Chemistry

by Oliver, Tess

  Kent shook his head. "All right, this is over." He reached for me again, but I slapped his hand away.

  "For the longest time, I'd glossed over the whole thing in my head. That wasn't the real Kent, I told myself. He was just grouchy because it was late and we were both tired. But nope, I was wrong."

  A rumble of voices, some stunned, some amused, some angry, began to fill the room and sweep around the beautiful cascades of peonies and roses.

  I turned to the guests and got up on my expensive custom bridal shoe toes to see over the movement of heads and shoulders. I zeroed in on Patty, the woman who was anxiously waiting to continue fucking the groom once he was away from his new bride. Her big eyes were as round as saucers. They widened more when she realized I was staring directly at her. She shrank down in her tight dress.

  "He's all yours, Patty, or is that your name? Never mind. Don't give a fuck. Now you don't have to wait for filming to start." A hand wrapped around mine. My first instinct was to yank it away, then I realized it was Shelby's so I reached for it again. She held my fingers tight to stop the shaking. "Please, since all of you took the time to get spruced up you might as well enjoy yourselves," I said through a sob. "There is a delicious dinner, some sort of prime rib or beef wellington and some other fancy shit on little plates with pickled onions . . . and there's champagne. It's all paid for so enjoy."

  For the happy couple's exit, the piano player was supposed to play U2's "It's a Beautiful Day", but he sat on his bench with his hands on his lap, looking as flabbergasted as the rest of the room.

  "Hey, Gerald," I called, tears were streaming down my face, and I could feel my expensive makeup job melting off of me like ice cream on a cone. "Play that song. After all, it's a beautiful damn day."

  Gerald reluctantly hovered his long white fingers over the rows of black and white keys for a second, then he lowered his hands and started the tune. "Get me out of here, Shel, before I puke all over this fucking dress."

  Shelby and I half ran down the aisle over the pink petals tossed out by the flower girls, past the guests who still seemed to be processing it all and around the photographer and his assistant who were still busily snapping pictures of the whole damn thing. They were holding back smiles. After all, they had just hit the lotto when it came to wedding gigs.

  Three

  Kinsey

  I poured the last bit of tequila into the juice glass. The once crisp organza of my wedding dress crinkled sadly as I collapsed back against the couch cushion and leaned my head on Shelby's shoulder. "I'm telling yooo, Kent's mom st-stuck out her shiny Gucci pumps as we scurried away from the altar. She wanted to trip m—" a hiccup stopped me from finishing my sentence. "She wanted to—" Another hiccup. "Y-you get the po...int," I said with a long, slow slur. "Why the hell does booze make you talk like you're stretching out a rubber band with your tongue?"

  "Not sure, but I'll bet there's some k—kind of science behind it," Shelby said.

  "Ha, you're talking in slow motion too." I managed a long, slurred laugh without moving my head or body. The alcohol had left my limbs feeling like wet noodles and my head as heavy as a sandbag.

  Shelby lifted the remote as if it weighed a hundred pounds. She tapped mute. "I can't listen to one more word. My head is absorbing each sound and then turning it into a drumbeat in my skull."

  "That's all right." My head stayed resting on her shoulder. "I've seen these episodes of The Office so often, I know the scripts by heart." I lifted my own hundred pound arm and attempted to point in the vicinity of the hundred inch flat screen television on my wall. "I can lip read. There, Michael was telling Dwight 'I think there is some cottage cheese on the garden gnome's hat'." My arm dropped down as if gravity on earth had just tripled.

  I hadn't lifted my head off Shelby's shoulder, but I could feel her shaking her head, slowly. "No, no I don't think I remember the cottage cheese gnome line in any of these shows," she insisted, with a good degree of confidence for someone who was now four percent tequila. Her head dropped back against the couch. "I'm so drunk, I actually have learned to like those horrid floral curtains hanging over your front window."

  I sat up too quickly and held her arm to keep from slipping right over onto the coffee table. "I didn't know you didn't like m—my coor tins."

  "Hate them. I told you so but you never listen. Just like I told you not to—"

  "No, not the I told you not to marry Kent spiel again." I put my hand up to stop her from continuing and somehow managed to bop her on the nose.

  She reached up with a delayed 'ouch' and rubbed her nose. "Don't have to sock me in the nose. Just trying to be your friend."

  "I know, and you're the best friend a girl could have, Shel," For the hundredth time since we'd left the wedding, bought tequila and sat ourselves down for a marathon of The Office, we fell together in a drunkenly hug.

  This time most of it was coming from my side. Shelby pushed lightly at my shoulders. "Off of me. I might throw up on the dress." She rested her head back. "Holy shit. I need food to soak up the alcohol. I'll order something. Something that doesn't look too disgusting when it comes back up in the toilet."

  "Don't think there's such a food." I covered my lips to smother another hiccup. The sound of fabric ripping made us both sober up for a fleeting second. I glanced down at the pearl encrusted bodice on the dress. The suppressed hiccup had caused an entire seam to give way. We both stared in silence at the ripped dress.

  "Oh shit, you ripped your expensive dress," Shelby said, stating the obvious, all while suppressing a laugh.

  I poked my finger through to my skin beneath. "Seems I won't be able to wear it again."

  "Where were you going to wear it?" she asked through more slurred laughter.

  I shrugged, a gesture that took way more effort and concentration when inebriated. "I've got to have a cavity filled next m—month. I'm always kind of self-conspicuous—no, that's not right—constituents—no, that is some political word—"

  "Self conscious," Shelby suggested

  "That's it," I cheered. "See, that's why you're my best friend." I leaned in for another hug, but she braced her hands against me like my dad's dog used to do when he sat on my lap to have his chest rubbed.

  "No more hugs. Puke and dress, remember," Shelby said.

  "That's r—right, the dur-ess," I looked down at the torn seam. "Why was I talking about my dentist? Wait, I know. I'm going wear it to my appointment so I can be fancy like a princess for my cavity filling. Then I won't be self-conscious when I'm stretched out on that dentist chair. Never know where to put my hands. Where the hell do you put your hands when they're drilling in your mouth? If I'm wearing this, I can just hide my hands." I demonstrated my dental visit plan, then with some effort pushed to my bare feet. Somewhere between my driveway and the couch, I had lost my shoes.

  I swayed for a second, then gained enough balance to plot my course to the stairs. "I'm going to go up and change into my comfy pants. Order food. Nothing too greasy or salty." The flouncy, puffy skirt of my dress bounced along, swishing side to side with my wobbly gait.

  "Hold it there, your majesty," Shelby said.

  I stopped and turned back to her, but it was no over the shoulder glance. I had to move my feet around or risk falling. Shelby's makeup was smeared around her eyes like a raccoon because the two of us had had a grand cry on the way home in the rented limo. Only the best kind of best friend cried along with you when your entire life had just shattered into a million broken pieces. She was holding up her phone.

  "Doth thou give me permission to turneth back on my phone?" Her exaggerated head shake nearly toppled her off balance. "I don't know why I'm speaking as if I just woke up in medieval times. Phone? Can't order food without it."

  Before Shelby and I had made a clean getaway, I naturally couldn't skip the big, emotional, chaotic scene with my parents. They had followed Shelby and me off the floor. By the time the shouting had finished and the reasoning behind my insanity had been
presented in full color and detail, my mom was left in shoulder wracking sobs and my dad was pacing the dressing room, smacking his fist into his palm and wanting very badly for that palm to be Kent's face. I promised to talk to them in the morning but assured them I needed a night to absorb it all. Of course, my mom was calling the second Shelby and I climbed into the getaway limo. I apologized profusely for ruining the whole day and then hung up and turned off the phone. Shelby had done the same.

  "I suppose you'll have to turn it on. Now, I have to peel myself out of this ridiculous dress. Although, I must admit, it's far more comfortable with this latest alteration." I pushed my finger into the ripped seam and gave it a little tug. More stitches came loose. "Might just rip the damn thing off."

  I reached the stairs. They looked daunting to my tequila soaked head, especially since I was surrounded by flouncy layers of fabric. I grabbed the railing but fell short of the first step when Shelby shrieked from the couch.

  "Holy shit, Kiki, get back here." She had pushed up from her drunken slouch and looked suddenly far more sober. Her phone was clutched in her hand as she held it up in front of her. "Get back here now. Where's the cable remote?" She tossed the phone and searched frantically around for the remote.

  A moment of dread hit me. "Oh my god, did I just destroy my entire career with that shenanigans? No doubt everyone will side with Mr. Wonderful." I shuffled back in my cupcake topping dress. "What are they saying? Kinsey Greene is an ungrateful bitch and a has been?"

  Shelby was ignoring my pity party. She pushed my faux fur throws off the couch. "Where the hell is the cable remote? We need to turn on the news."

  I picked the remote up off the coffee table and held it in front of her. It took her a few seconds to stop her frantic search. "Oh, there it is," she said as if it had been dangling in the air from my hand this whole time. She grabbed it. "Sit down." She stared up at me. "I thought you were changing."

  "Who do I look like? The Flash? I barely got to the first step before you went all hysterical on me."

  "Never mind that, and I'm not hysterical. I just don't want to miss it." She pointed the remote at the television and switched off Netflix.

  I sat down hard on the couch or at least as hard as one could sit on layers of organza. "Have they branded me the one hit wonder bitch already? How did I become a has been? I'm only twenty-eight. And an unmarried twenty-eight too. That's spinster age in Jane Austen's time. I'm a has been, one hit wonder, spinster bitch. I'll bet there's going to be a hashtag that says Kiki Greene is a one hit—"

  "Shut up and stop feeling sorry for yourself. And look at the fucking screen."

  The breaking news banner was plastered beneath a group of people who seemed to be standing in an open field. I was still so drained from the day and so filled with alcohol, I couldn't focus enough to read it. "Did you seriously call me back because of breaking news? They literally put up those banners for everything 'man trips on sidewalk crack’, 'tree branch falls on car'," I was about to continue when a familiar face popped on the screen.

  I sat forward for a better look, even though it was giant. "Hey, that's . . ." My voice trailed off as Shelby turned up the sound. My eyes flitted down to the breaking news banner. "Jameson Slate saves friend from grisly death," I read. "Figures he'd do something like that while I was living out my nuptial nightmare. I—"

  "Shut up so we can listen." Shelby reached over and clumsily covered my mouth while simultaneously turning up the volume. Jameson's smooth, deep voice poured out of the surround sound. "I noticed Drake was limp, not in his usual gentle arch, his go-to skydiving position, so I dove toward him and discovered he was out cold. I just did what anyone would do. I grabbed him to me and opened my chute to get him safely to ground."

  Dozens of journalists spoke up shooting questions at him. "How is Drake now?" One woman reporter managed to get out in front with her question.

  "The paramedics are checking him out as we speak, but he was laughing and joking around so I think he'll be fine." Jameson's million dollar smile followed. You could almost hear the clicking cameras sigh with adoration.

  "He looks dreamy in that navy blue jumpsuit." Shelby rested back. "I love that long hair he's sporting. Looks good, so slick and dark. I think I read that he's growing it long for some historical movie. Bet he'll look great on horseback."

  Shelby's comments floated through one ear and out the other. It was hard to look away from the man on the screen, the man who just happened to be my first true love. Only, he was still a boy back then and I was still a flighty, head in the clouds girl. But watching him now, standing over the breaking news banner touting his heroic feat, it was easy to see why I fell so hard for the guy.

  "Is it true Drake Johnson is your body double during dangerous movie stunts?" a reporter asked as he jammed the microphone toward Jameson. "Seems like you just saved the man who consistently saves you from harm," the man added.

  "Yeah, I guess I sort of owed him." Jameson's smile kicked up. It was that teasing smile I had been on the receiving end of so often I'd memorized the thin lines on the side of his mouth.

  "Jameson, did you know that Kinsey Greene called off her wedding?" a reporter in the crowd called out between other questions.

  Jameson zeroed in on the reporter with the wedding comment. "I didn't know that. I hope Kiki's all right." His expression showed just enough concern that my throat bunched up. I swallowed to relieve it.

  "I've got to go check on my friend," Jameson said as he strode away waving politely to the cameras.

  "Oh my god, did you see that?" Shelby lifted the remote, rewound a few seconds and played Jameson's reaction to the wedding comment again. She paused it on his face. "Look at that, Kiki. Look at his face."

  I stared over at her. "I'm looking. I happen to know his face very well. It's older and a little more stubble covered than the last time I saw him. And yes, he's still dreamy. O.K., is that what you want me to admit?" I lunged for the remote, deciding I'd seen enough of dreamy Jameson Slate.

  Shelby pulled it out of my reach. Apparently, her reflexes hadn't felt the effects of the tequila. "I'm not talking about his looks. I'm talking about the look." She pointed at the screen with the remote. "That look."

  I reached up to press my palm against her forehead, checking for fever. She flailed it away.

  "I think you should order that food. It'll soak up the alcohol." I pushed to my feet.

  "Go ahead, tell me I'm crazy but reporters are hurling tons of questions at him and the one thing that catches his attention, and holds it, is the comment about Kinsey Greene and her failed wedding."

  "Puhleeze," I said. "It's cuz you're drunk. Besides, Jameson is engaged to what's her name, Harlow or Barlow or whatever."

  "It's Harlow and that's beside the point." Shelby threw a decorative pillow at my retreating back. "You saw it. I know you saw the look too." Her phone buzzed as I reached the stairs again. I'd had enough emotional turmoil for one day. The last thing I needed was to think about Jameson and the look.

  Shelby gasped. "You're not going to believe this, Kiki," she called toward the stairs.

  "I'm going up to change because if I spend even one more minute in this fucking organza bowl of frosting I'm going to—"

  "Your interesting performance on the wedding altar has already had a million views. You look very pretty in your bowl of frosting, by the way."

  I grabbed the banister and started the climb. "Glad I at least looked pretty in my meltdown." The tequila was starting to swell into something unpleasant in my empty stomach.

  Shelby was standing at the bottom of the stairs now. "#BoycottMrCruel is trending on Twitter," she called up behind me

  I reached the landing and stared down at her, still gripping the oak banister as if it was my only lifeline to survival, which, with the way my head was spinning, it sort of was. "I assume you mean Mrs. Cruel. Like I said, this will be the end of my career, but I no longer give a damn. I'm going to move back to the midwest, live in my old
bedroom with its faded lavender bed canopy and NSYNC posters. I'll commute on my old Schwinn bicycle to some nice, dull office job in town."

  "For fucksake, Kiki, would you stop with the whining and listen. It's Mr. Cruel and they're boycotting Kent." She looked at her phone and swiped at the screen. "Dog hater is another trending hashtag." Shelby's brown eyes were glassy from our tequila fest and the smeared makeup. "I guess revenge is best served up from a jilted bride."

  I sighed. I knew the weight of all this was going to hit me like the proverbial ton of bricks once I sobered up, but for now, I was enjoying my state of numbness. "I'd gloat, only I've got to puke." I spun around. "Hanging over the toilet should be a whole new experience in a wedding dress."

  Four

  Jameson

  Metallica thundered off the cracked plaster walls, and everyone struggled to talk over each other and the heavy metal drumbeat. A wild party had spontaneously sprouted up in Jack's Saloon, a favorite hangout for the skydivers. Everyone decided to use Drake's near death experience as an excuse to get shitfaced.

  Harlow returned from the ladies' room. She rubbed herself against my arm as she snuggled up to me in the booth. "It seems like the day's hero is tired." She rubbed her palm over my crotch, immediately waking my cock. "We could slip out now. Drake is so bombed he wouldn't even notice."

  We both stared through the mesh of people milling about the room to my buddy. Drake had a girl on each thigh as he perched precariously on top of a barstool. He could barely keep his lids open as he stared at something on the woman's phone.

  "Think I've got to stay and make sure he gets home," I said. "It's like having a knuckleheaded little brother. The emergency room doctor said it was just a loss of altitude that made him pass out, but he still advised him to go home and rest for the next few days. He started this party idea and sent it off on Instagram before we'd even walked out the hospital doors."