Borrow-A-Bridesmaid (5 page)

Sam turns to me. “Here's the executive summary. I'm a struggling musician working by day at an Italian restaurant and making the rounds in New York's most obscure jazz clubs by night.”

“Wow,” I say, genuinely impressed, and picturing Sam wearing a fedora while playing bass.

Sam props his elbow on my shoulder. “Don't be fooled. It's not as glamorous as it sounds.” He turns to Charlie. “So Big Sis is tying the knot, eh? I hear the lucky guy's a
trumpet player
.” He holds up his hands, pretending to be scandalized.

Charlie rolls his eyes. “The horror! I guess these things make waves in the music world. You look like you need a drink, buddy.”

While Charlie meanders to the bar, Sam fills me in on his latest musical exploits and his frustrations with his day job (most recently, spilling an entire plate of chicken Parmesan on his pants, “though it did make my crotch smell quite tasty”).

Sam asks some friendly questions about where I went to school, jobs I've had since then. He used to work at JFK, and his airport horror stories make my Dulles experiences pale in comparison.

Charlie returns to deposit a green glass bottle for Sam and a water for me on our table.

“So what do you do when you're not shelving our country's finest literature for airport clientele?” Sam asks me.

“Piper's a writer, too,” Charlie says. His lips form a crescent-moon smile.

“What kind of stuff?” Sam asks.

I tell them about “The Melting Girl,” a short story collection I was working on the last year of school. I describe the first story in the collection, involving a disgruntled employee who does a sword-swallowing stunt for the corporate talent show before having a quarter-life crisis and joining the circus. “Sort of a surrealist, existentialist mishmash.”

“Wicked,” says Sam. “I like my surrealism with some existentialism. Mmm-mmm.” He mimes patting his belly.

I sneak a glance at Charlie to gauge his reaction. “The sword-swallowing bit would make a cool short film,” he says. “There's this festival in L.A. every summer that I think would be right up your alley. You should come out and see it.”

“I meant to ask you, dude.” Sam turns to Charlie. “How's your job going?”

A cloud crosses Charlie's face. “Not great. Right before I left to come out here, someone threw a drink at me.”

“Someone threw a drink at you?” I ask in disbelief.

“Yeah, these movie-set types think they can treat other people like crap. They show up to get like thirty drinks for everyone on set. Then they come back a few minutes later with the do-overs. I apparently gave George Clooney one pump too few of vanilla in his macchiato.”

Sam shakes his head. “The restaurant I work at, people like that come in all the time. Send food back for all sorts of ridiculous shit. I guess that's how you know you've arrived in life. You have the right to say shit like ‘My goose is undercooked.' ”

Charlie smirks. “Your goose
is
undercooked.”

Sam picks up his bottle and arcs his arm back as if to lob it at Charlie. “Don't make me hurt you.”

“You know, I once sent back an order of Denny's hash browns because there was a cockroach in them,” Charlie says. “Does that count? As having arrived in life?”

Sam laughs. “Not exactly, dude, but nice try, nice try.” He blows into the top of his bottle, making a low note like the horn of an ocean liner echoing across water, then sets it back on the table.

Charlie runs a hand through his hair. “You know, it doesn't bother me as much as I thought, doing this kind of work. I sneak in the writing when I can, you know? Behind the counter, even in the bathroom.” He runs his finger around the rim of his glass. “I heard Steven Spielberg worked as an unpaid intern seven days a week when he first got to Hollywood. You gotta start somewhere. It will make the glory that much more worth it.”

Sam straightens his back, lifts his bottle, and clinks it against Charlie's empty glass. “Hells to the yeah.”

They both turn to me, and I raise my glass to meet theirs. As I do, an ocean liner horn of hope sounds somewhere deep within me. One day the airport job will be the little harbored dinghy I gaze at nostalgically as my ship sails toward the horizon, the setting sun drizzling a trail of yellow-pink across the salt water.

Charlie pushes back from the table and points at Sam. “Be right back. Don't abscond with Piper while I'm gone.”

Sam mock-salutes him, but as soon as Charlie's out of earshot, he scoots his stool closer to me and nudges me with his elbow. “He's a sexy bastard, isn't he?”

A blush spreads across my cheeks. I clutch my glass. “I dunno. I mean, I just met him.”

Sam looks at me. His smirk—which seems to perpetually wait in the wings to launch into a full-blown smile—is absent. Angry Achilles plays in my head, the bass line thumping in my eardrums. “He's a good guy,” Sam says, more to the space between us than to me. “Bit of a sucker, though. His ex was a—well, she was— How shall I put this delicately? Something of a horned, two-toed psychobitch.”

“What exactly happened between them?” I ask.

Sam sighs. “What didn't happen between them? It was an emotional black hole of doom.” He studies me, fingering an invisible goatee. “So you like Rocket Bar, eh?”

I nod. “I love it. It's the perfect blend of juvenile and adult fun. I think I'll have to hit up the Skee-Ball before too long.”

Sam nods as if my answer's confirmed a life-and-death question. “I'm pleased as flipping punch to see him hanging out with someone who'll take him to Rocket Bar. It's his favorite place, but his ex never wanted to do the things that made him happy, you know? What with her delicate sensibilities and psychotic tendencies.”

“Erm, that sounds—intense?”

Sam nods gravely. “You treat him right, y'hear?”

Before I can answer, Charlie settles back on his stool and gives us an appraising look. Sam straightens up and moves out of my personal space, pulling his phone out of his pocket and examining it. “Well, I hate to bug out early, but the booty called, and I must answer.”

Charlie rolls his eyes. “Who is it this time?”

Sam slips the phone back into his pocket and polishes off his drink. “A gentleman doesn't kiss and tell, brother.” He aims a pointer finger at each of us. “You kids have fun. Charlie, I'll text you to schedule a wicked night of bromance post-wedding.”

Charlie mock-salutes him. “You're on.”

And then we're alone again.

Five

W
e smile at each other for a few seconds, and it feels like all the words in the universe have been evacuated from my mind and are practicing a water landing in my glass below. A leap of electricity seems to pass between us as if we're Tesla coils.

“Here's the thing,” Charlie says, “I'm not ready for the night to be over yet.” He nods at the Skee-Ball machines. “Here's my proposition. We duel at Skee-Ball, and the winner gets to decide where we go next.”

I flush horrendously at the word “proposition,” then collect myself. “You're on!”

He rustles in his pocket for a couple of quarters, and we square off as the wooden balls roll down the chute. Two men with out-of-control beards loiter nearby, watching us with mild interest.

Charlie approaches one of the beards and hands him a bill, nodding at the jukebox. A few moments later “Shut 'Em Down” is playing over the speakers.

“You're going down,” I say, settling into my Skee-Ball power pose.

Charlie knocks two balls together as the machines play their tinny jingle—a prelude to our battle. “Ready—set—go!”

We begin furiously rolling balls down the chute. Despite alcohol and nerves, I'm an indisputable Skee-Ball master. It's pretty much one of my superpowers. I'm not a man-eater or a social climber or even a middle manager, but I've got Skee-Ball. My talent comes through for me as I hit two 50s in a row.

I finish first and watch as he makes a last, futile attempt at the 100-point hole in the far corner of the board. His ball hits just below the hole and rolls into the 10 slot. He's toast. By a good two hundred points.

One of the bearded men sets down his cocktail to give me the most lackadaisical applause I've ever received. I steal Sam's move and mock-salute the beard twins.

“I'm not worthy,” Charlie says, getting down almost to his knees—the floor's too sticky to follow through on the gesture.

“Get up,” I say, laughing, reaching down and pulling him up. As he stands, he leans toward me and we fall into an embrace. He feels so good in my arms as I lay my cheek on those lean pecs. He puts one arm around my waist and the other on the nape of my neck. His fingers catch in my hair, and he caresses me there ever so softly, his fingertips grazing my skin. Goose bumps chase each other down my neck and spine.

“Your move,” he says into my hair.

Where to take him? I'm suddenly a gridlocked Congress. Certain body parts are lobbying rather strongly for me to take him home and completely ravage him. But my mind dissents; it wants to draw out the seduction.

“Hey, dude, sorry to like, cockblock, yo, but I got a jones for Skee-Ball,” a voice says behind us. We step out of the way, our fragile moment lost. The crowd around us fills back in, and the laughter and music seem to return to normal volume.

“My roommate and I have this ritual,” I say. “I think you'd like it, but be forewarned: It involves a scintilla of espionage.”

Charlie gestures for me to lead the way. “I'll go anywhere you want. You had me at cheese bread.”

We walk up
to the National Portrait Gallery under a clear, starlit sky. The colossal front door is propped open, and a line of elegant muckety-mucks spills down the steps.

Charlie leans close. “Are you sure about this?”

I stand on tiptoe until I glimpse the top of Brick's crew cut above the heads of the muckety-mucks. “Absolutely sure.” I squeeze Charlie's hand and nod in front of us. “Just take your cue from them. Act like you have the right to be here. You do have the right to be here.”

We're mildly underdressed, but my low-cut top and sleek black skirt blend in well enough. Charlie looks down at his red Chucks as we scoot forward in line.

“Hey.” I squeeze his hand until he looks up at me. “Trust me.”

His face breaks into a smile, and I'm hit with the force of his perfect teeth plus both dimples. “I trust you.”

“Evening.” A deep voice interrupts us. Brick is giving me a studiously neutral gaze; only a friend would notice the hint of amusement in it. His eyes flick to Charlie and back to me as if to say,
Aha! Who have we here?
I blush.

“Sir, ma'am,” Brick says, scanning his clipboard, “your names, please?”

“Well, I'm Mary, and this is John. We're friends of Chuck,” I say. A bit of Googling on Charlie's smartphone revealed this was a private birthday party for Chuck Corley, CEO of Leverage Consulting Corp.

Brick pretends to give us a probing look—it would be downright scary if I didn't know him—and I feel Charlie tense beside me, his fight-or-flight instincts engaged.

Brick continues to scan the list. “The Albertons?”

I nod and smile. “At your service.”

“Go on, then. Enjoy your evening.”

We all but skip into the lobby, where Charlie pauses to catch his breath. “Holy shit. Was that guy really a gender studies minor?”

“He did it mostly to pick up chicks, but I think he got more out of it than he expected. We ended up doing a project together on sexism in advertising, and he got really worked up.” I smile, remembering Brick's expression after watching the documentary
Killing Us Softly.
He still has an XXL T-shirt with “This Is What a Feminist Looks Like” printed across the chest in hot-pink lettering. He's a gentle giant, that one.

We follow the crowd through a high-ceilinged hall that opens up into a spacious courtyard flanked on either side by Greek Revival buildings. An intricately textured glass canopy stretches overhead, stars just visible beyond. Blue-and-gold-dappled lights kiss the buildings and scatter abstract patterns across a marble floor. Around the perimeter of the courtyard, sculpted trees woven with string lights alternate with buffet tables bearing a cornucopia of hors d'oeuvres. High-top tables decked with linens and candles line the edges of a wide dance floor, where couples slow-dance to a string ensemble.

It's absolutely magical.

Charlie squeezes my hand, and there's something in his eyes that halts my breath. A kind of guarded hopefulness, a small fire he's protecting from heavy winds.

The music changes. Gets slower, settles into all the corners of the room. Inches its way up the courtyard buildings and windowpanes. Fills me until I could burst.

“Mary Alberton, will you dance with me?” Charlie unlocks his fingers from mine and holds his hand out as an invitation.

“John Alberton! I thought you'd never ask.”

He sweeps me onto the dance floor in a goofily dramatic move, but I sense what I hope is a slow seduction behind the playfulness. His left hand locks mine into a ballroom dance frame, while his right rests dangerously low on my hip. We're waltzing.

“I didn't know I could waltz,” I tell him.

“I'm making it up as I go along.”

His tie sways slightly as he moves, a life-size metronome: He keeps perfect rhythm. We make our way across the dance floor, and I get a secret thrill when my skirt brushes against the elegant dresses of the corporate matrons. An even more secret thrill when Charlie and I move closer together to maneuver around other couples.

After a few moments of intense eye contact, I look away and remind myself to breathe. My eyes rest on a lonely-looking man lurking by the hors d'oeuvres, his large glasses tipped to the end of his nose as he holds a gigantic piece of goat cheese–ricotta ravioli between his thumb and pointer finger.

“What do you think his story is?” I ask Charlie. We make a subtle path past the lurker, watching as he rotates the piece of ravioli to examine it completely before popping the entire thing in his mouth.

At this, Charlie pulls me fully into the Lurk Zone, sidling up to the other end of the ravioli table. “He's Peter Vandermoorten. Works in accounting but dreams of opening his own homemade-pasta shop. The kind of neighborhood shop where he knows all his customers' names. Working for Leverage, he feels like he's offered nothing tangible to the universe. All the spreadsheets and PowerPoints disappear into the corporate ether without any lasting value. He worries that he himself has no lasting value.”

Peter's chewing slows as a tall brunette walks past, deep in conversation with an even taller blond man.

“He's secretly in love with Marina Macklemore, head of marketing,” I say, leaning closer so Charlie can hear. “Rumors abound of Marina's secret engagement to Atticus Corley, Chuck Corley's freakishly tall son, but Peter refuses to believe it. Meanwhile, he's working up the nerve to ask her on a date.”

“He has visions of inviting her to his place. He just knows, if she tastes his pumpkin gnocchi, she'll be his forever.”

I laugh. Peter looks up at the sound, and Charlie quickly pulls me back into the fray for another few slow songs. By the time he leads me off the dance floor again, our fingers interlocked, there's no sign of Peter. In his place is a server with a fresh round of drinks. Charlie fetches me a flute of bubbly. I shouldn't; I'm still tipsy from the wine and beer. But I do. Charlie follows suit.

Finishing our drinks, we amble through the Great Hall and deeper into the museum, where three open-faced stories of portrait people gaze down at us. We start on the first floor and work our way up. The portraits are organized by theme and era and depict all walks of people. Royalty and commoners, politicians and plebeians, mothers and children, rock gods and starlets.

We wander for what feels like hours, losing all track of time and studiously ignoring the portrait captions in favor of our own fictional portraiture.

“Speaking of characters,” I say as we wander under a “Miscellaneous Americana” sign, “are you going to let me read that screenplay of yours sometime?”

Charlie stops in front of Elvis, mimicking his pose for a moment. As he drops his arms, a look of vulnerability crosses his face. “I just might,” he says softly. He tugs on the ends of his suit sleeves.

All of the painted faces seem to be watching us, and I wish I had another drink to sip or some words at the ready.

“You know what Elvis said once?” Charlie turns toward me. “ ‘Ambition is a dream with a V8 engine.' Sometimes I feel like mine is going to either drive me off a cliff or burn out revving in place, keep me imprisoned forever in baristary while I try to make my writing happen—but I can't let go of it. Sometimes I do wonder, what's the point? What's the point of putting this piece of art into the universe? Will it make anything better? Will it?” He addresses Elvis, hands outstretched in supplication.

Elvis smiles down on us, and I smile back. “I don't know. You have to put it out there to find out. Like Peter and his pumpkin gnocchi.”

Before Charlie can respond, we freeze at a muffled sound coming from around the corner. Charlie pulls me back in front of Elvis and we stand still, facing each other, until I can't bear the suspense. I peek around the corner and my lips part.

Peter is totally snogging Marina. He's got his hands tangled in her hair, and she's leaning down to him, her black pumps resting on the floor beside her bare feet. Charlie's chin pops over my shoulder, and I feel his sharp intake of breath. We sneak back around the corner, laughing silently until tears form in our eyes. He pulls me another row over, so we're now standing in front of an eighteenth-century schoolmarm with a taut bun and round spectacles. She's sitting in a hard-backed wooden chair and does not share our amusement.

Charlie lets out his breath and takes my other hand in his. Maybe it's the sight of our fictional corporate love story coming true. Maybe it's the galactic lighting, maybe it's the feeling of our palms pressed together, pulses racing to a finish line that stretches further and further into the distance. Whatever it is, a feeling crashes over my head:
This. This is what it's supposed to be like.

Three years with Scott and I never had this feeling. The feeling that something epic is unfolding, something cosmic. With Scott I'd felt an escalating longing, like I was riding one ski lift gondola behind him; he was always out of my reach. But with Charlie, it feels like we're at the top of the mountain, looking down a starlit slope, stomachs delightfully queasy. The whole journey is ahead, and gravity is on our side. I can only hope he feels the same anticipation.