Perfect on Paper: The (Mis)Adventures of Waverly Bryson

by Maria Murnane

  The church Cynthia had chosen for her wedding was called St. Luke’s. I figured it was going to be gorgeous, because I had noticed that most guys named Luke tended to be gorgeous. And I wasn’t disappointed. It was high and narrow with breathtaking stained-glass windows lighting up the walls and ceiling.

  I couldn’t believe how many people were crammed into the pews. Seriously, there were like fifty thousand of us. I hadn’t asked Cynthia how many people she had invited, but now that I thought about it, a big wedding made sense because of who the bride and groom were. Dale Payton was a big-shot sports agent, and Cynthia was a senior VP at an international marketing firm. Being successful in both professions required some serious people skills and also led to some serious financial rewards.

  I slid quietly into a pew and glanced around. I leafed through the wedding program and tried to look nonchalant as I waited for the ceremony to start. The irrational side of me felt like I had a big sign on my head that said LEFT AT THE ALTAR THE LAST TIME I WAS HERE. The rational side of me told me that McKenna, Andie, and now Kristina, too, would all kick my ass if they knew what I was thinking.

  The ceremony was short and sweet, thank God. Cynthia and Dale had mercifully elected to keep it that way and cut right to the Do you? Yes, I do. And do you? Yes, I do chase, which was just fine by me. We all stood and clapped for the newlyweds as they glided back down the aisle. (Or is it up the aisle, since the bride walks down the aisle? Who really knows?) Anyhow, they blissfully floated past us and out of the church. Once the bridesmaids and groomsmen had followed suit, the crowd streamed out of the pews and off to the hotel, where the real party awaited.

  I hobbled to a cab and directed the driver to the Waldorf-Astoria, just a few blocks away. Normally I would have walked, but it was freezing outside, and I was a major turtle in my cast. When the cab dropped me off, I checked my hair and makeup in the lobby powder room and reapplied a little bit of plum-colored lipstick. Then I headed toward the main ballroom. The place was rapidly filling up with a ton of wedding guests I didn’t know. I made my way to the seating chart table in the hallway and picked out my place card:

  Miss Waverly Bryson

  Table 53

  “Table fifty-three? Who has fifty-three tables at a wedding?” I said to myself.

  “Excuse me?” The attendant behind the seating chart looked up at me.

  “Sorry, just talking out loud.” Oops. But seriously, where would we all fit? How would the happy couple possibly have time to say hello to everyone?

  I started walking into the main dining room, but the attendant pointed down the hall and smiled. “The cocktail hour is in the Astor Salon. Dinner is in an hour back here in the Grand Ballroom.”

  “Uh, okay, thanks.” I turned on my good heel and followed the crowd. I knew a few of the people from K.A. Marketing who were supposed to be there and wondered if any of them would be seated at my table. Or maybe I’d be seated next to someone famous. I’d already spotted several athletes and media personalities in the crowd.

  The Sunrise Ballroom was filled with a variety of stations featuring appetizers and drinks from around the world: sushi, tapas, spring rolls, tacos, German beers. As soon as I walked in the door, a smiling silver-haired woman in a black-and-white catering outfit approached me and looked down at my cast.

  “Hi there, do you need help with anything?”

  So much for my No one will notice my cast with these pants on plan.

  I smiled. “I’m fine, thanks. But would you please tell me where I can get a glass of wine?”

  She pointed to the bar on the right. “Enjoy your evening, and please find me if you need anything at all.”

  I headed over to the Wines from Napa Valley island and ordered a glass of Peju merlot. Then I hobbled to the sushi bar and picked out a few California rolls and a spicy salmon roll. I turned around and spotted an empty cocktail table with high bar stools to my right. I put my glass down and took a seat, then once again scanned the room. As face after face failed to register, I began to wonder if I had wandered into the wrong party.

  I gave up looking and focused on the plate in front of me. Yummy. I gobbled down the California rolls and was throwing back the salmon roll when my eyes stopped in the middle of the room. Right there, standing next to the taco station, was Jake McIntyre. And I think he was looking at me.

  I quickly turned my head and took a sip of wine to help the salmon roll head downstream. Jake was there? Cute Jake? Blue-eyed Jake? No way. What was he doing there? And was he alone?

  I took a deep breath, then turned back to face him with a nervous smile.

  But he was nowhere to be seen.

  “Hey, Sunshine, I thought that was you.”

  I turned around and saw Scotty Ryan from the Today show standing there.

  I stood up and hugged him. “Hey, Scotty! I didn’t know you’d be here. What a nice surprise.”

  “I could say the same thing,” he said. “How are you?”

  “I’m good, thanks. You know, just the other day, I was reminiscing about how you shot down that awful baseball player by pretending not to know who he was.”

  He smiled. “One of my favorite interviews.”

  “Are you friends with Dale or with Cynthia?” I said.

  “Actually, I know them completely independently of each other, so there was no way I could miss this party.”

  “Please, have a seat.” I gestured at the empty bar stool next to me. “I’m so glad I ran into you. I don’t know anyone here and was already wondering how I was going to make it through the evening alone, so you just saved me.”

  “Happy to help out.” He took a seat and immediately noticed the cast peeking out from under my pants. “Hey, what happened to your leg?”

  “It’s my ankle. I wish I could say that I broke it doing something exciting, but I tripped over a branch. Painfully boring, painfully embarrassing—just plain painful.”

  He put his hand on my shoulder. “Well, despite the cast, you look just as lovely as ever. You’re really here alone? I find that hard to believe.”

  I took a sip of my wine and smiled. “Well, thank you for the compliment, kind sir, but yes, I’m flying solo. You too?”

  He nodded and looked around the room. “Yep.”

  “Actually, this is the first wedding I’ve been to by myself in a while,” I said, suddenly feeling courageous.

  “Really?”

  I nodded. “Yep, and actually, the last wedding I was supposed to go to was my own.”

  His eyes met mine. “You were engaged? When? What happened?”

  I bit my lip and took a deep breath.

  I could do it. I could tell him.

  “Um …,” I said slowly.

  I pictured Kristina giving high-fives to McKenna and Andie.

  I could do it.

  “He, uh um … we, um …”

  Scotty raised an eyebrow.

  “I … uh, I just wasn’t ready to get married, so I called it off,” I finally said.

  Damn it. Baby steps were harder than I thought.

  “Wow, I’m sorry to hear that,” he said.

  I picked up my glass. “Me too, but hey, what can you do? If it’s not right, it’s not right, right?” At least I was learning that, if nothing else.

  “Love sucks,” he said, then lowered his voice and leaned close to me. “Although I probably shouldn’t be saying that at a wedding.”

  I laughed and looked around the room. “This is by far the fanciest wedding I’ve ever been to. I wonder when the InStyle celebrity weddings photographer is going to show up.”

  He nodded. “Tell me about it. This place is busting with current and former professional athletes.”

  “Yeah, my friend Hunter would sell his soul to the devil to be here right now,” I said. “What a scene.”

  He took my free hand and gently squeezed it. “Once the party really gets going, we’ll have to check out the best-looking men and then divide and conquer.”

  “I’ll
drink to that.” I held my wine glass up for a toast. “Actually, there is a guy here I’m sort of interested in, but I seem to have lost him in the crowd. Want to help me find him?”

  “Sure, let me at him. The four-one-one, please?”

  I leaned close, still holding his hand, and lowered my voice. “Okay, but we need to be sly, because I tend to choke around this guy, and I mean that literally.”

  He whispered back. “Do you want to be Starsky or Hutch?”

  I made a face at him. “I spotted him a few minutes ago, but then I lost him.”

  I described Jake to Scotty, and he leaned over and whispered in my ear, “He sounds like a major dish. Maybe we could flip a coin for him?”

  “I wonder if he’s here with someone,” I said. “I’ve gotta talk to him again, Scotty. The last time I totally blew it.”

  “Leave it to me, precious, leave it to me. The night is young, and there’s lots of fun to be had.”

  We spent the rest of the cocktail hour catching up and gossiping about all the famous guests. Scotty had a lot of good gossip.

  “John Shasta, the Yankees pitcher? Seriously?” I said.

  He nodded. “Pitches for the other team.”

  “But he’s always doing those truck commercials.”

  He put his hand on my cheek. “Don’t you live in San Francisco? Wake up and smell the rainbow dust, my dear.”

  I looked over at the burly man drinking a glass of black paint. I mean Guinness.

  “But John Shasta?” I said.

  Scotty reached over and grabbed my nose. “Sweetheart, you should see the love letters I get from women all over the country who have no idea I prefer men. It’s all about portraying an image to a particular audience. You should know that, being the PR princess and all.”

  Images. What would mine have been if I’d become Mrs. Aaron Vaughn III? Would Mrs. Aaron Vaughn III have wanted the world to know about her dad’s home address? What would Mrs. Aaron Vaughn III’s conservative in-laws have thought about her friendship with Scotty Ryan?

  I took Scotty’s hand and looked down at his perfectly manicured nails. Why couldn’t I keep my own nails that nice? I looked up, and the crowd behind him briefly parted. For a second I spotted Jake in the back corner of the cocktail area. He was next to the margarita bar.

  I squeezed Scotty’s hand. “Oh my God, there he is.”

  “Where?”

  “Margarita bar, five o’clock. Charcoal grey suit, yellow tie.”

  He stood up and finished his drink. “Did you say the margarita bar? Two margaritas coming up. How do you like yours, by the way?”

  “Strong. And please be subtle, Scotty.”

  “Beautiful, I’m always subtle. Now don’t move a muscle. I’ll be right back.” He set his empty glass on the table and walked away.

  I watched him make his way through the crowd. The room was packed, and the margarita bar was way in the back, so it was hard for me to keep track of him without craning my neck and looking totally obvious. So I gave up and turned my attention back to wondering which other famous athletes were gay.

  Five minutes later, Scotty reemerged from the crowd with two margaritas. He sat down and placed the drinks on the table.

  “Well?” I said.

  He frowned. “He’s with a brunette.”

  “And?”

  “And unfortunately, I’m pretty sure she’s his date.”

  I smacked my forehead with my palm. “His date? But how am I going to seduce him if he’s with a date?”

  He laughed. “Seduce him?”

  I blushed. “Or whatever you call it these days. I’ve been off the market for a while. Are you sure she’s his date?”

  “Yeah, I’m sure. I saw hand-holding. I’m sorry, sweetheart. The nerve of him, with you here and looking so delicious.”

  I was crushed. “But he makes me feel melty,” I said softly.

  He patted me on the head. “C’mon, let’s head over to dinner. And is that even a word?”

  We picked up our margaritas and followed the crowd into the Grand Ballroom. And it was even bigger. “I feel like I’m at the intermission of a Broadway musical,” I said.

  As we walked into the dining room, I pulled my place card out of my purse. Like most little black party purses, it was way too small to carry anything I really needed, such as a wallet, or a phone, or an emergency Snickers.

  “Hey, Scotty, what table are you at?”

  He pulled his card out of his pocket and looked at it. “Thirty-five. What about you?”

  “Fifty-three. Are you sure this isn’t one of Elizabeth Taylor’s wedding receptions?”

  He shook his head. “Too small.”

  “Hey, if you can find me after dinner, save me a slow dance, okay?” I pointed to my cast. “The Macarena and Electric Slide are out of the picture with junior here.”

  “You bet, sweet thing.” He winked and walked the other way.

  Table fifty-three was definitely a singles table. Fortunately, however, it wasn’t THE singles table. Hell, the wedding was so huge that for all we knew there could have been an entire singles dining room and dance floor. The room was so enormous that I couldn’t even see where Cynthia and Dale were sitting, much less Jake. I focused on the wine glass in front of me instead.

  From my initial superficial sizing up of my male tablemates, that glass was the only thing my lips would be touching that night. We all introduced ourselves and slid into the standard wedding small talk:

  “So how do you know the bride?”

  “Oh really? Then do you know (insert name here)?”

  “So how do you know the groom?”

  “Oh really? Then do you know (insert name here)?”

  “So where are you from?”

  “You are? Then do you know (insert name here)?”

  “So where did you go to school?”

  “You did? Then do you know (insert name here)?”

  “So have you ever noticed how small talk inevitably morphs into the name game?” I said to no one in particular.

  One thing that was a little awkward about our table, and the other thirty-five hundred in the room, was the flowers, which were white and beautiful and everywhere. And everywhere included the centerpiece, which was a huge globe of white petals about two feet in diameter. It was so big that it blocked my view of the people directly across the table, and theirs of me. Given that clearly no expense had been spared to make the wedding perfect, I have no idea how this rather important detail had somehow been overlooked.

  Anyhow, back to the edible details. The entrées were spectacular: a choice of lobster, chicken, or sirloin, plus jasmine rice and a grilled vegetable medley lightly topped with a sweet cinnamon glaze, and the most delicious, thickest bread I had ever tasted. I ate everything on my plate. And the flowing wine was a nice social lubricant for our table of virtual strangers. Despite the visual impairment, we managed to engage the entire group in a hearty conversation that flowed from sports and books to movies and political scandals.

  Then things shifted gears, and the real fun began.

  Hank Fishman, a stocky, balding coworker of Dale’s, stood up and raised his glass. “Ladies and gentlemen of table fifty-three, I propose a slight change of subject to spice this party up.”

  “What did you have in mind?” A curly-haired blonde named Dawn leaned around the centerpiece to make eye contact with him.

  Hank took a sip of his wine and set it down on the table. “Well, since we’ve broached the general subject of dating, I suggest we delve into the more entertaining topic of dating disqualifiers. Shallow, plain, and simple.”

  “Disqualifiers?” I said, leaning my head a foot to the right.

  “Yep, things that will exclude any possible date from consideration, and the more superficial the better.”

  “That sounds quite interesting.” Christopher Henson, a salt-and-pepper-haired friend of Cynthia’s, rubbed his hands together. “Who’s first?”

  “I’ll take one for
the team,” Hank said. “And for you ladies in the group, I’m quite aware that I’m short and bald, two attributes that often top the female disqualifier list. I take no offense at that, but for the sake of originality, let’s please try to come up with something new, okay?”

  I raised my wine glass. “Hank, I’m in love with the self-deprecation. It’s a shame we can’t hook up though, because short and bald are two of my disqualifiers.”

  “Ahhh, you’re killing me.” He pretended to stab himself in the heart. “And by the way, ladies, I also have a bit of a carpet growing on my back, so let’s keep back hair off the list to keep me from throwing myself off the roof tonight.” He clapped his hands. “Now, let’s get this game started.”

  We all looked at him. Or around at him.

  “For me,” he said. “I must admit that my top disqualifier would have to be the cheerleader. I don’t care how smokin’ you are. If I find out you once had pom-poms in your locker, you’re out on your ass.”

  A small applause erupted from the group. Hank bowed his head. “And my apologies to any of you ladies who might have been cheerleaders, but it doesn’t matter because you probably wouldn’t hook up with a short, bald guy with a hairy back anyway.” He picked up his glass and raised it to the table, then sat down.

  “Who’s next?” Christopher said. “Should we just go clockwise around the table?”

  “Sure,” Hank said, and we all looked at the blonde to his left. Her name was Lisa.

  She smiled. “Then it’s me, and it’s easy.” She lifted three fingers in the air. “Three words: personalized license plates.” She sipped her wine and put it on the table.

  “Ooh, excellent choice.” I pointed at her and nodded.

  The list grew as we continued around the table, and by the end I was dabbing my eyes with my napkin. Added to Hank’s cheerleader and Lisa’s personalized license plates, we had:

  Matt: Laura Ashley bedspreads or any type of waterbed

  Dawn: Jorts (jean shorts)

  Kevin: Former debutantes or beauty pageant contestants

  Amanda: Any guy who weighs less than she does

  Greg: Ivy Leaguers who unnecessarily drop their alma mater into the conversation