by Devan Sipher
“Are you a dirty girl?” That wasn’t it.
She laughed but didn’t turn around, saying, “Oh, God. That’s something my brother would say.”
Driving north on the Pacific Coast Highway, we were buttressed by the Palisades as we snaked along the shoreline. Brooke had put the MINI Cooper’s top up before heading to the wedding. Big hair didn’t go with her slinky, backless dress. I had tried not to gape while helping her with her wrap.
Now she was silhouetted against the vast expanse of gleaming sea and Western sky. I kept glancing in her direction, taking in the view. If she minded, she didn’t let on. I allowed myself to imagine what it would be like to be really going to the wedding together as a couple. Walking in arm in arm. Me holding her wrap while she set stray blond strands in place. Her rubbing lipstick off my lips with the tips of her fingers. There was something to be said for California dreaming.
A valet took the car when we arrived at the entrance to the Malibu estate Roxanne’s parents had rented for the event. A palm-lined pathway led past a pool and a petting zoo, where bleating sheep wore pink ribbons round their necks. It was a cross between wedding kitsch and animal cruelty.
The six-thousand-square-foot modern white beach house emerged from the lush vegetation. I followed Brooke inside, enjoying the sway of her hips. Waiters provided champagne flutes while guiding guests to the bi-level wraparound terrace, where a string quartet was playing Vivaldi.
Brooke grabbed two glasses of bubbly. Tempting as it was to linger in a fantasy version of my life, the reality didn’t allow for imbibing.
“I’m on the job,” I demurred.
“Don’t be such a martyr.” It wasn’t Brooke speaking. Roxanne was towering over me with the train of her Vera Wang lace slip dress hoisted over her shoulder. “I promise not to post pictures online if you do anything outrageous.”
“You look beautiful,” Brooke said, kissing her cheek, which unexpectedly made me flush.
“This shmatte? I picked it up secondhand. That’s not for print.” She winked at me.
Usually brides are hidden away before the ceremony, not broadcasting their thrift-store bona fides. Roxanne wasn’t at all what I expected from the daughter of a Beverly Hills surgeon, and she had an imposing physical presence. She was close to six feet, not counting her hair, which sprouted upward into a cornucopia of tightly coiled ringlets, easily giving her a half foot of added height.
“It’s nice to finally meet in person,” I said awkwardly.
“I should have warned you that I’m an Amazon,” she said. “And I’m not even wearing heels, because I’m marrying a munchkin. If there’s anything you need, just let me know. I’ll get you a copy of our vows after the ceremony, and I can wrangle people for interviews during the reception, if you tell me who you want to talk to.”
I usually avoided harassing brides on their wedding day, and I was rather looking forward to reconnoitering with Brooke. “I think you’ve got a few other things on your plate,” I said.
“Are you kidding? I’m a producer. This is what I do. My only task is to walk down the aisle and say ‘I do’ without falling on my face. Do you really think that’s going to be a problem for me? I’m asking him, not you,” she said, turning to Brooke with mock indignation. “Brooke has known me to be vertically challenged on occasion.”
“Only with a bottle of Manischewitz in your hand,” Brooke said.
Roxanne howled with laughter. “Did she tell you we went to Hebrew school together?” It was news to me that Brooke was Jewish.
Dating a source suddenly seemed less reprehensible.
“But we usually cut class and smoked cigarettes in the girls’ bathroom,” Brooke said.
“Don’t believe anything she tells you,” said Roxanne. “I was a model child. And if Rabbi Snyder asks, I have no idea what happened to the missing case of Manischewitz at the seder in ‘ninety-two.” With that, she was off to micromanage the photographer.
Brooke and I strolled toward the terrace. Beneath us were rows of white chairs set out on a manicured carpet of lawn that extended to the edge of a dramatic bluff, with wooden steps zigzagging down from the precipice to a private cove.
“Sounds like you had some wild and crazy school days,” I said, almost groaning at how uncomfortably forced that sounded.
Brooke didn’t respond. I wasn’t sure if she was embarrassed, bored with the subject or bored with me. I decided that it didn’t matter. I wasn’t going to put my job at risk for someone just because we were the same religion and she looked good in a towel.
“Do you want to get seats?” she asked.
“I usually just stand in the back,” I said.
“That works for me.” I wondered if she was trying to assist my reporting efforts or ensure that we spent more time together. I reminded myself it didn’t matter.
As the sun sank below the horizon, Rabbi Snyder began the ceremony, taking his place beneath a wedding canopy of bamboo and palm fronds. Five tawny bridesmaids carrying tapered white candles paraded by in form-hugging pink sheath dresses, which I couldn’t help notice showcased impressive cleavage on each woman. Then I realized it wasn’t just the dresses that were identical; the bridesmaids had matching breasts.
“Yes, they all went to the same doctor,” Brooke whispered. “That’s off the record,” she added, grinning mischievously.
She was adorable. I was in trouble.
Every time I looked at Brooke, I regretted not kissing her in her apartment. So I avoided looking at her, which just made me want her more. I felt like a starving man in the presence of a glazed pastry. My first instinct was to gorge myself, but even thinking that way was disrespectful to Brooke—and The Paper. After the ceremony, I vowed to focus on doing my job and keeping my distance.
I mingled with the guests as they migrated to a candlelit tent containing a lavish buffet of smoked sable, rack of lamb and a myriad of other delicacies. There were a dozen linen-covered tables interspersed with floor lamp–style propane heaters. Chinese lanterns hung overhead, glowing like crimson-colored sentinels.
Buffets were challenging environments for me, because doing interviews required competing with the food for people’s attention. At a Jewish event, there was no contest. Standing between guests and stuffed portobello mushrooms was a good way to get myself trampled.
“Is this the silliest wedding ever?” asked Roxanne, resting her head against her husband’s. Though her words were irreverent, her body language was not.
“Not by a long shot,” I said reassuringly. Looking around the space, my gaze gravitated immediately toward Brooke. I purposefully turned away.
“Is this what you—how you say?—expectated?” Ari asked. Naturally, the only two people I didn’t need to interview were the only ones willing to converse.
“I anticipated seeing more gymnasts,” I said. I also expected to see Matt Lauer, but I didn’t want to sound like a star fucker.
“My teammates do training,” said Ari, who had short-cropped hair and deep-set eyes. Though only a couple of inches shorter than me, he seemed almost twice as broad.
“Ari’s only in the States until Tuesday,” Roxanne said. “We’re putting off the honeymoon until after Beijing.”
It would have seemed more logical to put off the wedding as well. I wondered if she was pregnant. “So why get married now?” I asked.
“We didn’t want to wait,” she said.
“You waited three years,” I pointed out.
“I waited,” Ari said. “She debated.”
Roxanne blushed. “I had a plan for my life,” she said, “and my plan didn’t include a guy who lived on the other side of the planet and was a half foot shorter than me.”
“Not half foot.”
“In heels,” she said, stroking his cheek. I averted my eyes and caught sight of Brooke again. “Being together didn’t make any sense. It still doesn’t.”
“Why are you not eating?” Ari asked me.
Bridal couples rarely
understood that what was a party for them was a work night for me. It was also difficult to explain The Paper’s strict rules about accepting anything that could be construed as a gift.
“It’s not a gift. It’s food,” Roxanne said, “and no one’s going to know. There’s an extra seat at Brooke’s table. You’ll be her date.”
It was out of the question and wildly inappropriate. So why did it sound so appealing? “I think Brooke might have an opinion about that,” I said, trying to make light of the subject but feeling a tightness in my chest.
“Advice from married man: Never ask woman’s opinion.”
“You won’t be married long giving out advice like that,” said Roxanne.
“You see? You get without asking. You must stay and be our guest.”
“I assure you that Brooke will be delighted,” Roxanne added.
“Thanks for the kind offer,” I said, wondering if she had inside information on precisely how delighted Brooke would be. “But I can’t accept.” I felt a sharp pain underneath my ribs as I insisted I didn’t want what I specifically did.
“You need to let go,” Ari said emphatically. “It is—how you say?—secret agent of life.”
“When he retires from gymnastics, he’s going to get a job making—how you say?—Chinese fortune cookies,” Roxanne joked while running her fingers through his hair.
“I am serious,” he said. “Life is like being on the high bar. There is time to hold on tight, and there is time to let go.” As Ari spoke, he embraced Roxanne firmly in his thick arms. “You ask why we get married now. The answer is simple: She let go.”
Roxanne kissed him gently on the lips, holding his face in her hands. “That’s exactly what I did,” she said, her voice cracking. “I let go.”
“The valets won’t let me near the place.” It was Gary calling from the front gate. “Sorry I’m late. Are you ready to leave?”
The honest answer was no, but I wasn’t ready to stay either.
I’d been deliberating while interviewing guests. Deep down I knew that Ari was right. There were times when you needed to let go and take a chance, but I hadn’t decided whether this was one of those times.
Of course, it wasn’t supposed to be something I decided. It was supposed to be spontaneous. I liked being spontaneous. I just preferred to do it with some preparation.
In fairness to myself, this wasn’t a no-brainer about having fun and maybe hooking up with someone. It meant violating rules that could have severe repercussions. But were there really any rules when it came to sex and love? Thousands of years of history from Adam and Eve to Bill and Monica said no. Then again, they all suffered for their indulgences.
I watched Brooke sashay toward the dessert table, and for a moment I couldn’t remember what it was I was deliberating. The only important question was whether she wanted me to stay, and there was only one way to find out. I was advancing toward her, on the verge of asking, when Gary had phoned. I took that as divine intervention. Though it might have just been bad luck.
Gary was standing on the side of the street next to his Prius. He looked good in a green hoodie and jeans. He had the same ex-soccer player build, but his face was somewhat fuller than when I last saw him. He was wearing silver eyeglasses, which was new for him, and as he embraced me in a bear hug, I saw he also had some silver in his dark brown hair and small laugh lines around his eyes. It was jarring. What happened to my baby brother running down the stairs of our house in his footed pajamas?
“Leslie was going to come with me, and then she wasn’t. Then she wanted to know if there was any food you would want, and I said what you would want was to get picked up on time. Then she got hurt, and I got pissed. Or vice versa. Either way, I had to apologize, which took more time, and here I am with my lame excuse.”
I wanted to stay. It suddenly hit me. I really wanted to stay with Brooke. I deserved to have what Gary had. What everyone seemed to have. Someone in their life to torment them. To love them. To keep them company. I didn’t know if Brooke could be that person for me, but if I left I’d never know.
I told Gary about her, and it occurred to me he might think I was choosing a woman I barely knew over him. There were fault lines in our relationship since childhood, and as the younger sibling he often accused me of taking him for granted. It had been the standard outburst whenever I missed his soccer tournaments. Blowing him off on a Saturday night after he drove across town to pick me up could trigger an eruption of buried resentment.
He looked wounded. I was being a terrible brother. “It’s not important,” I said. “I go to these weddings and get caught up in the romantic atmosphere. Occupational hazard. Sorry.” I was in town for less than twenty-four hours. What kind of a jerk tells his brother he doesn’t want to spend any time with him?
“Is she hot?” he asked, cutting to the core of the matter, as far as he was concerned.
“She’s very cute.”
“Cute as in, ‘She has nice dimples’ or ‘She looked smokin’ in the towel’?”
“Smokin’.”
“You have to stay.”
I was grateful to hear him say that, but I still felt guilty. Noticing my hesitation, he said, “If you don’t stay, I will.”
He was joking, but not entirely. He seemed preoccupied. I wanted to find out what was going on with him, but it wasn’t a conversation to have on a street. “I’m not sure Leslie would appreciate that,” I said.
“Well, the Leslie thing is getting old. You know?”
“It’s been only seven months.”
“Almost eight,” he said. “There’s a lot of women in the world who look good in towels. Even more who look good out of them.”
I was afraid I was being a bad influence, which was an odd role reversal. “She obviously cares about you,” I said.
“I care about her, but that doesn’t necessarily mean she’s someone I want to spend the rest of my life with.” How could two such different people come out of the same womb?
“Get back to your party,” he said, smacking me on the back. “Remember: ‘Better to be a king for a night than a schmuck for a lifetime.’ That’s a DeNiro quote. Look it up.” He slid into the driver’s seat and lowered the window. “Call me if you need a place to stay tonight, but I’m warning you, I’ll never let you live it down.”
As he sped off into the night, I could hear Kanye West championing the good life over the DJ’s loudspeakers. I half ran back to the tent, eager to see Brooke. Her table was in the back, and I hurried over. But she wasn’t there. I didn’t see her standing nearby. Or at the bar. A crowd had gathered on the dance floor around Ari and Roxanne, who were rocking out to Kanye’s rapping, but Brooke wasn’t among them.
Outside, guests were wandering around the property. It was hard to make out faces from a distance in the darkness. The lanterns that were hung along the periphery contributed more shadows than illumination.
I checked the terrace and inside the house. A woman was entering the white marble bathroom on the main floor, but it wasn’t Brooke. I started to panic. It occurred to me I had never asked Brooke how late she was staying. Was it possible she had left?
I raced to the front gate. A couple was waiting for their car. More people were approaching. No sign of Brooke. I tried calling her, but it went straight to her voice mail. I didn’t even know if she had brought her phone with her. She could be back in the tent. She could already be gone. She could have left while I was talking to Gary, or while I was searching for her. I paced back and forth, unsure what to do next. I risked missing her if I went anywhere else, but standing out front for the rest of the night was ridiculous. Sweating and dizzy and incapable of making a rational decision, I dashed back to the tent.
Rihanna’s latest single was playing, and Ari was doing backflips to hoots and catcalls. It was like watching someone perform an Olympic floor exercise in a tuxedo. I still didn’t see Brooke anywhere, but I made eye contact with Roxanne, who was standing on the sidelines.
“A woman should never marry a man more limber than she is,” she said, raising a champagne glass in my direction.
“Have you seen Brooke?”
“I think she went down to the beach,” she said as Ari grabbed her round her thighs and lifted her into the air. “Ari!”
It was easier to see the edge of the bluff by daylight. Finding the steps at night was no easy task, and getting down them even less so. It was a good thing I hadn’t been drinking, because there were a hell of a lot of them. I huffed and puffed my way downward on pure adrenaline, holding on to low shrubbery for balance. I couldn’t see Brooke or even where the steps ended. I pitched forward when I hit sand, grateful to have made it to the bottom and not at all looking forward to the return trip. Letting my eyes adjust to the dim light, I spotted Brooke sitting near the undulating surf, and I stumbled toward her, catching my breath.
She looked up, startled, as I collapsed by her side. “I thought you left,” she said.
I shook my head.
“So, you’re happy you decided to cover the wedding?”
I nodded.
“I told you they had a good story. I have a client getting married in May with an even better one, if you’re willing to put up with my pitching you another piece.”
I nodded again.
“Are you off duty now?” She lifted an open wine bottle that had been half-buried in the sand beside her. “I pinched a party favor from the bar. It’s not Manischewitz.” She laughed as she handed me the purloined pinot, and I took a swig. I watched the waves lap at the shore and exhaled deeply.
“Can I ask you something?” I said. It was her turn to nod.
And I kissed her.
The universe didn’t burst into heart-shaped confetti. I had taken her by surprise, and she pulled away. I was crestfallen. Then she threw her arms around my neck and drew me to her. We kissed again, and this time there were cymbals and electric guitars. My hands found the smoothness of her spine while high above us Rihanna pleaded, “Please don’t stop the music.”
We didn’t make it to her bedroom. We barely made it back to her apartment without having to pull over on the highway, and as soon as the door closed behind us, we were tangled in each other’s limbs.