The Wedding Beat

by Devan Sipher

  “You’re so beautiful,” I murmured, slipping a thin strip of fabric off her shoulder and replacing it with hungry kisses.

  Soon we were rolling naked on her living room carpet. We rocked in slow motion. Nothing existed but her eyes, her breath. Her lips, her neck. Her touch.

  “Do you have condoms?” she asked, her arms and legs wrapped tightly around me.

  Fortunately, my wallet was within reach. Rising to my knees, I held her to me like a second skin while grabbing for my pants. I whispered in her ear, “Let’s go to the bedroom.” She shook her head coquettishly while stroking my back. I nibbled on her earlobe and attempted to stand.

  She shook her head more emphatically. “No,” she said, pushing me backward to the carpet. “I don’t let guys in my bed until we’ve been dating at least a month.”

  Then she got on top of me.

  Sunlight was flooding the apartment when I opened my eyes. Sheer curtains billowed in the morning breeze. My back was stiff from sleeping on the floor, but otherwise I felt good. Very good.

  I got the towel off, I thought to myself with bemused pride. But that wasn’t what was making me feel so light-headed. Something had happened over the course of the night that I hadn’t anticipated. Something beyond the physical. Though that was how it began, as we clung to each other, wordlessly revealing secret longings. Then we lolled in each other’s arms and talked late into the night. About pizza cravings and fish tacos and Los Cabos and last relationships and what we wanted in our next ones.

  It was the first time I’d talked about Laurel without my chest constricting. I was even able to joke about her criticism of my recycling habits. Maybe I was moving past the pain. Or maybe I was moving forward. Luxuriating in the memory of Brooke’s embrace, I felt deep affection. I turned over to snuggle, but she was gone.

  She wasn’t on the sofa or in the kitchen making coffee. Assuming she was in her bedroom, I put on my boxers and ventured toward the inner sanctum. I stood in the doorway opposite a pristine queen-sized bed with a voluminous white duvet. I knocked, but there was no response. I listened for the telltale sound of rustling clothes or running water. Nothing.

  Then I saw her sitting on the bedroom balcony at a table with an open laptop, her cell phone to her ear. She was in a white terrycloth robe with her hair haphazardly clipped high on her head. She looked effortlessly enticing. I opened the glass door and kissed the nape of her neck, imagining what it might feel like to do so every day.

  “Good morning, sleepy head,” she said, smiling up at me. She covered the phone with the palm of her hand. “Are you feeling charitable?”

  It was an odd question. “Very,” I said, fondling a loose lock of her hair.

  She pressed a button on her phone and set it on the table. “Alexander, I’m putting you on speakerphone. Gavin, meet Alexander. Alexander, meet Gavin.” She playfully hooked a finger under my waistband, and I wondered just how charitable I had volunteered to be.

  “Gavin,” a tinny voice exclaimed. “Brooke has said amazing things about you.”

  She tapped my arm. I looked down, and she was typing something on her laptop. “Don’t hate me,” she wrote. “Alexander is the client I told you about, and he was begging to talk to you.”

  Did she tell him I had slept over? I was torn between machismo pride and professional concern. Pride won out as Brooke massaged my inner thigh.

  “I would love to tell you about my upcoming May wedding,” he said. Of course he would.

  “He met his fiancée on a plane in Spain,” Brooke interjected.

  “It wasn’t raining on the plane,” he quipped. I resisted the impulse to groan.

  “He got off in Madrid, but he couldn’t get her out of his mind.” Brooke’s sky blue eyes lit up while narrating the story. “He drove five hundred miles to surprise her at her hotel in Barcelona, and proposed two days later.”

  “Very romantic,” I admitted. Also a little crazy, but I was beginning to think the two were synonymous. I was already contemplating a return trip to LA as soon as possible, and wondered whether I should tell her.

  “You two should set up a time to talk,” Brooke said, shifting a little too easily into full PR mode. A calendar appeared on her computer screen. “How’s next Thursday?”

  My neck stiffened. It flashed through my mind that Brooke had slept with me only to get another story in The Paper, but I felt guilty for even thinking it. Working at The Paper was making me cynical.

  It was going to cost me only an hour to meet with Alexander, and not even that if I got a story out of it. I agreed to lunch before we hung up. Brooke jumped into my arms and exuberantly kissed me good morning.

  “So what do you want to do now?” I asked, gripping her waist in a way I hoped suggested what I’d most like to do, but I would have been happy doing anything as long as she was by my side. “How about a walk on the beach?”

  “I would love to,” she said, caressing my pecs (which I instinctively flexed). “But I have to meet a client in an hour.”

  “How about after?” My plane didn’t leave until late afternoon.

  “Unfortunately, I have a haircut.”

  “That sounds like something that could be postponed,” I said, sliding my hands down around her hips.

  “Not really,” she said. Not what I was hoping for. “It would take a month to get another appointment,” she explained.

  “Then I’ll go with you,” I said, proud of my quick thinking.

  “I can’t imagine a more boring way for you to spend a day in LA.”

  “Maybe you’re underestimating the allure of curling irons,” I said, stealing another kiss.

  She didn’t respond right away. To the kiss or the plan. “It’s really crowded at the salon,” she finally said. “Half the time I can’t even find a seat.”

  I blinked several times, like a foreign exchange student trying to comprehend what she was saying.

  “I was thinking about coming back to LA next month,” I blurted.

  “Great.” That was all she said. Just “great.” No suggestion of who in particular it might be great for.

  “I had a really nice time last night.” I was attempting triage.

  “I’m really glad,” she said, “and I’m really glad you’re going to meet Alexander.” Somewhere on the planet was a guy who wouldn’t take that response as a blow to his manhood. I desperately wanted to be that guy.

  “I’ve got to take a shower,” she said. “Do you want the number for the airport shuttle?”

  I dressed quickly, and she gave me a brisk hug, like I was the runner-up on a reality dating show. I waited until the door closed behind me before slamming my fist into my thigh as hard as I could. How could I be so stupid?

  I reminded myself I had sex. I had great sex. I put on my aviator sunglasses, determined to look tough. Or as tough as I could look standing on the side of the road in a wrinkled suit, waiting for a shuttle bus.

  “I’m flying United,” I said to the baby-faced driver. He nodded as he ripped my ticket, inadvertently flaunting the gold band on his left hand.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Dork Is a Four-Letter Word

  There was no way I was going to write a story about Alexander’s wedding.

  “Then why are you meeting with him?” Hope asked. I had called her for solace, not syllogism. But after three tracheal intubations in one morning, she was not at her most sympathetic.

  “I don’t want Brooke to think I’m angry,” I said as I raced to make the light at Broadway and Houston, hurtling myself across eight lanes of traffic.

  “You are angry.”

  “An angry person wouldn’t go to the meeting.”

  “Neither would a sane person.”

  All week, I’d done everything I could to hide any sign of being hurt. I bent over backward to ensure there was nothing in my column about Roxanne and Ari that hinted at hard feelings.

  As far as Brooke knew, I hooked up at weddings every week. Perk of my job. All those
bridesmaids. All those publicists. She had no way of knowing how much I had tormented myself before kissing her, let alone how much I had thought about it afterward. And she never would.

  “I promised to meet the guy,” I said, galloping past Dean & DeLuca, “and that’s what I’m going to do.”

  “Well, since you’re so hell-bent on meeting new people, I want you to meet A.J.” I just ran right into that one. “You could join us for dinner next week.”

  I could also attend a seminar on septic-tank maintenance, but it’s not something I would volunteer to do. It wasn’t that I was biased against A.J. I just didn’t think I had the stamina for being with a couple in the throes of new love. They had been dating only six weeks. My preference was to wait—until they broke up.

  “Sure,” I said, hoping the high pitch of my voice suggested enthusiasm. “But can we discuss this when I’m not ten minutes late for an interview?”

  I had agreed to meet Alexander at Balthazar, a SoHo bistro that many consider un morceau of Paris in New York. An overrated morceau, with the Gaul-ing combination of French attitude and New York prices. It was very popular among people who didn’t blink at paying fifteen dollars for a bagel and cream cheese. I wasn’t sure how appropriate it was for Alexander to indulge in such luxuries, since he was on the city payroll as a deputy mayor. I was planning on sticking to just a cup of café before making my exit and rushing back to the office for a departmental staff meeting.

  The powwow was set up to counteract rumors about the buyouts. Of course, it was having the opposite effect, but it gave me an excuse to keep things short with Alexander. A quick in and out, and I would be done with Brooke. It wasn’t that I regretted what happened in LA, but it made me doubt the reliability of my instincts—and my charm.

  The hostess at Balthazar displayed only a trace of disdain as she escorted me past the zinc bar through the noisy and unduly crowded, dark-paneled dining room. Approaching Alexander’s table, I was surprised to see he had brought his fiancée with him, and even more surprised by her age. An elegant woman with gray-streaked hair pulled back from her face, she appeared to be in her late fifties, while Alexander was a strapping Bradley Cooper look-alike more than twenty years her junior.

  They sat side by side on a red banquette, his hand in hers, and I had to admit, their story had just become a lot more interesting. There were quick introductions, and she said her name was Genevieve. “Do I detect an accent?” I pulled out a notepad. I hadn’t intended to, but the journalist in me couldn’t help asking a few questions.

  “Boarding school in Switzerland,” she said. “You’re good.” She seemed sincerely impressed.

  “So, I’m guessing you’ve traveled a lot.”

  “My father said I was born with a Baedeker in my bassinet.” I liked that she wasn’t embarrassed to show her age. “Alexander is the same way. We’re very similar.”

  “Two peas in a pod,” Alexander said, kissing her hand.

  My stomach convulsed at the excessive display of affection, but if I judged all bridal couples on the gag factor, I would rarely write an article.

  “Alexander speaks four languages,” she informed me.

  “My mother taught me well,” he said.

  “She must be very proud,” I said reflexively.

  “I am,” said Genevieve.

  Holy maternity! She was his mother? I’d seen my fair share of inappropriate parents, but this was borderline clinical.

  They Eskimo kissed. Ew!

  “We’re so excited that you’re going to be writing something about our celebration,” she said.

  OUR celebration? Boundaries, people. Get some boundaries.

  “Unfortunately, it turns out, I don’t think I’ll be able to fit you in,” I said to Alexander, segueing into my prepared spiel. “May is a busy month for weddings. We get submissions from three hundred couples a week.”

  “But none of them are as interesting,” Genevieve said.

  No. I write only about boring people. I smiled through gritted teeth.

  “You can’t imagine how much my mother’s been looking forward to this,” he said. “I hate to disappoint her.”

  How did a man so unhealthily attached to his mother find someone to share his life while I couldn’t? I wondered what his fiancée was like and if the fourth plate setting on the table was for her, but I didn’t plan on staying long enough to find out.

  “I’m sorry, but it’s my editor’s decision.” Fortunately, Renée gave us carte blanche to pin blame on her whenever we encountered resistance.

  “Well, he’d be crazy not to include Alexander,” Genevieve opined.

  “He is a she,” I said, trying not to sound contemptuous.

  “Good for her. I so admire working girls.”

  My phone rang. It was Captain Al, who was editing my column. “I’m sorry,” I said, “I have to take this.”

  I turned away, but I couldn’t hear amid the cacophony of conversations. I would have left right then, but if it got back to Brooke that I’d been rude, it would have defeated my entire purpose for being there. I headed down a back hallway toward the lavatories with my cell phone held to one ear and a finger stuck in the other.

  “I liked your story,” Captain Al grumbled. It was a rare compliment. I wished I could have savored the moment somewhere other than a men’s room.

  “You need to rethink the lede,” he said.

  He giveth and he taketh away. I assumed his complaint was that I had used a quote for my first line, which was highly discouraged. The question was whether it was a good enough quote to be worth fighting for:

  “Dorks like us don’t have Hollywood love stories,” said Roxanne Goldman.

  The irony was that it was a Hollywood-style love story, and I found it charming that a successful television producer raised in Beverly Hills considered herself a dork.

  “I think it makes the reader like her,” I said. “It’s quirky. It’s unexpected.”

  “It’s obscene.”

  That was harsh.

  “The word,” he said. “‘Dork.’ It’s slang for the male sexual organ.”

  That was news to me. Though I wasn’t about to admit it.

  “Look it up in the dictionary, and come up with a new lede. You have thirty minutes.”

  “Thirty minutes?”

  “You’re lucky I’m giving you that. We’re shutting down in an hour so everyone can go to the department meeting. I need the column clean by then.”

  I hustled back to the table to grab my pad and go. A dark-haired woman was sitting across from Alexander and Genevieve. I felt like warning her to run, but I had problems of my own.

  “I want you to meet my fiancée,” Alexander said as I reached for my coat.

  One look at her and the air was knocked out of me. I staggered backward when she flashed a dimpled smile.

  “Gavin, this is Melinda.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Facts and Figures

  I had found her. I had lost her.

  A thick, jagged line sliced downward across the auditorium’s projection screen. “This graph displays The Paper’s advertising revenue for the last decade,” said Tucker, standing at the front of the jam-packed room.

  The budget problems at The Paper were far worse than I had realized. Even if layoffs were averted in the near future, online ad rates were only a tiny fraction of print ads, which meant in the long term, there would be only enough money for a fraction of the staff.

  What was I going to do? About Melinda. I couldn’t get her out of my head. I superimposed her face on every photograph displayed, and reformatted each pie chart as a compilation of her attributes: 25 percent charm, 17.8 percent altruism, 14.3 percent ingenuity (I could intuit her ingenuity), 19.6 percent beauty (I considered her 100 percent beautiful, but I was trying not to view her solely from a sexual perspective).

  My mathematical glorification was interrupted by a promotional video with high-tech graphics and peppy music. Talking heads praised The
Paper’s longevity and integrity, as if those qualities could shield the company from financial reality. Then again, we could all use a break from reality.

  A couple was shown walking on a beach, and I imagined it was me alongside Melinda, her curves filling out a tropical green bikini and sarong. Then I reminded myself about Alexander. How could she be with someone so spineless? That was judgmental. Someone so soulless.

  The video ended and a slide appeared with the words THE SOLUTION IS YOU.

  “You are the ones who will make us relevant in the twenty-first century,” Tucker said. “We want you thinking outside the box. We don’t just want you thinking; we want you blogging. We want you chirping.” He looked down at his note cards. “I mean, tweeting.”

  The slide quickly changed to OTHER SOLUTIONS. There were only two bullet points: DONATIONS and MEMBERSHIP. Neither screamed out “game changer.”

  Under DONATIONS there was a list of luminaries, including Bill Gates, Warren Buffet and Oprah Winfrey. “There are many generous benefactors who we think could be interested in supporting our newspaper and the ideals we uphold.”

  “We’re expecting people to donate their money to a for-profit company?” an editor asked.

  “After careful consideration, we’ve determined that donations are an unlikely solution,” Tucker said, reading from another note card.

  Yet there it was, officially part of a PowerPoint presentation. It wasn’t that I’d been expecting revelatory disclosures. Oh, who was I kidding? Yes, I had.

  I wanted to know: How were we going to overcome the odds? How were we going to reinvent ourselves as trailblazers? How was I going to see Melinda again?

  The most obvious reason to contact her was if I was writing an article about her wedding, but I’d already said I wasn’t. It would seem odd for me to randomly change my mind, in addition to being disingenuous. However, I wasn’t coming up with a better alternative.