The Event

by Whitney Dineen

  As exciting as a root canal. “You want me to move to Atlanta? When?”

  “We realize you’ll have a bit of work to do here, so we will give you to the end of October to wrap things up. This way you can give notice on your apartment and fly down to Georgia to set up your new living situation. We’d like you do begin in Atlanta on November first.”

  “Jameson, my parents live in New York. I’ve lived here my whole life. You expect me to just pick up and move to the South?”

  “People move for work all the time, Alexis.” He raises an eyebrow at me like I’m supposed to shrink beneath his superiority. Clearly, he’s never met the woman who raised me. Cowering to “the man” is not something within my DNA.

  “We need to discuss why I made an appointment to talk to you,” I tell him. He nods his head imperiously as though I should keep talking. So, I do. “I haven’t taken a vacation in the last two years and I currently have five weeks of paid time that I’ll lose at the first of the year.”

  “Ah, yes,” he says as though he gives a crap about my vacation. “But you’ll accrue vacation in your new position.”

  “I would expect so, but meanwhile I’d like to take the time I’ve already banked in my old position.”

  Confusion furrows his brow as if I’m not speaking plain English. He finally asks, “What would you think if I could get the company to buy out your vacation time at half-pay?”

  “I’d think that I’m already getting a fully paid vacation, so I’d most certainly have to pass on your offer to reduce that.”

  “Lexi.” Jamison never uses my nickname. “The company is in financial difficulty at the moment. I could pay you at half rate for your vacation now and then write in a more substantial package for you in your next contract. How does that sound?”

  With the company in trouble, I’d have to be an idiot to agree to move to Atlanta with decreased pay before taking the vacation I’ve already earned. I tell him, “I think I’ll stay with my current contract. I’ll tie up my workload and then I’ll take my time at the beginning of November.” If the company is still alive and kicking, then I’ll consider if I’ll accept a new position with them in Atlanta.

  Jameson is clearly displeased that I’m not going to dance to his tune, but I’m letting him know loud and clear that I’m no pushover. My mother didn’t raise a stupid child. I’m prepared to unleash the full Regina if he doesn’t go for it, but he eventually stands and puts out his hand to shake mine.

  “You’ve got yourself a deal, Alexis. I’ll write up a new offer detailing our agreement and let you know when it’s ready to be signed.”

  As I walk back to my desk, I can’t help but wonder if Silver Spoons is a house of cards in a windstorm or if they’re simply being fiscally responsible by not overextending themselves. There’s no way to know. I’ll just have to sit back and keep my eyes open. Meanwhile, I need to give some serious consideration to my housing situation. I can’t keep my current place if I move to Atlanta, and I sure can’t keep it as an unemployed New Yorker, which is what I’ll be if I don’t take the job in Georgia.

  I decide to forgo actual work and walk down the street to the new bakery that just opened. Even if a pumpkin muffin doesn’t help me think more clearly, it will surely offer a degree of comfort, which is one thing I could use in spades right now.

  I stir one packet of fake sugar into my latte before turning around to try to find a place to sit. With no seating open, I walk outside and cross the street to Central Park and find an empty bench almost immediately. My life is turning into something of a shit show. I’m losing my apartment, my job, and my hope that Tim might have some interest in me. All crushed within three days. I watch as people buzz around me. Time on my little corner of the bench has totally stopped, and the rest of the world has hit fast forward.

  I take two bites of my muffin before realizing I can’t even taste it. I eventually pick up my phone and punch in Emmie’s number. She answers on the third ring, mid-laugh, “Hey Lexi, what’s up?” And so, I tell her. Halfway through Tim’s engagement story, I uncharacteristically burst into tears. By the time I relay that my apartment is going condo I’m so stuffed up I’m not sure if she has any idea what I’m saying. I don’t even know who I am in this moment.

  Before snot runs uncontrollably down my nose, she interrupts me. “Come to Creek Water and see us. Faye and I miss you to the moon and back.”

  I tell her I’ve already decided to do just that and give her my dates, asking if they work.

  “A whole month!” she squeals in my ear. “You’re never going to want to leave after you’ve been here for that amount of time.” I want to remind her that she lives in Missouri, and Missouri is pretty much a nothing location from a New Yorker’s perspective. But I don’t want to hurt her feelings. Also, I’m starting to wonder if my life in New York is all it’s cracked up to be. Just don’t tell Regina I said that or she’s liable to give birth to a cow.

  Buy the book!

  Read Whitney's Award-Winning Relativity Series Now!

  Four Years Ago

  My best friend is a vision straight out of one of those glossy bridal magazines that costs more than a macchiato and breakfast sandwich at Starbucks. She’s well over six feet tall in her heels, slim as a fashion model—except she’s sporting a C-cup no emaciated supermodel would be caught dead with—and her silky brown hair is currently twisted in an impossibly complicated up-do that probably required four professional hair stylists and a drag queen to execute. She’s elegant beyond words.

  I gasp as she spins around, so I can behold her in all her splendor. The sleeveless, beaded-bodice trumpet gown fits her like a glove. “Jasmine Marie, you’re glorious!”

  She giggles, which is a sound you wouldn’t expect to come out of such a stunningly ethereal creature. She spins again, “I’ve never felt so girly! And that’s saying something being that I’m this tall.”

  “Whoever said a month’s paycheck was too much to spend on a wedding dress clearly never saw you in this one. I feel like a proud mother right now.”

  Jazz heaves a sigh. “Speaking of mothers, you have to do me a favor.” My eyebrows raise in interest. She continues, “Watch out for mine and make sure she doesn’t murder my dad’s new wife during dinner.”

  I snort. “Puh-leeze, your mom is every ounce a lady. She’d no more commit murder than I would.”

  “Alas, Brandee—with two e’s— the latest of my dad’s spouses, has just announced she’s pregnant. My mom isn’t taking the news gracefully.”

  “You’re kidding me? You’re going to have a new brother or sister at twenty-nine?” Then I ask, “How old is Brandee again?”

  My friend rolls her big brown eyes. “My dearest stepmother has just turned twenty-four.”

  “I don’t know, Jazz. I think your dad is the one who needs offing in this scenario. I might be persuaded to help.”

  “I would appreciate if no murders were committed at my nuptials.” Then she hugs me, and says, “But I love you for offering.”

  “Oh, Jazzy,” I exclaim, “this day is going to be so wonderful. You deserve every minute of happiness. Dylan is one lucky guy.”

  Brushing a non-existent wrinkle out of her skirt, she declares, “Now all we need to do is find you the perfect man. Three of the groomsmen are single. You’ve met two of them, and the third is the one with sandy blond hair. He’s Dylan’s cousin, Jared, from Detroit.”

  “Detroit? Hard pass.” The sarcasm rolls off my tongue. “I’m not looking for a long-distance love. But have no fear, I’ll definitely scope out the other two. I’m not opposed to meeting the future Mr. Catriona Masterton tonight.”

  She beams. “People often meet their future spouses at weddings. It’s a thing.”

  “So, it’s got to be my turn, right?”

  Jazz playfully punches my arm. “That’s the attitude I love! I just wish you were walking down the aisle with me.”

  I call out to Jennifer, our assistant, “Make sure you pack u
p all of Jazz’s stuff and take it over to her suite at the hotel. Oh, and before you go, tell Elaine to get the limos turned around out front to transport the wedding party to the reception once the ceremony ends.”

  In addition to being best friends, Jazz and I own a much sought-after event-planning business in Manhattan. We’re the go-to duo known for stylishly executing even the trickiest parties—like weddings where the groom was once married to the bride’s sister—without a hitch.

  I turn to the current bride. “I wish I were walking down the aisle with you too, but someone has to make sure this shin-dig of yours goes off perfectly. There’s a ton of potential business out there, so we have to make sure this is our best party yet. Now, hustle, the bridesmaids are already upstairs, and their procession starts in …”—I check my watch— “two minutes, which only gives you seven before it’s your turn.”

  I pick up my friend’s chapel-length train to keep it from getting dirty on the stairs. “Let’s go, lady; your happily-ever-after awaits.”

  We arrive upstairs in the entrance of St. John the Divine Cathedral just as Emily, the last bridesmaid, starts her goosestep down the aisle. Jazz and I stand side-by-side watching her go. As Emily takes her place in the front of the altar, the first strains of Trumpet Voluntary fill the atmosphere like a heavenly serenade. Chills race through my body as I kiss my friend’s cheek and hand her off to her father who will deliver her to her destiny, one Dylan Finch.

  Once the ceremony is over and the reception is in full swing at the St. Regis Hotel, I take off my party-planner hat and put on my dancing shoes. It’s go time. I have my eye on a particular groomsman, whom I’ve met on a couple other occasions. He’s sweet and shy, but super easy on the eyes. I’m not sure we’re destined for matrimony, but a couple of dances would be fun.

  I straighten the skinny navy skirt of my evening dress and prepare for the chase. I take a step forward and wind up doing an unexpected split to the ground. Ouch! The waiter rushes over to clean up the spilled drink I inadvertently stepped in, and before I can begin the process of restoring my dignity, a pair of shiny, black shoes shows up next to me.

  A manly hand stretches out and a deep voice inquires, “May I be of assistance?” He introduces himself. “Ethan Crenshaw, lifelong friend of the groom.” I recognize him from the rehearsal dinner, but I didn’t get a chance to talk to him. Not only is Dylan’s friend chivalrous, but he has gorgeous green eyes that remind me of Maeve’s, my childhood cat.

  I take his hand. “Thank you. That’s very kind.”

  “Let me help you to a chair and then I’ll get some ice for your injury. It’ll keep the swelling down,” he announces.

  Once I’m positioned at table fourteen in the main ballroom, I watch Ethan walk to the bar. He looks good in a way that suggests he’s comfortable in formal wear, like James Bond. And bam, just like that, I realize I had totally forgotten about the cute groomsman.

  When my knight in shining armor—a.k.a. a black tuxedo—returns, he helps prop my foot up on a chair and states, “There’s a nine percent chance of getting injured at a wedding reception.”

  As far as opening lines to, it’s not the best. Yet, his previous gallantry more than makes up for it. “That seems to be an awfully high number,” I reply. “I’ve been to almost two hundred weddings so far and this is my first injury. If my calculations are correct, that puts my risk at point five percent, nowhere near your estimate.”

  “Two hundred weddings? You must be quite a popular friend.”

  I inform him, “I’m a party planner. I’m Jazz’s partner.”

  “Ah, well then, surely you’ve had a blister, a burnt finger, or a stiff neck?”

  I laugh. “If you’re going to include all the mundane discomforts, I’d think you’d be more accurate to say there’s a hundred percent chance of getting injured at a wedding.”

  He shakes his head. “No, only nine percent, unless my research is wrong.” With a pointed look he adds, “Which it never is.”

  What kind of person researches injuries at weddings? So, I ask, “What exactly do you do for a living?”

  “I’m an actuary. Certainly, not as glamorous a profession as party planning, but it pays the bills.”

  I’ve heard the job title, but I have no idea what it entails. Kind of like an ornithologist. I know it’s something. I just don’t know what. At my confused look, he explains, “Insurance companies and brokerage firms hire actuaries to assess the financial risk of investments and people. I currently work at an insurance company and help set rates, based on the statistical probability of natural disasters hitting certain demographics. For instance, earthquake insurance in the Midwest costs you next to nothing compared to what it does in California, for a reason.”

  “Huh.” I can’t seem to think of any other response.

  “It sounds like a job that could bore the paint off the walls, doesn’t it?” he laughs.

  I flirt, “Lucky for me, I like numbers.”

  Ethan sits with me for the next three hours while I ice my ankle, ten minutes on and twenty minutes off, as per his suggestion for the best healing effects. As we get to know each other, I watch Jazz flirt and dance with the man who just promised to love her forever.

  Dylan is hands down the sweetest, funniest, and most devoted man I’ve ever met. He adores my friend with his whole being and treats her like delicate china, even though she’s not the kind of woman you’d want to sneak up on in a dark alley. Jazzy is one hundred percent Amazon with a touch of Xena Warrior Princess. She and Dylan are perfect for each other.

  I was once in love with a man very much like Dylan and it didn’t turn out well, which is why I’m currently in the market for someone more practical. I’m less concerned with grand gestures and flowery compliments, than in a reliable partner who will be there when the chips are down.

  Throughout the reception, not only do I discover that Ethan adheres to a strictly regimented life, but I also learn he’s a lovely man. He even offers, “Would you like me to see you safely home? No ulterior motives, I promise.”

  “It’s kind of early to leave, don’t you think?” And while he claims no other motivation, I wouldn’t be opposed to a little romance.

  He looks at his watch and explains, “I promised my neighbor, Mrs. Fein, I’d look in on her cat while she’s away. Apparently, Fifi suffers from separation anxiety and needs someone to bat her toy mouse around with her before she can go to sleep.”

  As the party is winding down, and I can see the staff has everything well in hand, there’s nothing more for me to do. I allow Ethan to escort me home. True to his word, he doesn’t try any funny business. He just gives me a sweet kiss, leaving me wanting more, and asks, “When can I see you again?”

  The Courtship

  When my doorbell rings, I quickly apply a fresh layer of lipstick and grab my purse. Tonight, we’re celebrating our first anniversary, which happens to coincide with Jazz and Dylan’s first anniversary. I’m wearing a cerulean-blue wrap-dress that compliments my blond hair and blue eyes. I bought it especially for this occasion.

  Ethan greets me with a bouquet of long-stemmed white roses. “For my beautiful lady.”

  I pull him in and give him a proper kiss of appreciation. “These are perfect, thank you.” Even though red roses are meant for lovers, Ethan’s favorite are white ones. He claims they’re pure and untarnished, like me. Swoon, right?

  Our dating experience has been perfect. There’s no rush to jump into bed and burn ourselves out having wild monkey sex six times a day. That’s not to say there’s isn’t any chemistry. There definitely is. It’s just not some uncontrollable chemical explosion guaranteed to fizzle once the initial throes of passion are spent. It would be more accurate to conclude we’re committed to an adult relationship that involves a lot of other aspects of our union, in addition to the physical. It’s exactly what I’m looking for. I’ve reached an age where I’m no longer interested in unpredictable and spontaneous men.

  E
than and I have a nice routine together. We eat out twice a week, taking turns picking the location. Sometimes it’s breakfast, sometimes dinner, but it’s always twice a week. I change up my location depending on what the buzz on the street is. I’m always on the lookout for a new adventure. Ethan seems content to stay with the same handful of locations, which is fine. There are plenty of new things for me to try, though he seems to favor a few select menu items.

  We watch television two nights a week and go to the movies on Sunday. I stay over at his apartment twice a week and he stays the same number at mine. All in all, we spend a lot of time together. We also seem to have a thing for the number two.

  I put the roses into a vase and inhale their fragrance deeply before saying, “We’d better run. Our reservation is at seven.”

  “I changed it to seven thirty. I didn’t want to run the risk of being late and losing it,” he replies.

  That’s Ethan in a nutshell. He thinks things through and always has a plan. In a world where people constantly fly by the seat of their pants, I think this is a refreshing way to live. “Perfect. Would you like a glass of wine before we leave?”

  He holds out his hand. “No. We can always get one at the bar if we’re early. I asked the Lyft driver to wait for us.”

  As we walk out the door of my Chelsea apartment, the world is my oyster. I’m celebrating a year with the same wonderful man, I have a flourishing career, and the air is finally cooling and starting to smell like a New York City fall. Contentment permeates my world.

  Ethan and I hold hands in the car on the way to the restaurant. I say, “This is quite a special night, isn’t it?” We don’t normally eat at restaurants as expensive as Astor Court, but this is a celebration.

  “It is. Since we met at the St. Regis Hotel, it’s only fitting we return to the scene of the crime a year later.”