Borrow-A-Bridesmaid (7 page)

Seven

T
he place settings instruct us to sit at the Mighty Bassoon table. Each table has its own instrument mascot, featuring a pop-art picture of said instrument in the center. Charlie and I stand between midnight blue satin tablecloths, clueless. My only musical interlude was middle school show choir; it was piano for Charlie. He tells me that after three months and little more than “Twinkle, Twinkle” under his belt, he knew he'd never match Susan's musical talent. Instead, he spun off in a direction that suited him better: the Mighty Pen.

On his way back from the buffet table, Charlie gets waylaid by relatives, so I focus on my food and drink. I'm not sure if there's such a thing as a cordon-bleugasm, but I'm pretty sure I have one during the third course. Wedding cake arrives shortly thereafter: A succulent raspberry cream holds together layers of chocolate and vanilla. I look up from my last bite to find Charlie approaching our table, the decorative string lights twinkle, twinkling in his eyes. A grin, then he nods toward the bar. I glance around for more encroaching coveys of relatives, but we appear to be safe. Susan and Brandon are making the rounds; they're currently chatting up the Ostentatious Oboe contingent.

We talk over wine—mine red, his white—as guests populate the dance floor.

“I have to ask,” he says, finishing a sip and turning to me.

“Yeah?”

“Susan
rented
you?”

I almost spit out my wine.

“She told me this morning after family brunch. Hey, I'm not judging.” He leans against the bar. “In fact, I might do the same when I get back to L.A. for some extra cash.”

“I'd do this again. Especially for a bride like Susan.”

He smiles. “I miss her, being out there. Definitely don't miss my parents, though.”

“What's the story there?” I ask softly, thinking about his mom's strained questions at the rehearsal dinner. “They want you to take over the family business or something?”

“Bingo.” His gaze drop to the bottom of his wineglass. “My parents are practical people. They're waiting for me to get over this screenwriting phase.”

I sip my wine, sensing his discomfort and shifting closer to him. “Well, my parents don't own a business or anything, but they spent the better part of their life savings on my college education. And then I went ahead and became an airport bookseller.”

A disco ball descends from the ceiling, luring more people to the dance floor. Sparks of light shimmy across Charlie's wineglass. He touches the lip of his glass against mine, so that our knuckles brush. “That's where you started, not where you arrived. It's only the first stop.”

“Thanks for reminding me. I guess it feels like I've been there forever. I know I do other things and go other places, but it feels like I always wind up back in front of the register. Like I'm in a time loop.” I tell him my theory about the airport as the
Divine Comedy
's limbo.

He slips an arm around my waist and draws me closer. “Spoiler alert—Dante makes it to paradise.”

“Yeah, after descending through hell and clambering over a three-headed Satan.”

“Hey, it'll give you plenty to write about.”

We chuckle as an old man begins doing disco moves to “Stayin' Alive.” I start to tap my foot but stop as pain shoots through my calf.
Curse you, heels
.

As Charlie swirls his wine, I catch a hint of its sensuous, fruity odor. I can smell Charlie, too, cologne and aftershave and soap. Even when I sip my wine, my peripheral vision won't let go of him.

As I drain the last drop, he releases my waist and holds out his hand for my glass. “What'll it be next?”

I raise my eyebrows. “More wine, I think.”

“Classy.” He winks, turning back toward the bar. Halfway en route, his wine expedition is hijacked by a trio of elderly aunties. One of them pinches his cheek while another starts talking a mile a minute, gesticulating wildly with her hands. The third looks stoned.

Charlie peers over their heads to offer me an apologetic glance. I should have known I wouldn't have him all to myself tonight. I slink back to the table, drowning my sorrows in a second piece of cake.

Susan appears a moment later, swishing toward me in her dress. Her cheeks are flushed, and she seems faintly tipsy. “Piper! I have to get back to family in a sec, but—wow! You and Charlie?”

I flush, not sure how much to say.

She gives me a knowing look. “I can always tell when my brother is smitten. Even with Wedding Brain, I noticed at family brunch this morning that Charlie seemed different. He didn't even touch the cheese kuchen—it's his favorite—he just sat at the table and smiled the whole time like a jackass. Once Mom and Dad left, I got it out of him.” She frowns. “Where'd he go, anyway?”

I nod toward the triumvirate of aunties.

Susan narrows her eyes at them before turning back to me. “You sit tight.” She swishes across the room and within seconds has pulled all three aunties onto the dance floor. The stoned one comes alive to “Everybody Dance Now” as her arms bend up into a robot dance. The other two sashay around Susan.

Charlie, thus liberated, arrives by my side a minute later, glass extended. “Wanna go outside?”

The cool evening breeze encircles us as we exit the hall, playing with strands of my hair that have escaped from their hair-spray-and-bobby-pin prison. One strand glances the top of Charlie's ear. He offers me a cigarette with his free hand. I take it, though I haven't smoked since college.

He lights it for me, suddenly reticent, as if he's left his chattiness in the midst of the reception hall noise. This is quiet Charlie, blowing-smoke-through-his-nostrils Charlie. This Charlie I can picture writing screenplays, huddled over his notebook at a coffee shop, one pen in his hand and one tucked behind his ear.

We walk toward the historic house, a bed-and-breakfast where Susan and Brandon will spend their wedding night. Out of Beltway range, the quiet is delicious. The June night is warm with a soft breeze. A lone cicada hums us a song that swells and then subsides.

I'm not sure what to say, afraid my clumsiness with words will get worse with the wine instead of better. I'm terrified last night was an anomaly. I couldn't possibly swing two magical nights in a row. I need Lin's smoothness, his confidence. Instead I have my aching feet, ridiculous hairdo, and fading stage makeup.

When we reach the steps of the house, we sit, alternately inhaling smoke and night air.

“I've decided that my next screenplay is going to be about a certain Peter Vandermoorten,” Charlie says. “I feel a burst of inspiration coming on.”

I shake my head. “I hope I can write again one of these days. I used to stay up all night writing.” The feeling I had on those nights—that whisked-away-on-a-magic-carpet-of-my-own-imagination feeling—seems like it belongs to a past self, a different me. Not the me of airport bookstore stockrooms.

Charlie looks at me like he's picturing that girl, hunched over her notebook, scribbling furiously, dorm room lit only by a chain of paper lanterns. He lifts a finger to my lips. “You are writing. Starting tonight.” He fumbles in his suit jacket pocket and hands me a wedding favor from our table: a blue spiral-bound notebook with silver music notes dancing across each page. A delicate blue pen the size of my pinkie is tied across the front cover with a bit of sparkly ribbon.

I press the notebook to my chest, a silent assent to his directive. Then I slip it into my purse and retrieve my wineglass.

A few notes of music seep through the wood of the reception hall barn and float our way. It smells like autumn all of a sudden—a burnt wood smell that mixes in with our smoke. I shiver.

Charlie crushes his cigarette with the polished toe of his dress shoe. He cocks his head to one side, then pulls my still-burning cigarette from between my fingers, slow, so that I've completely left my mind and am conscious only of the cigarette paper sliding between my index and middle fingers. He puts my cigarette out and extends his hand.

When I take it, he pulls me off the step and into his arms. We slow-dance for a few minutes, the music barely audible over the pounding of my heart. “Can't Help Falling in Love” fades into “It Had to Be You.”

My cheek lolls against his shoulder. I let my eyes close, and when I open them, he's looking at me: a pointed look, a hungry look. I meet his gaze for a moment that swirls between us like the smoke.

We kiss.

And kiss.

Everything else—those hours in front of the register, riding trams, restless when I'm stationary and restless when I'm in transit—curls and burns away.

The taste of him is salty, smoky: It sinks in below my lips, forming a sense memory.

He pulls away, and I have to resist the urge to grab him by the lapels and drag him back to me. “How about that?” he asks, his voice huskier than I've heard it. “Can you get a poem from that?”

I catch and release my breath. “Maybe a couplet.”

“Let's give you more material to work with, then.” He leans in again, traces the inside of my top lip with his tongue. I wrap my fingers around the back of his neck. Through the crack of my eyelids, I can see the last bit of our smoke dissolving into the night—and just past that, but also light-years away, the glow from the reception hall.

I'm not sure
how much time passes. I feel like I'm in an Acme cartoon tussle where the characters fight in a giant cloud—every now and then a fist or foot or elbow emerges. With Charlie, I'm in a passion cloud, and every now and then I become especially aware of a specific part of his or my anatomy.
Tongue! Lips! Hands! Ass!
But even in the passion cloud, Rational Piper is there, hands on her hips, reminding me that Charlie is California-bound. That this lovely moment must end.

And then it does—the back door of the reception barn cracks open and we pull apart, dazed. Charlie's hair is all over the place. I adjust my dress and put my feet back in the horrible heels.

Charlie's gangly teenage cousin Josh is making his way toward us, hands shoved in his pockets and face redder than raspberry cake filling. He clears his throat. “Uh, sorry—it's just—I'm supposed to tell you that you have to, like, take Aunt Bea, Aunt Margie, and Aunt Dorothea home to Gaithersburg. Chris was going to do it, but, um, they kind of found him passed out behind the chocolate fountain. I'd do it, but I only have my learner's.”

Charlie nods. “It's all good, Josh. Tell them I'll be right there.”

“Okay, so, yeah. Later.” Josh turns abruptly and walks back toward the barn.

Charlie runs his hands through his hair. “I better go. Can I call you? I want to see you again before—” He can't seem to make himself say it.

“Yes,” I say, not wanting him to say it, either.

“I'll e-mail you my screenplay if you send me some of your stories in return. We could have a writing date. A proper date, where we won't be interrupted. If—if you want.”

“Yes, I want! I mean—I will.” My poor lips are disoriented. Nothing's coming out right.

I hand him a page from the tiny notebook with my number and e-mail scrawled on it. We give each other a last look, and he cups my face in his hands. He gives me one more kiss, this one softer and more deliberate than the others. “Good night, Piper.”

He retreats toward the barn. I sit on the step and pull the notebook back out of my purse, along with the small blue pen. The moment might be over, but I'm going to transcribe it in ink.

Eight

T
orture. Pure torture, standing in front of a bookcase full of two-dimensional couples embracing. All I can think about is Charlie, but I literally have to shelve my desire. An entire book cart of it.

Sal stands behind me, supervising and prattling. “Our numbers are up, and we're really starting to get the attention of corporate.”

“Mmm.” I take a few more books off the cart and try to ignore his Mountain Dew breath. A little cloud of it is trapped in the corner where “Romance A–N” meets “Romance O–Z.” I could use some caffeine myself; it's going to be a long night. But working alone in the store means I won't be able to sneak over to the newsstand for my usual Coke and Mr. Goodbar. I wonder if I could get the United-booth guy to make a carb and caffeine run for me.

What I do have is that small blue notebook: a snack for the soul. That alone is enough to get me through tonight's shift. That and my sense memories of Charlie—I touch my index finger to my lower lip and enjoy the mild soreness. I can't wait to read his screenplay. I'm hoping his writing is magic-carpet awesome.

Sal's still talking behind me. He never really asks for input, so it usually suffices to nod or make a somewhat affirmative noise. Hearing a natural break in his speech, I insert an “mm-hmm” and pull the next book off the cart. The stud on the cover is pulling a faint-kneed beauty onto a steed. I smile a goofy boogie-woogie smile. And then, because Sal is watching, I carefully shelve the book.

“I know tonight might be slow, but I really need you to push sales as much as you can. We're close to our daily goal.”

“Rrooahkayy.”

“Make sure to push the chain memberships, too, to every customer. Whether they make a purchase or not.”

“Yahhh.”

He shifts his weight, running his fingers across a nearby book spine. “So how was that wedding you were in?”

“Shhhoooby.”

When he doesn't continue talking, I turn to see his eyebrows raised expectantly.

“Huh?”

“How was that wedding last weekend?”

“Oh! Fine.”

“What did you wear?”

“A dress.”

“Did you meet anyone?” I can smell his breath, stronger now.

The phone rings—
deus ex telefona
—and he scampers off to answer it in his “manager voice.”

He clicks around in the inventory system and mumbles something gooey and sycophantic. From the tone and pitch of his voice and the volume of verbal goo-age, I'm guessing it's upper management.

He hangs up the phone. “Time for me to hand you the reins. You have my cell if anything comes up, or you can call Kathy in B store.”

I wait until I'm sure he won't come back for anything—that he hasn't “forgotten” his wallet or a book. He pulls that trick sporadically to check up on us.

I allow a good ten-minute buffer before I toss
Ripped and Equipped
back on the cart, lean against the counter, and commence daydreaming. “I'll get to you eventually,” I say to the tower of unshelved romance books.

Over the next few hours, the airport traffic slows dramatically. The periodic safety announcements—“never leave your baggage unattended”—echo down the hallway. I check my phone: no missed calls as of 8:31
p.m.

I walk to the front of the store and pretend to rearrange the display. The United guy's booth is deserted, all the bonus gifts and giant credit card displays stowed away. Even though we've never spoken, and even though there are days when his constant hollering makes me want to tell him exactly where he can shove his free bonus gift, I miss him when he's not there. I feel like we have a certain understanding, like he has the same unspoken longing I do, watching planes take off all day, all night.

Instead of opening up a vista to the clear, starry night, the window across the hall reflects the airport surroundings back to me in mockery: fluorescent lighting, rows of blue vinyl chairs, lighted signs, silhouettes of tired people. Every now and then, I can see the outline of a plane in the distance as it cruises along the tarmac like a creeping giant. I slump against the desk and reread what I wrote in the tiny notebook last night.

Being with Charlie had awakened something dormant in me, something akin to the spark I used to feel when cracking open a Norton anthology. I experience an almost libidinous longing for those anthologies—they even smelled good, felt good to the touch with their tissue-thin pages and confident serif font. And now I'm surrounded by books but also trapped by them. I clutch the edge of the desk with my fingers, trying to get my mind around this physical reality. This can't be my life. I have an urge to run down the hallway. To bolt.

The restlessness sends me hurtling in one direction only: toward the Internet. I open up a browser window on the ancient computer behind the register and Google: “What should I do with my life?” My top ten results include some career books from Amazon, a self-assessment quiz on Oprah.com, and a few ads that promise twenty dollars an hour for work-at-home jobs. I try again, this time typing “writing jobs, Washington D.C.” into the search window.

The first result is the local
City Paper
. I grab the edges of the keyboard in excitement, as if I could shake a job opportunity into my lap. Instead, a few crumbs from someone's last forbidden behind-the-counter snack fall onto my khakis. I brush away the crumbs and click through to the
City Paper
jobs page.

Seeking Entry-Level Writer to Document Local Ephemera (and Take Long Walks on the Beach, Obvi)

Us? Red-hot local paper. You? Cucumber-cool writer who rescues dangling modifiers in distress. Structure and rules thrill you. Must love deadlines. Only logophiles need apply. P.S. If you really want to knock our Crocs off, enter
this magical contest
. The winners' résumés will magically land on top of our pile. B-T-Dubs, we don't really wear Crocs. And neither should you, dear applicant.

I hover my mouse over the contest link.
Click!

Attention, post-millennial generation (or whatever you're calling yourselves these days)! Tell us about the craziest job(s) you've had since graduation, for a chance to win $500, be published in a special-edition
City Paper,
and possibly score yourself a
rewarding
job
. Ten essayists will be chosen; all entries will be eligible for our annual print compilation,
CAPITOL SCRIVENINGS
. We want to hear about the good, the bad, and the ugly. Especially the ugly—we're vicariously creepy and morbidly curious like that. Essays should be 1,000 words or less and have impeccable grammar. We expect nothing less from our city's recent grads. Looking forward to hearing your stories! Submit online by August 5 at jobfiasco.citypaperdc.com.

I gape at the screen. Simultaneously, I imagine Charlie cheering me on. “You can bolt out of here,” I almost hear him say. “Word by word.”

For the next hour, I fill the little blue notebook with observations about the airport and about Susan's wedding, stopping only to make a sale or direct someone to the nearest Starbucks. By twenty minutes to closing, I've even got a first line: “After graduation, I decided to sell my body—as a hired bridesmaid.”

Time for a quick e-mail check. In order to have an essay's worth about my bridesmaid job, I'll need more clients. My inbox holds a flurry of responses to my latest bridesmaid ad, accompanied by a series of Google calendar reminders. Shit. Another reason I need clients: My next car insurance auto deduction is scheduled for next week, and I have only eighteen of those hundred and eighteen dollars in my account. The week after that, rent's due. And I still have to feed myself—however sparsely—and drive myself to work. On the way back from the wedding, and again on the way to work today, Wulfie made a sound like a hyena being flogged, which makes me think our time is limited before a visit to the car hospital might be necessary.

I scroll through all the new messages several times, but none is from Charlie. Panic flickers—maybe Charlie is just California Charlie, Check Ya Later Charlie, Can't Stay Charlie. In an attempt to distract myself, I click on a message from [email protected].

It's surprisingly spare, but Anal Retentive Bride (aka Alex H.) requests that we meet up Friday at La Madeleine, a French patisserie in Reston, to “discuss action items and formalize our arrangement.” Her e-mail signature boasts a quote: “Efficiency is doing things right; effectiveness is doing the right things. —P. Drucker.”

I ignore her pretentious use of language and alarming choice of e-mail address and focus on the part where she mentions payment. Practical Lin helped me work out a standard and à la carte menu of services, along with a disclaimer that all bridesmaid gear would of course be comped. I've got a flat rate for the rehearsal and ceremony and a per-hour rate for “additional services” such as bridal gown shopping, vendor booking, venue scouting, et cetera. Alex is offering to double the flat and per-hour rates across the board. Three hours with Anal Retentive Bride and I'll be able to pay my next bill. How bad could it be?

Alex Hansen is
the most beautiful woman I've ever seen.

She sits across from me at La Madeleine. Between us sit two plates of cinnamon-glazed French toast and two mugs of gourmet coffee. I can't take my eyes off her red-lipsticked lips. No doubt the color is named something sassy, like Volcanic Blaze.

Her eyebrows are perfectly shaped—Lin would approve. She's pulling off legit sleek hair that looks effortless. She probably wakes up in the morning looking like a shampoo model. I tuck a few loose strands into my messy bun self-consciously, afraid she'll veto me on appearance alone.

Alex's mesmerizing lips tell me about her dream wedding vision, which is dripping with hydrangea and buttercream and chocolate fountains. “My fiancé's been working in Tampa for the past few months, which has been hard. But I didn't really expect him to help with the wedding planning.”

She smiles matter-of-factly. I smile back, but I can't help thinking—in preparation for marriage, the biggest compromise ever, the woman is expected to take care of every last detail? What, like just because we have ovaries, we all have a knack for selecting the perfect party favors?

I tune my antennae back to the Alex Channel. She pushes strands of jet-black hair behind her ear and meets my gaze, taking a sip of the gourmet coffee and leaving an unabashed Volcanic Blaze lip print on the cream-colored mug. “Let's start with the basics. Read this and sign it.” She slides a piece of paper, dense with text, across the table. The top reads: “Bridesmaid Contract.” I take a deep breath and wade into the small type, my heart rate increasing with each word. The payment will be remitted weekly, with a lump sum on completion of my duties, which include . . . quite a long list! As I get to the last item, I glance up and see that her eyes have been following mine down the page.

“Look, I'm going to need extra help beyond the ceremony. I don't have any girlfriends to speak of—girls don't like me for some reason.”

Well. Can't imagine why.

I scan the list again, forking a giant mouthful of French toast and chewing slowly. She's requesting assistance with bridal gown shopping, fittings, and the start-to-finish execution of a bridal shower (Paris-themed). She estimates she'll need eighty hours of help, which amounts to three months' rent. It's either that or I sublet the sofa to the Grover Cleveland impersonator who's continued to e-mail me. “I need that leg up to break in to the D.C. professional impersonator market,” he wrote yesterday, offering to give free impersonations for friends and out-of-town visitors.

Back to Alex's contract. The final line reads: “I pledge that I will keep my identity as a bridesmaid for hire in the strictest confidence. No one involved in the wedding or otherwise will be privy to the fact that I am not an actual friend of the bride.”