the vent, but I can't see anything in the room below. If only I could send a word of comfort down.

My mind's spinning. My intuition is going off, more cowbell than bell tower. All I get is a disconcerting
clunk-clunk
.

I stand up, smoothing my dress, my heart racing as if I were part of the fight. Dabbing powder across my cheeks, I try to collect myself. My superpowers seem more inaccessible than ever, even though the woman returning my gaze from the mirror looks almost poised.

The shower is
a blur of more activity. One of the caterers goes home sick, so I'm nominated to circulate a tray of mushroom-and-fig something. I offer one to Holly first, but she doesn't notice me until I'm practically on top of her with the tray.

She's gazing out over the pond. Her eyebrows, usually at sharp attention, have relaxed a bit, giving her face a thoughtful, sad look. I want to be furious at her, but the longer I watch her, the more I sense a vulnerability she normally works hard to hide. As if she's a magician continuously performing feats of misdirection. Or hiding her true self under a cup, then moving two or three identical cups in tandem to keep you guessing. For the briefest second, she's lifted up the cup to reveal what's underneath.

“Holly, can I ask you something?”

“Hm?” she says, her gaze still on the pond.

I take a deep breath. I'm pretty sure subtlety isn't one of my superpowers, but I'd like to have one last go at it. “Susan was talking the other day about a neighbor named Blaine. Should I have invited him?”

Now she turns, but instead of looking at me, she glares at my tray. “What you should be doing is distributing the hors d'oeuvres in the northwest quadrant of the porch.”

“Right. Sorry.” I'm tempted to curl the tray against my chest and release it toward the pond like a giant Frisbee, but instead I walk away.

As I step around two men in suits ping-ponging political buzzwords to each other, Charlie catches my eye across the porch. He's leaning an elbow on one of the high-top tables and looking incredibly dapper. He's rebelliously worn a suit jacket over a T-shirt, along with his red Chucks, which are a no-go in Lena's dress code. Our eyes meet, and the rest of the party seems to freeze-frame until the buzzword brothers flank me, plucking tarts off each end of my tray. They look like a comedy duo: One is short and round, the other tall and lean.

“Young lady,” says Suit #1, a fig seed lodged between his front teeth, “could you help us settle an argument?”

I glance around nervously for Lena. I'm pretty sure I'm not supposed to be consorting with the guests. “I should probably—”

“This will only take a moment,” Suit #2 interrupts with his mouth full.

I start to protest, edging backward to avoid masticated fig debris, but they move in front of me. “Tell me,” says Suit #1, “what are your thoughts on the trade embargo in—”

“Gentlemen!” Charlie emerges between the men. “Pardon the interruption, but you're creating a mushroom-and-fig embargo on the other side of the porch.”

The suits step back, caught off guard. Charlie holds out his hand toward me. “If you'd be so kind as to bring those tarts to the northwest quadrant?”

He guides me past the suits, his hand on the small of my back for the briefest second before he seems to realize it shouldn't be there. He takes the tray from me instead, nearly clonking a woman with a beach-ball-sized hat as he sets it on a nearby table.

“Thanks for rescuing me. May I repay you with a mushroom-and-fig thingy?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “As appetizing as that sounds, I'm watching my figure.” He smiles for the first time this evening. I smile back, thankful that the Charlie I know is somewhere inside this stressed-out groom shell. I'm so relieved to see him smiling that I don't dare bring up Blaine. What do I know for sure, anyway? I want to ask instead about the conversation I overheard in the bathroom, but not knowing how, I start with: “How are you?”

“Hanging in there. Not really my scene. How about you?” His gold-flecked eyes take a meteoric cruise from my stoplight lips to my beaded dress fringe.

“I'm hanging in there, too.” My face feels like it's turned the color of the sugar beet hors d'oeuvres. Now that the tray's out of my hands, I don't know what to do with them.

Charlie's face is flushed also. “This whole party, I can't stop wondering.”

“Yeah?”

“What's your word today?”

I sigh. “I don't actually have a word today. It hadn't even crossed my mind.”

Beach Ball Hat passes by us, and Charlie and I exchange a meaningful look. “Actually, maybe I do have a word for you,” I say.

“Yeah?”

“Macrocephaly. It's an unusually large head circumference.”

Charlie rewards me with a laugh. Making him laugh feels better than any espionage I might otherwise be doing.

When the laughter dies down, we end up just staring at each other.

“You look incredible,” he says, lowering his voice. He steps closer to me, his fingers brushing mine.

My body reacts first—my fingertips skim his, exploring them. The string lights seem like stars that have descended on us, constellations nestling together, dizzyingly close. My fingertips work their way up to his palm, where I imagine touching his love line. He closes his hand around mine.

Then my mind catches up, producing the flash-card facts: This is a wedding shower. I'm a bridesmaid. In Charlie's wedding.

I pull my hand away just as I catch sight of Lena over Charlie's shoulder. She's barreling toward me, making a subtle but brisk motion that indicates I'm to pick up the tray and get on task.

“Better go.” I pick up my fig Frisbee, my fingertips still tingling. Charlie nods, shoving his hands in his pockets.

As it turns out, the buzzword brothers were an anomaly; it's incredibly hard to circulate food in a crowd of teensy-waisted rich folk. I had to tell several people that the figs were nonfat and organic. As it also turns out, the tray is like a cloak of invisibility. “Excuse you!” I say to a Botoxed woman who almost knocks over my tray. She doesn't even turn around. As I move away, my gaze meets Anna's across the patio, and she gives me a weary smile.

After the last tart is finally plucked, I circle back to get Holly's next directive.

Uncle Rex, Lena's loose-cannon brother, is monopolizing Holly across a high-top table, drink in hand. I slow my approach as I enter hearing range.

“So, Hollyberry, are you going to let me walk you down the aisle? As it stands, I'm the man of the family.”

“Don't call me that.” She looks anywhere but at him.

“C'mon.” He takes a long drink, then seamlessly replaces his empty glass with a full one from a passing tray. “Oh, shit. You don't think he's coming back, do you? For your wedding?” Now she makes eye contact. He returns her gaze. “Give up the dream, sweetheart. The only walk he'll be taking that day is from the bar stool to the pisser. Trust me. Takes one to know one.”

Anna appears out of nowhere and hooks her hand in the crook of Uncle Rex's arm. He turns to her, barking that he's fine, that he doesn't need babysitting, thankyouveryfuckingmuch.

“I have special drink for you inside,” she says.

“Well, in that case, sweetheart,
vamanos
. Wait, wrong language.” He lets her lead him away. He winks at Holly before disappearing into the crowd. “Think about my offer.”

Sensing Holly needs some space, I go to Lena for my next directive. She has me exchange my mushroom-and-fig tray for a basket of Wish Cards and commemorative fountain pens.

I'm offering a card to one of Lena's co-senators when my intuition cowbell goes off. I pivot toward the deck stairs in time for the entrance of a tall blond man. He's lingering on the final steps, his hand clutching the railing.

Blaine.

Susan invited Blaine.

I hand the senator the Wish Card basket in a fit of panic—“Hold this! Thanks!”—and adjust my trajectory back toward Holly.

My first instinct is to look for Charlie, who's leaning his elbows on a high-top table behind Holly, stirring his drink like his life depends on it and, every so often, funneling a bacon-wrapped scallop into his mouth. So much for watching his figure.

Holly is at the next table, chatting up Beach Ball Hat. They keep exchanging little amused hand gestures like they're trying to very politely dispel a cloud of mosquitoes. When Beach Ball moves away and clears a path for Blaine, Holly's cheeks flush, her lips part.

For a moment, they stand a few feet away, gawking at each other. He blinks at her through the thick-rimmed glasses. He looks exactly like his profile photo—it's as if he's stepped off Facebook and into the party. I swipe a sea-salt caramel truffle and stop at a nearby table to eavesdrop; a wad of caramel attaches itself to one of my molars.

“Hi,” he says.

“Hi,” she says.

“Hi,” he says.

He takes in the table of gifts, the decorations, and the glittering ring on her hand. “This is a wedding shower?”

The next table over, Charlie sets down his scallop. A crumb of bacon lingers on his lower lip, and he licks it off in slow motion. My minion ovaries giggle excitedly, and I shush them so I can focus.

“You're getting married.” Blaine blinks at her through the glasses. “You go back to L.A. last year without telling me, and now you're engaged.”

The sexual tension crackles in the air between them. They look to be on the verge of an intense, anger-fueled make-out session. His head is tipped right, hers left, like they're preparing to kiss from feet apart.

Blaine is all shades of red: pink polo, burning cheeks. I feel sorry for him. Maybe he's as earnest as his Facebook profile would lead one to believe. He got sucked into the Holly tornado like the rest of us, all spinning around her in a fit of confused rage and debris. Yummy debris, at least. I stress-eat another truffle, having detached the caramel from my tooth with a subtle fingernail swipe.

Charlie wipes his hands on a cocktail napkin and steps to Holly's side. Blaine extends a hand, a gesture that Charlie doesn't reciprocate.

Charlie turns to Holly. “You invited Blaine?”

Holly shakes her head, her cheeks flushing deeper. “No! I didn't!”

“We're getting married,” Charlie says after a pause tense enough to tight-rope across. “So help yourself to a fig tart, and kindly get the eff out.”

Blaine holds up his hands as if a gun is being pointed in his direction. “Hey, friend, I mean no disrespect. I got the strangest call from Nora Fillmore, and she happened to mention that Holly was having a party tonight. That's all.”

Charlie cocks an eyebrow that says,
Likely story
. Holly frowns in confusion, and I can see her scanning through the invite list. I silently curse Susan and her vigilante ways—no doubt she had way too much fun pretending to be Nora the Nose.

They all stare at one another for a pregnant pause, and at last Charlie leads Holly by the elbow to the edge of the deck, where they appear to have a heated conversation. Blaine waits, leaning on one of the tables. A flickering candle centerpiece casts light and shadow alternately across his face. The light flashes reveal a miserable expression.

Not sure what to do but feeling as if I should do something, I snatch a tray and approach him. “Bacon-wrapped scallop?”

He shakes his head at me. “Vegan.”

“Oh. How about a caramel truffle?”

“I can't eat anything here.” He looks wistfully after Holly as he slumps farther onto the table. “It's all out of reach,” he says, more to himself than to me.