Pleased, we sat down and proceeded to get mildly blotto with the rest of our group. Our table turned into a team of sorts because Jess and Steve requested that no one clink glasses to make them kiss, but instead that the tables sing a song with the word love in it. I’ve always found this rogue wedding practice a little too cute and entirely too much like summer camp, but because of the amount of alcohol ingested by our table, we got rather competitive about it, leaning our heads in and whispering our suggestions in case the other tables sent spies over to deduce our next number. Not that anyone would have wanted to steal our song selections. While other groups got up time and again to harmonize sweet, or at least appropriate, songs, such as “Love Will Keep Us Together” or “I Just Called to Say I Love You,” our little bunch, on the other hand, shouted drunken renditions of “Love Stinks” and “Love Is a Battlefield.”
Jess and Steve, to their credit, laughed, shook their heads and got up and toasted us. Other guests weren’t so forgiving. Jess’s mother, for example, glared as if she wanted to vaporize us. Normally, this would have made me panic and crawl under the table. I was nothing if not a parent-pleaser. While I was growing up, my mother was more like a kid than I was, going out late on dates, trying to sneak back into the house tipsy. I was always the elder, the person who didn’t want any attention drawn to her. As a result, I usually felt a kinship with other “parents,” and I was always the good kid in high school, the one that the families felt okay about sending their children out into the night with.
But right after I saw Mrs. Ladner frown with disapproval, I saw Ben. He was behind her and to the right, and he was looking straight at me. So instead of ducking my head or maybe opting out of our saucy version of “Love Kicked Me in the Ass,” I raised my chin and belted out the final lyrics, envisioning myself as some bawdy opera singer. As we took our seats, I snuck another glance at Ben. He was laughing and clapping, and he was still staring directly at me, almost as if he was a parent himself, one who had just proudly watched his funny little toddler stumble about in the school play. Therese sat to his left, and, seeing Ben applauding, she slugged down half of her wine.
I sat back in my chair and crossed my legs, feeling rather smug. I could do this. I could be near Ben and survive. Even better than survive, I could be fun and elegant. Well, something approaching elegant, anyway.
I had just started conspiring with the pudgy guy on my left about possible dirty love songs when I heard the words that all single girls fear—“Ladies and gentlemen, it’s time for the bouquet toss.”
Actually, since those words hadn’t applied to me for so long, it wasn’t until my pudgy friend said, “Well, aren’t you going to head up there?” that I processed what was happening. Now that I was truly single and a friend of the bride, I would have to stand up and effectively announce to the entire ballroom that I was a spinster. When I was with Ben, although still technically single, I’d avoided this by clinging to Ben’s arm and murmuring, “We’re practically engaged.” But now everyone at the table seemed to be waiting for me to get up, and I had no excuse.
I turned to Laney. She looked about as pleased as I felt.
“Ready?” she said.
I downed the rest of my champagne. “Ready.”
“Now, I know you haven’t done this in a while,” Laney said, as we picked our way through the tables toward the dance floor. “Here’s what you need to remember. First, the bouquet usually lands in the center of the group, so stay toward the back or the sides. Also, clasp your hands in front of you, and if it comes your way, just lob it away like a volleyball.”
“Okay, okay.” I nodded and concentrated, as if she were giving instructions on how to defuse a nuclear weapon.
“And most importantly—and I can’t stress this enough—do not look embarrassed. Stand tall like you’re the hottest woman in this room.”
I elongated my spine and put a serene smile on my face.
“Perfect,” Laney said, and we took our place on the fringes of the group.
The band leader was yammering about the tradition of the bouquet toss, as if some guests might be unfamiliar with it, and while he was going on and on, I sneaked a glance toward Ben and Therese. The bitch. She had appropriated my pose, her hands around Ben’s forearm, and she was giving me a smile that said, You poor pathetic girl.
I grabbed Laney. “Go get Therese.”
“What?” Laney pulled back and gave me a horrified look.
“She’s not married. She needs to be humiliated, too.”
“I can’t just drag her out here.”
“Please!” I put my hands together like I was praying. “Please, please!”
Laney shook her head. “It’s a good thing I love you,” she huffed before she turned on her heel and headed to Ben’s table.
I couldn’t hear what they were saying but I saw Therese’s smile freeze when Laney reached them, and then I could see her shaking her head, and finally Ben laughed and gave her a little shove. And so Laney was soon walking toward me with Therese in tow. Therese had on a skimpy blue dress that looked more like a slip, her long, tanned legs stretching out of the short hem and into shoes so high and pointy I couldn’t believe she could walk upright.
“Kelly,” she said when they’d reached me.
“Therese,” I said back, mimicking her somber tone.
I was so pleased we’d forced Therese onto the dance floor that I forgot Laney’s warnings and was standing with my hands behind my back when suddenly there was a drumroll and Jess launched the thing. In a very fast few seconds, I saw with horror that the bunch of lilies was coming right at me.
Here’s the thing: I’ve never had a desire to catch the bouquet. Even when I wanted to marry Ben and I got talked into taking part in the bouquet toss, or when I thought I might want to marry my previous boyfriend, Eric, I never wanted to actually catch the thing. To me, it seemed a monumental jinx. And so as the lilies arched above my head, I started to shift to the right. Excellent. I was getting out of the way. But then I glanced back and saw that I’d left Therese standing slightly alone and looking up at that bouquet the way a cat looks at a can of tuna.
Not on my turf, I thought, as if I was some beat cop on the streets, and that thought catapulted me into action. I lurched back to the left so that I was side by side with Therese, both of us jostling together, our arms upstretched. I knew it wasn’t adult behavior, but I didn’t have enough time to talk myself down from the ledge.
Therese was taller than me, especially in those shoes, and as she elbowed me in the shoulder, I thought that there was no way I could win. At the last second, though, I bent my knees and jumped a few inches, shoving her away with the movement, and when I came down, I had the bouquet in my hand.
The crowd broke into polite applause.
“Yeah!” Laney jumped around me and smacked me on the back as if I’d just scored the winning touchdown, as if she’d actually counseled me to try and catch the thing. “Better luck next time,” she said to Therese.
“Doesn’t matter,” Therese said, cupping her cheek and sending me a look with her flinty brown eyes. “I’m the one that’ll be in bed with him tonight.”
Sometimes I’m good at snappy comebacks. I can usually dredge up something if I’m in a situation where I couldn’t care less about whatever’s happening around me. But that wasn’t true for this situation. I was in a stare-down with my ex’s new girlfriend, and so I opened and closed my mouth like a mute fish.
Luckily, Laney came to my rescue. “Better you than us, girlfriend,” she said before she took my hand and led me away. It wasn’t that good of a retort, all things considered, but at least it was something. At least I’d had the last word by proxy.
After posing for pictures and dancing with the guy who’d caught the garter belt, I made my way to the bathroom, still holding the bouquet like it was some sort of prize. I didn’t know what had made me fight Therese for it, but I was inordinately pleased with myself just the same. It had something to d
o with retribution, I decided, as I picked my way down a deserted carpeted hallway off the ballroom. I had finally gone head-to-head with Therese, the woman who’d taken away the man I was supposed to marry.
But that was ridiculous, I realized. Therese hadn’t taken him away. He’d taken himself away and then found her.
I came to a sudden halt. Was that really true? Had Ben broken up with me before he’d met Therese, or had she been one of the reasons he’d given me the ax? If he’d known about the partnership earlier than he’d let on, if he’d kept that from me, maybe he’d been dating Therese on the side the whole time.
I felt my neck growing red and blotchy. I made myself move again and spent ten minutes in front of the mirror powdering my face and neck, applying and reapplying lipstick and gloss, and growing more and more furious with Ben. He’d probably known I’d be laid off, that I wouldn’t make partner and that he would, and yet he hadn’t said a thing. To top it off, he’d been dating that bitch behind my back.
I must have muttered something out loud, possibly something profane, because an older woman at the mirror next to me gave me a disapproving frown.
“Excuse me,” I said, back into parent-pleasing mode. “Sorry.”
I skulked toward the door, dangling the bouquet at my side, not caring anymore that I’d been able to out-jostle Therese, and just as I swung it open, I saw him. He was standing across the hallway, looking very much like he was waiting for someone.
“Where’s Therese?” I said, drawing myself up tall and looking around as if trying to say, She better not be around these parts or I’ll kick her ass.
“She’s in the kitchen.”
“The kitchen?”
“She’s getting ice.” He pointed to his cheekbone. “You elbowed her in the face.”
“Oh God. I’m sorry.” But I wasn’t. I was apparently some immature high school bully, because I laughed.
Ben snickered, too. “I’m going to pay good money to get my hands on that videotape.”
That stopped me cold. “So you can see two women duke it out for you, is that it?”
“No.” He lost his grin, and I knew I was right.
“Look,” I said, poking him in the chest just to keep up the high school bully image, “I need to know something.”
I was pleased to note that he looked a little scared.
“When did you meet Therese?”
“The second weekend in June.” It was the truth. I could tell by the way his mouth was relaxed. When he lied or exaggerated something, he pushed his lips together.
“All right. Question two: When did you know you were going to be made partner?”
“I told you. Last week.”
“No, that’s when they announced partnership, but when did you first find out you were going to get it?”
He sighed. “Someone mentioned something in the spring, but—”
“In the spring?” I said, interrupting him. “Before you broke up with me?”
“Yeah, but it wasn’t for sure, and I didn’t want to count on it, so I didn’t say anything.”
“How convenient. Did you know that I wasn’t going to make partner?”
“No.”
I narrowed my eyes at him.
“I swear,” he said.
“Did you know I’d be laid off?”
“No,” he said, his voice emphatic.
I scrutinized his mouth. Still relaxed. I believed him, and for a second I felt a little better. Then a thought dawned on me.
“But you did break up with me on my birthday, on the same day that I got laid off!”
Ben stared down at his loafers, the ones I’d bought at Field’s along with his olive suit. He said nothing.
“How could you do that to me?” My voice got high, and I had to warn myself not to cry.
Ben looked up at me with a pained expression, and I could have sworn that he was on the verge of tears, too. “What was I supposed to do, Kell? I’d finally made a decision that I couldn’t give you what you want, and then you get laid off.”
“Couldn’t you have waited a few days? A few months?”
“No, I couldn’t. You made it damn clear that you wanted a ring by your birthday or it was over. Those were your terms.”
I huffed a loud, exasperated breath, but he was right. I’d given him that ultimatum, the one that seemed so stupid now. Why threaten someone you love about something so big?
“I’m sorry it worked out like this, Kell, but you’ve got to believe me. I didn’t know you were going to be laid off. I really didn’t even think I would make partner, certainly not ahead of you. You’re one of their best.”
“Were one of their best.”
“Do you want some help finding a new analyst position? I could make some calls.” His eyes brightened. “Actually, I think Tammon Investments is looking for a retail analyst.”
A couple of women came down the hallway toward the bathroom, and Ben and I both stepped against the wall. He was close enough for me to smell the minty shaving cream scent of his face, the scent that used to make me want to kiss that dark brown spot on his cheekbone.
“I’ve actually got a job.” I took a step back, away from how good he smelled.
“What? That’s great! Where?”
“I’m a photographer’s assistant.”
“Kell, that’s amazing! It’s what you always wanted to do.” Ben was beaming. There was no mocking look on his face, none of the hidden disparagement I thought I might find from him or the others at Bartley.
I nodded, failing to mention that my job with Cole involved intimate knowledge of porcine snouts. But Ben was right. It was amazing. It had been only one week since I tried to put my key in my old town house door, since that day I realized I couldn’t remember, and already I had a new job—not to mention a new wardrobe.
“Wow,” Ben said. “I’m really happy for you.”
“Yeah. Thanks.”
Suddenly our conversation ground to a halt. A man pushed past us into the rest room. Down the hallway, I could hear the band break into a banging version of “La Vida Loca.”
“So…” Ben said.
“So I should go.”
He nodded. “I’m just going to use the bathroom, and then I should find Therese.”
“Right. See you.”
“Yeah. See you.”
I turned and walked down the carpeted hallway, the sounds of the music growing louder and more up-tempo while I felt slow and sad in comparison. At least I’d gotten some answers from Ben. I should feel better that I’d cleared the air.
It was only as I reached the ballroom that I realized that I hadn’t asked Ben the most important question of all—why didn’t he want to marry me?
14
On Sunday, Laney and I took a rumbling El train to her family’s house for the weekly Pendleton lunch. I’d drunk too much wine at the wedding, particularly after my WWF match with Therese and my chat with Ben, so I was looking forward to a good, old-fashioned hangover food-fest with Laney’s mom, her four older sisters and her younger brother, Timmy.
“I need Advil,” Laney said. She was slumped in one of the curved plastic train seats, occasionally rubbing her eyes. She was wearing old Levi’s and a navy parka over a huge turtleneck sweater. You never had to dress up for the Pendletons. It was one of the things I adored about her family.
I dug through my shoulder bag. Because of the nagging headaches I’d been getting lately, I knew I had some ibuprofen in there somewhere. These pulsing aches in my temples made me nervous, made me wonder if they were somehow connected to that depression I’d had over the summer, if another bout of it waited for me around the corner. I tried to tell myself that the headaches were simply a product of tense muscles brought on by having to wrestle with William, or maybe the stress of having to put up with Cole’s attitude, but both seemed like rather lame excuses.
I pushed my fingers through my purse, past my photo magazine, wallet, sunglasses, a tampon, packets of sweetener and other
assorted items until I located two stray orange tablets and put them in Laney’s hand.
“You’re a goddess,” she said.
We smiled at each other, and I started thinking about the first time I had visited the Pendleton household, during my sophomore year in high school. It was amazing how sharp my memory was about that day, when I couldn’t even remember the past summer. We’d taken the train after school, something I’d been afraid to do by myself, and then walked the five blocks to their modest bungalow home, which looked the same as everyone else’s on their block. As we got closer, though, I realized that although the squat frame house and its low-hanging shingled roof might mimic that of their neighbors, there was something different about the Pendleton’s place. A feeling, a vibe. We got closer, and I realized that it was more of a host of sounds. I stopped on the cement sidewalk in front of the house, trying to make sense of the sounds—a woman shouting, the bouncing beat of a pop song, some tinkling piano keys, a rush of laughter, the squeal of a little kid.
“What is it?” Laney said, stopping to look at me, her face genuinely puzzled.
“Nothing.” I shifted my backpack to the other shoulder and followed her up the crumbling asphalt driveway toward the garage. I had met Laney only a few weeks before, my first real friend in Chicago, and I didn’t want to insult her by pointing out the cacophony.
The noises grew louder as we picked our way through the discarded bikes, old newspapers and a cornucopia of toys in the garage, and entered through a door that led right into the kitchen. It was a bright room with wide sea-green tiles and cheap, dark-wood cabinets. It would have been a rather ugly place if it weren’t filled with food—muffins still in their tins on the counter, bags of chips on the octagonal table, something wonderfully garlicky simmering on the stove—and people, mostly women, all laughing and moving about the kitchen.
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