by Ashley Pullo
Placing their glasses on the table, Theo pulls out a chair for Julia just as an older couple sits across from them. The square table holds eight guests, two chairs on each side, and by the indication of the crowded cocktail area, every seat will be taken during the reception. Theo pulls out the chair next to Julia, scooting in and bumping her knee. “They really lucked out with the weather.”
“Today was gorgeous – I love October in New York.”
“Are you chilly?” he asks, preparing to remove his jacket.
“No, we have our own heater.” Julia points to a silver cone positioned behind their table.
Another couple joins the table, dying to start a conversation, but Theo simply nods and turns his body toward Julia. “So what exactly do you do at weddings?”
“Uh, I just show up. I’m given all the details in advance, sometimes I meet with a bride during the planning stage, but mostly, I’m just a status symbol.”
“Ah, so you’re like a critic.”
“I guess that’s one way to look at it. But I’m also a reporter – and my readers expect a little fluff and frill with their Sunday morning coffee.”
“Then you must like weddings?”
“No, I hate them.”
“What? How can you do a job you hate?”
“I don’t hate my job, I just,” she clears her throat, “never mind.”
Finishing off his gin and tonic, Theo asks, “Okay, what’s your take on this wedding so far?”
Julia looks from left to right and then lowers her voice. “The wedding was a solid three stars when we arrived, but the bride’s platinum Lazaro gown bumped up my rating considerably.”
“Very funny.”
Smiling, she turns into him as if keeping a secret. “The carousel is unique and whimsical, but the view is the main backdrop. And you see how the table with the wedding party is slightly elevated and facing the bridge?”
Theo nods.
“That tells me the couple loves nostalgia, and New York is an important detail to their story.” Julia runs her hand over the gray table linen and then picks up a gold, chunky goblet. “The square tables are contemporary, the place settings are simple, and the colors used in the floral arrangements are very modern. Navy and gray accented with mustard are some of my favorite choices for a wedding, but rarely used. In this case, I’d like to think the colors represent the couple – Wall Street gray with a splash of bohemian vibrancy.”
“All that from a goblet?” he asks, picking up the wine glass.
Grinning, she continues. “There are no kids present, the wedding is on a Wednesday, and the ceremony was held privately . . .”
“Which probably means today is all about them and not impressing the guests,” Theo interrupts.
“Perhaps a special date?” she coaches.
“Well, they obviously have money, so a bargain weekday wedding wasn’t necessary.” Theo slaps the table and bursts, “I got it!”
“Oh yeah?”
Placing his arm around her shoulders, he elaborates with the booming voice of a narrator. “It was a gorgeous fall day, exactly one year ago, when our two lovers nailed their fate. They walked across the Brooklyn Bridge on a whim, seeking refuge from the confines of Manhattan. It was a work day, so he was in a suit, natch, and she was wearing a Lazaro gown with a sweater.”
“Natch,” they say in unison.
Julia snickers, amused by the image of the bride traipsing across the bridge in a seven-thousand-dollar designer gown.
“Famished, they bought hotdogs from the cart, and then argued over the perfect mustard to wiener ratio. The sun was setting, and their impromptu visit to Brooklyn was coming to a close, so they thought, what the hell, let’s take a whirl on the carousel. And as she was mounting the golden horse with the navy sash, he proposed.”
“Look at you! You could write my column.”
“Oh, I’m sure I’d piss people off.”
As the last side of the table is taken by a man wearing a bowtie and gulping the remains of a neat scotch, a waiter gracefully places colorful salads in front of each guest.
“Field greens with cranberries, walnuts, and a light honey-balsamic vinaigrette,” the waiter recites.
The man with the bowtie raises his empty glass and barks, “None for me, but I’ll take another scotch.”
Scowling at the token wedding drunk, Theo leans into Julia and asks, “You hate weddings – why a wedding column?”
“Ha. Are you kidding me?” Julia’s smile slowly fades as Theo shakes his head. “You mean you really don’t know?”
“Is there something I should I know?” he counters.
Julia throws back the remaining wine in one gulp and then clears her throat. “No? Know. I don’t know. I need another drink,” she utters.
“Raise your glass and demand another,” the man with the bowtie slurs. “Weddings make me thirsty asswell.”
“I’ll go,” Theo offers.
“A vodka martini, please,” Julia requests.
With closed eyes and a tottering voice, the man in the bowtie adds, “Scotch. Extra neat, young fella.”
As Theo makes his way through the reception and toward the carousel, Julia removes her phone from her clutch and sends a text to Meredith.
Jules: I’m at the Hoffman wedding with Theo.
Meredith: Theo . . . the hot neighbor who walks dogs.
Jules: What? No, he helps me with Fletch sometimes.
Meredith: How’s her dress?
Jules: The platinum color is amazing, but Mere, focus!
Meredith: What’s up?
Jules: I think I want to tell him about Evan.
Meredith: He doesn’t know? Everyone knows. Right?
Jules: He has no clue. Shit, he’s back. TTYL
“Vodka martini for the beautiful lady, and a scotch on the rocks for you, old chap.” Unable to resist a playful joke, Theo passes the drink filled to the rim with ice to the man in the bowtie.
Angry, the man rumbles, “I said neat.” He jolts from the table, cursing under his breath as he nearly knocks over a glass of water.
Moving his chair closer to Julia and scarfing down a few bites of his salad, Theo wipes his mouth and then finally says, “That salad was really sweet. So, where were we?”
“You asked me how I got my job writing the wedding column.”
“Jules, you should be writing think-pieces on nuclear testing sights or the refugee crisis. Why the wedding drivel?”
Julia tightens her lips and closes her eyes.
“Oh, I didn’t mean it that way, Jules.” He places his arm on the back of her chair and quietly adds, “What I meant was, you’re not married, you hate weddings, and you’re an amazing writer that deserves the headlines.”
He’s read my stuff?
“Actually, there’s something you should probably know about me – my little five minutes of infamy.”
“Oh, shit, please tell me you’re a super hero defending our city.”
“That would be so much better, but no, it’s not very impressive.”
He shakes his head and narrows his eyes. “Julia, I never want you to feel uncomfortable around me. I should be the one trying to impress you.”
“You do impress me, Theo.”
“Then why ruin a good thing by unloading our baggage? I tend to live in the present, Jules.”
“But you could just Google me – it’s all there.”
“I could, but I could also hack into your checking account and I’ve never done that. Friends respect each other, right?” Theo tilts his head, his hazel eyes darkening to mossy green, and his crooked smile collapsing into a straight line of delicate lips.
Kiss me, she thinks.
“Trust me?” Theo whispers, the inflection of the question forcing his mouth to return to its resting smirk.
“I do. Trust me?”
“I do, Jules. And you owe me a dance.”
“One second,” she replies, gulping her martini and taking an olive. “B
ut I’ll only dance to a slow song. My dance moves rival Elaine Benes – really embarrassing.”
Theo stands and offers Julia a hand. “Then let’s embarrass ourselves together.”
Trusting him, she follows him to the parquet dance floor, protected by whimsical umbrellas and paper lanterns floating from above. The band plays “It Had to be You” while several couples show off their ballroom skills with dramatic spins and romantic dips.
“Maybe we should come back when people are drunk.” She hiccups.
Dragging her to the middle, Theo wraps his arm around her waist, and clasps her hand. “Look in my eyes and just feel the moment, Jules,” he whispers.
She smiles, relaxing in his lead as they glide across the floor like it’s their own private cloud. “When Harry Met Sally,” she utters.
“And then Theo met Julia. Can you think of a better way to spend our night?” he says, drawing her closer for the climatic crescendo.
“No, this is perfect,” she replies.
As the song ends and the band accepts their applause, Theo and Julia gaze into each other’s eyes – the moment suspended like it was created just for them. Cymbals crash from the bandstand, and the breeze from the river ruffles the delicate lanterns, but the two are so engaged in each other that they fail to realize the scene is changing. Because Theo and Julia are simply characters within the bigger story – guests at a wedding, assimilated residents of a vibrant city, and specks of light under a dark sky.
Chapter Five
The ancient elevator jerks and rattles, and then moans like a dying animal as it makes its stop on the third floor. After riding the elevator in silence, and avoiding any prolonged eye contact, Theo finally says, “Here’s our stop.” He slides open the cage door like an accordion and holds it in place with his arm, allowing Julia to step out first.
“So, um, thanks for bringing me home.” She glances over her shoulder and laughs.
“Hey, I’m a gentleman – I’ll even make sure you get into your apartment safely.”
Pausing by her door and removing the key from her clutch, Julia turns toward Theo and falls into his broad chest. With only three inches separating their mouths, she lifts her head and wets her lips. “I had a lot of fun tonight.”
“Definitely a five-star wedding – great food, killer view, and a beautiful date.”
Blushing, she smiles. “Fancy Mustard Wedding will receive a very biased article because of you.”
“Ah, Jules. You’re cute when you try to flirt,” he teases.
“I’m not flirting, you’re flirting!”
“Well, we both really suck at flirting.”
Julia takes a deep breath and shifts her weight, practically straddling his strong legs. “So, Theo, I wanted to ask you . . . um, I have a destination wedding to cover this weekend on Shelter Island . . . and I was thinking . . . if you’d like . . . maybe you could . . .”
“Of course I’ll watch Fletch,” Theo offers, gently punching Julia’s arm. “I’ll even take him to Tompkins Square.”
Shrinking in embarrassment, Julia slips from Theo’s imaginary embrace. She shoves her key in the door and mutters, “Right, thanks. Okay, good night.”
“G’night?” Theo asks, his hand resting on the door.
“Um, I have an early morning. I may hit the gym before work.” Julia scrunches her nose and closes her eyes, mortified by her inability to lie.
“Oh yeah, me too. But I should probably join one first. Say, where do you go?” Theo leans against the doorframe and crosses his arms, waiting for her answer.
Turning her head and fighting a smile, she rushes, “The gym’s only for women. Good night, Theo.”
After shutting the door and clasping the lock, Julia staggers into her apartment, groaning as she falls back on the chenille sofa. She tosses her clutch and a velvet box on the floor and sighs. Awakened by the noise, Fletch cocks his head and sniffs her hand. “I know, Fletch, I’m an idiot. We’re just friends, nothing more.” Sensing Julia’s sadness, Fletch climbs in her lap and rubs his nose against her chin. Julia scratches his head and massages his neck – the sweet spot for brachycephalic dogs. “It’s just you and me, kid.”
Distracted by the stack of this week’s newspapers flooding her mid-century coffee table, Julia kicks off her pumps and hops from the couch, Fletch following right at her heels. She begins by organizing the papers, The Herald and the London Chronicle taking their place among the massive built-in bookcase, and then she tosses the Times and the Tribune in the recycling. While she’s at it, Julia returns some books she lent Meredith to their alphabetical slot, dusts the dozens of picture frames, wipes the coffee table clean, fluffs the velvet pillows, folds a chunky blanket, empties the dishwasher, returns clothes to the closet, clears the expired yogurt from the refrigerator, and then pours herself a frothy glass of Diet Dr. Pepper.
Fletch sits at her stockinged feet, frozen like a garden statue. “What?”
He cocks his head to the right.
“Do you want a treat?” Julia pulls out a bag of peanut butter bits and tosses one in the air. Fletch waits until it falls to the floor before he swipes up the nutty sweetness. “Now, sit.” Fletch sits. “Shake,” Julia commands, extending her hand. Fletch lifts his paw, his deep-brown eyes growing large and wild. “Good.” Julia pats his head and feeds Fletch another treat.
As the pair walk toward the bedroom, Julia shuts off the table lamp at her vintage writing desk, and grabs a notebook from the hutch. She powers on the small television while Fletch hops onto the queen-size bed, rotating in four circles before he finally finds the perfect spot near the pillows. Julia’s too tired to care, so she sits at the edge of the bed and changes the channel to BBC America – delicious torture at just the right time.
Under the soft voice of the handsome morning announcer, a gentle knock on the door rattles Fletch from his slumber. He bolts from the bed and runs to the door, whimpering and sneezing from excitement.
Checking her reflection in the mirror above the dresser, Julia shouts, “I’m coming.”
“Jules, it’s just me,” Theo replies through the door.
Duh, Theo, she mouths.
Pulling her hair free from a bun, Julia shakes out her straight, chestnut hair, and then opens the door. Theo, dressed in loose sweat pants and a flannel shirt, stares at the floor while Fletch circles his legs.
“Hey, buddy.”
Surprised by the overwhelming smell of a fragrant forest, and the damp mop of messy blond hair, Julia asks, “Did you just take a shower?”
Looking up and running his hand through his damp hair, Theo replies, “Yeah – I needed to think.”
Eyeing the bulge at the crease of his sweatpants, Julia swallows back her nervous snickering and clears her throat. “Oh, really?”
“I do my best thinking in the shower. Can I come in?”
Stepping back and allowing Theo to enter her apartment, Julia asks, “Do you want a drink, or a towel?”
“Julia, will you go out with me?”
The coffee cup warmer Howard bought for her birthday is proving to be an invaluable gift. Small enough to keep stashed in a drawer, but powerful enough to heat a venti-sized latte, it’s the perfect cubicle accessory.
Julia arrived at the Herald, latte in hand, at exactly seven a.m. Percy, the morning security supervisor, actually thought there may be breaking news – one of those times when all hands on deck were needed to report something disastrous. He questioned Julia, “terrorism, political scandal, MTA strike?” to which she assured him it was nothing but her inability to sleep with impending deadlines.
Sipping her latte, still warm three hours later, Julia finalizes the rough draft for the Hoffman article. As her fingers typed, she relived every single glorious second of last night – the carousel, the slow dance with Theo, and the invitation to dinner for Sunday night. Still riding a euphoric high, she sends the article to her proofreader, and then calls her mother.
The first try is unsuccessful, but
ten seconds later, Julia’s mother returns her call.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Julia! I’m calling you back – it’s my conference period. Everything okay? You never call. Are you okay?”
“Yes, Mom. How are you?” asks Julia, playing a game of Panda Pop on her laptop.
“Oh, you know.” She huffs. “I finally scheduled the surgery for my knee during Thanksgiving break – a few weeks in a wheelchair after that. My principal said I could have his parking spot and use of the elevator. I’ve taught at Port Jeff for twenty-five years and I never knew it had an elevator. Did you know about the elevator?”
Thinking of the time she made out with Josh Mulholland after theater practice in that very elevator, Julia replies, “I did know – it’s close to the theater department.”
“I’ll have to do physical therapy again. Boo.”
“Maybe this time you’ll have one of those sexy body builders,” Julia jokes.
“They never are, Jules.”
Spinning around in her chair, Julia says, “So, Mom, I have a thing on Shelter Island this weekend and I’d love to stop by on Friday.”
“Yes, do it! Your sister will be home this weekend, God knows the last time she did her laundry.”
“Did Lauren choose her major yet?”
“This month it’s psychology, but maybe you can sway her in the right direction.”
“I’ll do my best. Can you pick me up from the train station? I’d walk, but I’ll have a few bags with me.”
“Of course. And then we can get some takeout at Chow’s and rent some movies. Stay the night, Jules!”
“That sounds great, Mom. I’ll text you with the train schedule on Friday.” Julia spins back around to search for the LIRR train schedule.
“Julia, you read The Jungle, right? Mr. Allen’s freshman lit class . . .”
“It’s been so long, maybe?” she says, rummaging through a drawer.
“Kids today have no appreciation for Upton Sinclair.”
“Mom, I have to get back to work – see you Friday.”
“I can’t wait!”
As they say their goodbyes, Meredith plops down in the extra seat inside Julia’s cubicle. “Got any gum? Or valium?” she asks, sliding out every single drawer belonging to a file cabinet.