The Wrath of Dimple

by Lucy Woodhull

  Pictures took about an hour while the guests drank up in a large, ballroom type of space. Ellen and Nicolette hadn’t wanted photos beforehand, because they wouldn’t have been really married in their wedding pictures. I’d done the same thing. We shared a silly time full of laughs galore, culminating in shots of me lifting Ellen in my arms, and a human pyramid of bridesmaids. All of their friends were crazy, not just me. But we accomplished everything with only one minor dress tear, and one unfortunate stray boob that hopefully the wedding photographer didn’t get a shot of. It totally wasn’t mine.

  At the reception, the wedding party was announced, and the brides, then I put a drink in Ellen’s hand to send her off to say hi to everyone. I’d keep an eye out, for the happy couple is usually too busy being well-wished to even eat, and Ellen had, of course, hooked me up with finger foods galore on my big day.

  I plopped into my white-draped chair at the head table, feeling like I’d never stand again. My feet ached, my back ached, but I’d just been a small part of something amazing and miraculous, and I grinned, my head in my hand, my eyes hazy.

  A shape materialized into view, and, even fuzzy, I knew who it was. “Some champagne for the hard-working maid of honor?”

  I took the proffered glass gratefully. Everyone knows that champagne bubbles cure sore feet. “I’m actually a matron of honor. ’Cause I’m married.”

  He blinked and nodded.

  Married for now, maybe I should have said. No, I should be positive. At least there was no pre-nup. See? I’d take his money—positive.

  Samantha, you’re supposed to be dazzling his senses, and certain other parts.

  “I’m sorry you’re all alone at an outlying table,” I said as flirtatiously as possible. I flipped my hair so hard I cricked my neck.

  “Yeah, I’m way in the back, just gazing toward the light and the swanky actress basking in it.”

  I laughed. “Oh, Lord. Your ass must be bored if that’s the sort of thing you’re spending time thinking up.”

  Maria José tapped me on the shoulder. “You need to find Nicolette’s daddy—we’re going to be dancing soon.”

  I thanked her and saw the wedding planner begin to wrangle the brides for their first dance. I stood. “Sam, come with me, and we’ll find a good spot. The brides’ first dance is to Beyoncé’s Run the World. You do not want to miss it.” I’d been helping Ellen rehearse for the past few days. She was a great dancer, but Nicolette wasn’t, so we’d given the difficult stuff to Ellen. I couldn’t wait to see it go down.

  I took Sam’s arm as we walked, but he didn’t so much as acknowledge it. My dazzle was obviously lacking the azzle.

  The lights dimmed, and the two ladies took their places in the center of the dance floor. Thunderous applause broke out, and the song started. Beyoncé’s anthem to girls of all stripes who run the world was the perfect song, and my girls shook their whatnots like champs. Halfway through—after a pretty damn amazing lift by Ellen—they waved the next group in, and I had to leave an amazed Sam to take Nicolette’s father Jason’s hand. He had old-school moves, and we danced like an inter-generational Soul Train. At least in my head. The way Sam was cackling and recording us from the side, maybe I didn’t look as snazzy as I thought I did.

  The song changed, and the dance floor flooded, despite the buffet smelling delicious. This crowd’s commitment to female empowerment dance songs was strong. I was conscripted by a cousin of Ellen’s, who gushed about how beautiful and talented I was for the whole song. My dazzle thus inflated by this sensible man, I tottered off the floor to find the cheese tray and Sam. Not necessarily in that order.

  I didn’t get far before a hand slipped down my arm from behind and tugged at me. I knew that tug. I knew that slide. That shivery touch stopped me in my tracks, for there’s only one person who ranks above an expensive brie. A flirty, manly voice said in my ear, “When do I get a dance?”

  “I’m very busy and important.” More gently this time, I flipped my hair again. It was bouncy from hot rollers and enormous from teasing. We were from North Carolina, y’all—the bigger the hair, the closer to God. And I needed that lady’s help like fucking whoa. Oops, I mean like holy whoa.

  “You are important. That last guy you danced with looked like he was going to piss himself.”

  Laughing, I let him lead me right back to the floor. Ugh, what the hell was I supposed to think about this man? He smiled merely politely, yet held me awfully close. Every time I caught him staring, he averted his eyes. His palms were a little sweaty as if he were nervous, but then he yawned like he was bored.

  Sigh.

  All the sighs in the world.

  I caught Ellen’s eye, and she pointed to her stomach and made an ‘I’m dying of hunger, please to insert food’ face.

  Abruptly, I stepped back from Sam. “Gotta do matron stuff. I’m sorry.” I shrugged. “I’m probably the worst date ever. It’s okay if you want to go.” I didn’t wait for a response, but ran away like a teenager in a mopey vampire love story.

  I loaded up a plate for my bestie, grabbed a flute of bubbly, then delivered it to the head table. Waving, I caught her attention and pointed to the plate. Soon enough, both she and Nicolette sank into their chairs, giggling and making goo goo eyes. I missed goo goo eyes. They’re so much better than poo poo eyes, which is the look Sam and I had been shooting back and forth as of late. Rather than think about my own romance, I dashed to get a plate of food for Nicolette. Her romance was perfect and well-fed—that’s all that mattered today.

  I sat to Ellen’s right, and she jibber-jabbed at one hundred miles an hour, so happy I wanted to squeeze her and hold the moment forever.

  My emotions were begging to seep into my fancy dress, my hands were cold, and my chest was being smooshed by an invisible anvil. I didn’t touch my own plate of food, but just sat with a smile on, staring half into space, half away from the images in my own mind.

  “Hey.” Ellen took my hand. “I bet it’s hard to be here when you just had yours.”

  I buried my face in my napkin. I wanted to deny it, but couldn’t look up, not if you’d paid me. Her arms slid around me for a much-needed hug. “First, don’t you dare get mascara on me. Second, go talk to him. I know you can save this thing.”

  “Then you know more than I do.”

  “Bride gets what she wants!” She lifted my chin. “Bride orders you to go into coatroom and have sex on everyone’s nice outerwear.”

  I giggled, and a tear came out.

  “Bride demands a slow song so you can dance to it.” She hollered at some random passer-by and made him go tell the DJ to play a song of her choosing. Turning back to me, she said, “You will go now, or Bride will kick Sam’s ass from here to the Women’s Studies section of the Dewey Decimal System!”

  “Okay, okay!” I kissed her cheek, wiped the lipstick off, then turned my eyes to the hall to find Sam. “Holy shit,” I whispered.

  “Wha—” Then she saw it too— Sam dancing with my mother.

  His eyes were wide, so wide I worried for his ocular health. Suzie’s mouth was open, so open I worried for his mental health.

  “Do you think she’s setting him up with all the single girls at her table?” I asked.

  “Either that or she’s sucking the life force out of him to gain his youth and power.”

  “I don’t know which one is worse.” I leaped to my feet and hurried in their direction. Tapping my mother’s shoulder, I said, “May I cut in?”

  Suzie expelled annoyance through her pink lips. “Samantha, I will not dance with you. I know you’re a weird New Yorker now, but that’s just too liberal for me.”

  Sam nearly swallowed his tongue to keep from laughing.

  “I meant I want to dance with Sam,” I said through gritted teeth.

  My mother stepped back. “Oh, thank God. I was worried this lesbian wedding would give you ideas. Sometimes I worry that you have such trouble keeping a man, you’ll just flip to the other team!” She
tittered at her stale joke and sauntered away.

  The music switched to the song Ellen had ordered up—Earth Angel, which had enjoyed a resurgence when we’d been youths because of Back to the Future.

  “Wow, this song was my every middle school dance,” Sam murmured as he took me into his arms. “Did Ellen give you permission to take time for me?”

  I swatted him on the arm. “That’s not fair. I willingly gave myself up as a slave to the Bride and her Urgent Bridely Needs. She performed the duties for me when we—” I didn’t finish that sentence, but looked at a spot somewhere over his shoulder instead.

  He didn’t swat at the ball, but let it bounce forlornly on the court.

  “What have you been up to?” I asked, as if he were a neighbor I’d encountered while mowing our lawns.

  “Taco misses you.”

  And he slid the knife right in the feels. The feels sit between the heart and the soul, just up a little ways—gotta wiggle the stabby implement a little to really get it in there. “I miss him, too.”

  “He sleeps on your pillow.”

  I laughed. “He’s just annoyed that my face isn’t there to be a resting surface for his ass. One thing I used to be able to rely on was waking up with a Taco on my face. Wow, that sounded dirty.”

  He laughed, and his shoulders fell about an inch.

  Taco missed me. Taco. How come Sam never missed me? Perhaps I didn’t empty my husband’s litter box often enough.

  He asked, “What’s happening with your movie?”

  I pulled a face. “Taylor is battling with the producers to stop production from going forward with another director until he’s vindicated in court and can triumphantly return to his duties. Basically, it’s DOA.”

  “That sucks.”

  “I get paid either way. It’s all the below-the-line folks who will suffer.” I’d actually contacted Deborah Diaz, Attorney to the Stars TM, to use my contractual payout for the crew. It wouldn’t cover what they would have made for the whole shoot, but it was something. We were trying to get some of the other richy actors to do the same. “So I guess I’m unemployed at the moment.”

  “At least you’re not being kidnapped anymore.”

  “That’s a pretty big ‘at least’.”

  He nodded, and the dimple winked at me for the first time all day. I’d missed dimple. Dimple used to peek at me when his face was between my thighs. I thought that dirty thought while looking him full in the face and had to turn away to blush.

  “I’ve seen the hypnotist again.”

  I searched his face, and he smiled, small and apologetic. He said, “I don’t even know what’s real in my head anymore. What’s a memory. What’s something I made up. She encouraged me to paint again, so I’m doing that. But it’s— They’re not great.”

  I wanted to lean in and give Eeyore a hug, but I kept my distance, like I told him I would. “If you want to run anything by me, maybe I can help decipher the real from the imagined.”

  He quirked an eyebrow. “Well… I think—” He licked his lips and tightened his grip on me. “I remember British accents and drinking beer, and I could see you there.”

  I stopped. Just stopped on the dance floor. “Yes. I mean, we ate together often in London. I was there to film the art heist movie with Daniel Zhang.”

  “Yeah, I watched that one. I hate that guy.”

  He made such a spiteful face that I giggled. “Why?”

  “I—” He shook his head. “I don’t know.”

  “Well, I kinda dated him after you dumped me.”

  He spun me a half turn and started us dancing again. “Did you?” he asked sweetly.

  I nodded, all innocent-like. Ill-remembered jealousy wasn’t a declaration of love, but it wasn’t one of hate, either.

  “What did you like about him?” he asked as if he didn’t want to.

  “He had an amazing body.” No, I am not above poking at the green monster and causing it to grow into an anger beast.

  His gaze darkened, his eyebrows coming together like a thundercloud above it.

  “And he was such a gentleman. Just the perfect man, really.”

  The song ended, and we stopped dancing, although he didn’t let me go. The opening guitar strains of Love of a Lifetime by Firehouse came through the speakers, and I turned my head to see Ellen dancing with Nicolette nearby, giving me a thumbs up over her shoulder.

  Sam said, “I made out with Jody Porter at a basement party to this song.” Apparently, Jody inspired him so much we began dancing again.

  “Did you?” That sounded way more irritated than I’d meant it to. Good thing he remembered Jody, who was probably mean and stupid and mean.

  “I’ll admit, it’s not as good a story as perfect Daniel Zhang…”

  Jealous! He was jealous! Jealous, party of one! Jealousy to the checkout stand!

  I smirked and lifted my nose in the air. He scowled, his jaw working and working and working. His dark eyes bored into mine, and I couldn’t possibly have guessed what he was thinking about. Just then, the wedding planner tapped me on the shoulder. “We’re going to do the garters and bouquets in a few minutes. Can you come up to the main table?”

  Sam dropped my hands. “Right. Well… Listen, can we meet for coffee or something in a couple of days? I’ll let you rest from all this. Maybe…Tuesday afternoon? Say three? I’ll text you where.”

  Danger. Danger! Abort! Nothing good ever happened on a Tuesday, the shitty afterthought of Monday. It was the worst day of the week! And three p.m.? It was the friend hour. Not the ‘let’s reconcile and hump’ hour!

  Noooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo.

  Damn you, interrupting wedding planner! I’ll shove my garter straight up your perfect blonde ass!

  “Sure,” I said in a high, airy voice.

  He leaned down, paused two inches from my mouth, then gave me a kiss on the cheek.

  The.

  Cheek.

  The clit-blocking, friendzone-ing, motherfucking cheek.

  My marriage was over. I had not dazzled. I had not grand-gestured. I’d totally and completely failed.

  He walked away, his butt swaying, my heart breaking.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Love Hurts, but Beauty Hurts More

  It is not pathetic to wallow on the floor of your BFF’s apartment because you are separated from your spouse. It is not pathetic to wallow while wearing your bridesmaid’s dress. And, it is not pathetic to eat an entire package of fried cheese sticks while marathoning Don’t Trust the B---- in Apartment 23, a show canceled well before its time. RIP funny, female-centric comedies. RIP cheese sticks. RIP ‘dazzling’ Samantha.

  And RIP the dress, because this grease stain on the chest will probably not come out.

  Okay, it was pathetic, it was, but my despair had no audience save me, and I was on my side.

  I felt great shame about the expensive dress. Especially when I woke up the next morning in it.

  With crusty mascara blobs in my vision, I clicked the remote and began The Cosby Show, season one. I’d briefly considered switching to Rupaul’s Drag Race, but I’d need the power of Ru to get me through the divorce.

  I glanced at the time on my phone with glazed-over eyes—at this point, Ellen and Nicolette would be on their way to their amazing honeymoon. I hadn’t gotten a honeymoon. Instead, I’d experienced a glamorous trip to the ER, complete with IV drip service and all-you-can-eat Jell-O.

  Around episode nine, someone knocked on the door. I ignored them. The only thing worse than a slept-in bridesmaids dress is someone seeing you in it. I wished for a living room toilet, and for someone to deliver coffee to me. And wine. Was there such a thing as coffee-flavored wine? It sounded both disgusting and perfect.

  A shriek sounded. “Samantha Lytton!”

  My hackles rose, for thither lurked my mother.

  “Go away!” I yelled. Ellen’s main living area was so enormous, I wasn’t sure if she’d heard me. Damn Ellen’s wealth! Ex
cept for this couch, which seemed to be made of clouds and fluffy kittens, it was so comfortable.

  But I should have known that once my mother put her mind to something, nothing would stop her. Ten minutes later, the front door rattled, then opened. I jerked my head up to peer over the back of the couch, and the front desk security man was letting her in. “Hi, Ms Lytton!” he said. “You okay? Your mother said you were probably dead.”

  “Did she say it hopefully?”

  He laughed, glanced from one to the other of us, and backed away slowly. Diego trailed at Suzie’s heels. He appeared disgruntled that he had been forced to wear a coat instead of just pleather pants. Soon I was alone with them. I sank into my friend the couch again and said nothing.

  Suzie sashayed around the sofa to face me. I turned the show’s volume up louder.

  “You look terrible!” said she. For once when she said it to me, it was true.

  “Hhhnngnngnndnn wwaaaahhhhh,” I replied.

  “Young lady,” Diego said, which was both optimistic and untrue. “We’ve been to see Sam, and we’re very disappointed that you aren’t there!”

  That made me sit up. Suzie filled the space where my head had been. The sort of dread that accompanies an IRS letter washed upon me. “Why have you been to see Sam?”

  Suzie put her pink clutch on the coffee table and smoothed her hot-pink princess coat. “Samantha, I understand that your husband has a brain disease. But moving out is no solution. And neither is”—she pointed a finger from my head to my feet—“whatever is happening here.”

  I reached for my coffee wine, but then I remembered that I didn’t have any, and that it might not be real. “It’s not that easy, Mom.”