by C. L. Donley
“How do you know?” Kim smiles.
“That’s my old roommate,” Bel says.
“The CEO of Webster is your old roommate?”
Bel rolls his eyes.
“Webster,” he scoffs. “You mean Facebook?”
“Facebook?!?” I say.
“That used to be its name,” Grayson divulges. He’s so fucking beautiful.
“That’s hilarious,” I reply.
“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” Dale is grovelling as he fast walks to the group.
“Come meet Kim,” I tell him.
Dale smiles. “Kim the lawyer,” he begins. He shakes her hand.
“That would be me,” she says.
“You know, I was really looking forward to some legal proceedings last year,” he jokes.
“So was I, but. Amara told me to cease and desist,” Kim answers.
“Which you ignored,” I fill in.
“Only at first!” Kim objects.
“Well it’s a pleasure to finally meet you,” Dale says, a trace of flirt in his voice.
Ugh. I want to punch Dale in the face. I’m trying to get him laid, potentially married, happily, and of course he is Mexican hat dancing all over that plan.
“Likewise,” she smiles.
All eyes were on Kim.
I look over at Mya, who at some point has completely stopped paying attention it looks like, and has a familiar look of defeat. I’m feeling a little ill, as I know Mya’s defeatist thoughts, and this time I don’t have a feasible explanation.
Kim’s intro to the guys is prolonged and attentive, and since they learned on Mya what not to do, it looks like Kim and Bel have hit it the fuck off. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
I simply can’t have a wedding if Mya is miserable. I can’t. I inadvertently got the shyest human on the planet thoroughly humiliated last night, and just when we made it over that hurdle, Kim’s hot chick magnetism is inadvertently robbing Mya of some much needed oxygen. As usual.
Why did I think this would be any different? Why did I think Bel and Dale would somehow be a new breed of dude? Did I mention that I want to punch Dale in the face?
“Damn, can we go now?” Mya snarks from her chair.
Silence. I don’t even want to move.
Fuck my life.
“Good morning, Mya!” Dale begins cheerfully in an effort to salvage the moment. When Mya doesn’t answer him he says, “Cool!” and everyone laughs, the chorus led by Kim, who doesn’t even know what the hell’s going on.
Great. Now Mya’s the bitch. This rehearsal is going to be awesome!
“Do you see what I mean?” Bel says, still charming Kim.
Grayson and Bryan burst out laughing, which makes me laugh a bit. It’s bittersweet, because I notice Mya, who’s still looking hopelessly on the outside. Meanwhile Dale is looking cluelessly at everyone.
“I’m completely lost,” he says.
Suddenly, Mya gets up out of her chair as the group begins to file out and looks straight at Dale as she saunters past him.
She looks him deadass in his eye, and I am shook. So is Dale, by the looks of it.
“We all know about your small dick,” she discreetly says, with an innocent blinking stare.
Bitch! Werk!
Grayson, Bel and Bryan die laughing as they’re walking in front of us. Mya catches my eye and gives me a smirk, knowing she’s landed a good one.
My hopes for the weekend are violently resurrected.
“Aw Bel, what the fuck!” exclaims Dale.
Twenty Four
Chapter 24
Mya
The day can’t go any better for Grayson and Amara. And now we are eating dinner at a castle— a long outdoor table overlooking the water, the Spanish sun still high in the sky. The gathering of 25 is small enough for everyone to interact, reminisce and toast the happy couple. Everyone is laughing and mingling and generally in good spirits. Amara’s gregarious dad steals the show, which makes the bride a little nervous at first. But then he ends his speech with a rather inspired sermon of sorts, about God and love and what matters in life. That, in conjunction with our surroundings, has everyone pretty emotional.
I committed to my shades the entire morning like I was hungover, even though Kim was doing her damndest to show out on the private jet being boisterous and amusing. Once we made it to San Sebastian I did feel a little better, glad to see more familiar faces I hadn’t seen in years. Grayson and Amara’s immediate family had already arrived, as well as all three of Dale’s sisters and Amara’s friend and co-worker Maggie.
Amara’s mom is so impressed to hear that my plan out to move to California had actually worked out for me and that I had “made it,” as it were. Though it was hard to feel accomplished at your billionaire friend’s exotic destination wedding.
I try to show some semblance of maturity and shed my sunglasses once rehearsals begin. At the hotel, in an effort to be the bitch I’m apparently destined to be, I inadvertently emblazoned Dale’s face and hazelnut eyes in my brain. And for some reason, I can’t get over the beautiful brown leather of his belt right now. I’ve never seen a belt exquisite enough to make me stare at it and wonder how much it cost. It’s also the first time I notice the chisel of his cheekbones and his slim build, like a dancer’s or a swimmer’s. Not as tall as Grayson, but still he towers over my 5’6” frame.
I try to seem unaffected as I clasp my arm in his during rehearsal. It’s not like I’ve never felt the warmth of a man’s body before. I’ve had numerous dance partners who’ve held me in many more provocative places. But never before have I felt so much from so little. I’m conscious of his every movement as we walk. Every muscle, every bone that makes it possible to propel us up the aisle, I just can’t take my mind off the notion of his body.
The way that he’s simply taken my standoffish behavior in stride since the weekend began makes me realize that on some level, somewhere, I’m wrong about him in a way that I was once fully confident.
I feel like a complete child, like I overreacted and now have psyched myself out of a kickass weekend. I mean, I’m trying to get laid here. I could never divulge that to him now. At best, I’ve firmly planted myself in witty insults territory with him, probably forever. Sure, Grayson had been a jackass, but who was my reaction hurting now, other than myself?
I notice that Dale has been particularly chatty with Maggie at the rehearsal dinner where they were seated together. Not that I can blame him. Maggie has short blond hair, a shock of blue eyes and a smattering of freckles along her nose and cheeks that make her seem a bit like tinkerbell, except quirkier. They are, in a word, cute. She manages to keep his attention for most of the dinner. Not that I was expecting a miracle, but Operation Proper Virginity Sendoff (OPVS), Day One of Three, is shaping up to be a goose egg.
I can’t help but feel a little cheated, even though I’ve already made up in my mind that Dale is still generally a corny, two-faced poser. But even after that clusterfuck of an evening last night, even though I’m sure Bel was just flattering me, the idea that Dale spent the flight over talking about how beautiful I was has inadvertently crept into my thoughts.
Beautiful? The word is suddenly alive with meaning.
After Grayson and Amara make the rounds catching up with family and friends, dinner is over and the old folks go to bed. Kim’s taking a disco nap on one of the couches in front of the castle’s gargantuan hearth downstairs. Maggie and I sit on the adjacent couch perusing our wedding party gifts in awe. Each package is slightly different, but contains a set of diamond earrings, a silk robe, an unlimited spa gift certificate, and more things we keep finding as we dig. At the very bottom are personalized artifacts from our friendship and hand-written notes. It makes a beautiful, emotional day that much more to receive Amara’s thoughtful and luxurious gifts.
While Kim sleeps, I help myself to a tour of the castle grounds.
14 bedrooms, 15 bathrooms, countless other rooms for sitting, dining, dancing and living. B
eautifully preserved and restored, and overlooking the breathtaking coast. It’s like a dream. A dream I’m determined to get laid in.
Every bedroom is located upstairs. Downstairs are the living and entertaining rooms, a library, an elegant but rather dreary looking dining room.
I find myself at the end of a hallway in a beautiful gigantic room that clearly used to be a ballroom. The floor is a large blonde wood parquet pattern and the ceilings had ornate carvings and painted illustrations on them.
I’m dwarfed by the windows alone. The sun is still high enough to light the middle of the room and shine through the thin metal grids.
Without hesitation I take off my sweater and drape it across one of the room’s stark tables and chairs along the border. I walk to the middle of the room until I’m standing underneath the oversized baroque style chandelier.
In the room I feel the energy of other dancers that came before, as my hands go to first position.
I face the windows along each side of the vast ballroom, look up at my imaginary partner.
Instinctively, I start to move, and a loving, gentle serenity envelops me.
At first it’s only arabesques, but I find the floor is such that I can manage a few pique turns in my casual flat shoes. I shed them all together, kicking them off to one side.
I did a few relevés out of paranoia, testing the strength of my ankles for fear that my life’s practice would crumble after just a few consecutive days away from the routine.
Then to fourth position.
I memorize a spot on the wall and do a casual pirouette, then another.
Some of the moves from the Waltz of the Snowflakes come back to me but I know I need my shoes to execute them fully.
I was the first black Snowflake! Who would’ve imagined? Me. I did.
I snicker at the thought as I launch my body across the room, the wind in my ears.
I can’t resist dizzying myself with a handful of chaine turns across the palatial expanse, like I used to when I was a girl.
And like I did as a girl, I bring both my hands into view in front of my eyes when I am finished. When I do, my dizziness dissipates at once.
In my peripheral I sense the presence someone in the doorway. I jump when I see him.
It’s Dale Abernathy, and he’s grinning from ear to ear.
“Please don’t stop on my account,” his voice echoes.
It’s the first thing he’s said to me since rehearsal. Yikes. He obviously doesn’t know you don’t say sentences like that to virgins. Or does he?
At any rate, I’m winded, more than I should be. My pulse is raging as if he’s caught me naked. In a way, he has.
“How long have you been standing there,” I ask breathlessly.
“I seem to have caught the tail end, unfortunately,” he says. I know he has a history with ballet, mildly put, but he didn’t really give me the impression that he was an enthusiast in any way. I kind of figured he was over it, the way his mother seems to have shoved it down all their throats.
Wordlessly, I retrieve my sweater and head to the doorway. Dale blocks my exit and my pulse instantly doubles. What the fuck.
“Excuse me,” I say politely.
“You do have to talk to me eventually,” he insists.
“I disagree,” I gently counter.
“We’re going to be spending an awful lot of time together tomorrow,” he warns me. His words send my spine tingling. “Sure you don’t wanna get this out in the open?”
“No, I think ‘getting this out in the open’ would only make things more difficult between us.”
“So there’s an ‘us’ now,” he smiles. There’s nothing flirty or suggestive in his tone.
He’s one of those life of the party types I realize, one of those frat guys that’s just not going to be okay unless he knows that everyone is having a good time and also likes him. Knowing all that, I still fail to stifle a grin as I gruffly push pass him in the doorway, and my heart is now beating so fast that I might actually die.
He’s good. But I’m better. I can be one hell of a buzzkill.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” I banter.
“You’re a brilliant dancer, by the way,” he sends at my back.
More butterflies. Flattery is his weapon of choice, apparently. Relax, Abernathy, you’re absolved, I think to myself.
“Well, coming from a ballet expert such as yourself, that… means a lot,” I deadpan. Obviously I mean it sarcastically but Dale is undeterred.
“So you heard about my illustrious ballet career,” Dale replies, sounding flattered.
I shake my head as if he were hopeless.
“I did my research,” I continue the gag in a reluctant voice. Dale chuckles, which again forces me to smile. I feel myself loosening as we make our way back to the courtyard. On some level I’m grateful, and I start to understand why the world needs woo personality types.
Dale
Mya and I make our way back onto the patio where the initial dinner was. The table has been removed and there are a handful of modern white couches. The “patio” is merely elegantly re-worked castle ruins, partially under the overhang of the first floor roof and the other part exposed to the elements. There’s music coming from a modest bench in the corner, set up with a laptop and small speakers. There’s only about 15 or so people downstairs, hardly enough to account for the elaborate setup, but whatever Amara wants, Amara gets.
Kim is now awake and drawing quite a bit of the attention by ignoring all the men around her while she dances to hip hop classics. She’d apparently done a wardrobe change on the jet because now she was dressed casually and stylishly in form fitting jeans and high heel sandals, a shiny green retro jacket and black-rimmed glasses that probably aren’t prescription. Her lips are the same bright red and she now dons black cat eye liner. Her giant hoop earrings and wavy hair now in a messy top knot complete her look, and I don’t even need to look over at Bel to know that he’s in a full blown trance. She even has wardrobe changes for all her multiple personalities.
Grayson’s sitting around a small table with Bryan and Bel, while Amara’s sitting with my sisters on a couch at the opposite end of the room. There seems to be an unwritten rule between them that involves not allowing themselves to be left alone. Inadvertently I catch them eyeing each other just then, likely counting the hours they had left, which were now less than 24.
When we emerge outside into the courtyard, we’re greeted with an elaborate “there they are” shout of a greeting.
“Where was she?” Amara inquires, as if I had been the one hiding her in a game.
“She was dancing in the grand ballroom,” I give away.
Amara drops her jaw and Kim gives a little disappointed “aw” noise, as if they know what a treat it is.
“You could’ve told someone. Geez, I would’ve loved everyone to see that,” Amara whines.
“It was amazing,” I compliment her. I mean it, but I’m also seeing if I can manage to get another smile out of her. It seems my luck has run out.
“Sorry, but, you wanna see this you gotta buy a ticket,” she jokes.
“I got to see it for free,” I loudly brag.
Mya draw her lips between her teeth and gives me a solid punch to the arm. It hurts a little bit, I’m not gonna lie. But I’m intrigued.
I had no idea we were at the punching phase.
She seemed to only reluctantly acknowledge my existence before now. We rehearsed walking down the aisle arm and arm, but she wouldn’t look in my direction, and basically gave me the silent treatment.
None of this phases me in the least, because I have three older sisters. If I’m not getting the silent treatment then I’m probably dead.
Physical violence usually means that the iron hand that holds the grudge is loosening its grip. If the “small dick” comment is any indication, she’s probably still mad at me, but she’s also ready to move on.
I go over to the dude’s table and Bel hands me a ciga
r when I sit down.
“These things kill my throat, you know that.”
“It’s a special occasion,” Bel insists.
“Dude, you do realize he is already technically married.”
“Dale, you’re a fuckin’ captain of industry so act like it. Smoke the damn cigar,” Grayson replies.
Mya
As I look up at the stars that are finally starting to come out against the blackening sky, I realize that I’m actually enjoying myself and this beautiful place, perhaps for the first time since we landed. I breathe a sigh of relief. Good things always happen after I dance. All is not lost. Amara orders drinks and I remind her to get something non-alcoholic that won’t bloat her tomorrow. I myself never drink.
As I sip on what is the most amazing glass of water that I’ve ever had— apparently distilled ice from a glacier on the Swiss Alps— I let my gaze rest across the room to the billionaires. And Bryan.
They’re all smoking cigars, which is the first billionaire-esque thing I’ve seen them do. It’s pretty fuckin’ sexy. Dale seems to only be pretending to smoke his, which I find amusing. Grayson is sitting in the middle of Dale and Bel, like some sort of king, gorgeous and aloof, a faint smile of approval on his face.
Bel’s on the end, his sharp jawline jutted out at an angle as he leans in to hear Dale, who has the king’s ear and is leading the conversation.
Whatever he’s talking about is casual and triumphant, because he’s smiling a smile of cool confidence and sitting reclined with an open posture. They’re one short of a rat pack is all can think while Dale raises a glass to his lips. The front of his amazing hair has become untamed and it’s flopping forward a bit, a piece of hair dangling between his brown eyes.
While Dale continues his conversation, his eyes suddenly dart in my direction.
Then, hone in on my eyes.
My stomach warms and tingles. My heart jumps. I’m so blatantly busted that I don’t even bother to try and look away in time.
