Missing Pieces

by Meredith Tate

  Sam appears in the hallway as I’m squirting on perfume.

  “You look nice,” he says through a yawn, eyes still blinking away sleep.

  “Thanks.”

  “You straightened your hair today?”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  He slouches against the wall. “How come the Lab gets to see you all done up and I don’t? Wish you tried this hard to look nice for me.”

  I ignore him, pinning back a clump of strands with a pearly seashell clip.

  Sam lumbers into the bathroom, grumbling about the early hour. I’m attempting to dab on mascara without impaling my eye, when…THUD.

  I dash to the bathroom. My Partner lies in a heap on the floor.

  “Fucking bath mat!” He punches the cabinet.

  Choking down laughter, I force my best look of concern. “You…okay?”

  “Go away.” Hand on his ass, he stumbles to a snarling stance.

  “Are you—”

  “I said get the hell out!” He slams the bathroom door in my face.

  What kind of idiot trips over his own effing feet?

  Sam’s clumsiness inspires a new story, bursting from my seams.

  I need to tell Piren. This one’s going in the anthology.

  The entire car ride to work, I bounce in my seat, embellishing my tale to the perfect degree of hilarity. Practically falling into the doors of the Lab, my stomach aches with laughter as I maintain my composure.

  “Hey, Trace.” Piren plops his briefcase down on our table.

  I take one look at him and explode, collapsing red-faced onto the table. By the time I get my story out, we’re laughing so hard we’re crying.

  Piren Allston

  Lara clanks her plate into the sink. “If this day was any longer, I’d shoot myself.”

  Here we go, our nightly complaint session.

  “Oh, come on.” I grab her dirty dishes and start scrubbing. “It’s not that bad.”

  She collapses onto the chair with a huff. “That place is hellish. And all my clothes smell like rubber.”

  I dry my sudsy hands on a towel. “Stay positive.”

  “Stop telling me that.” She draws her words out into long whines. “I hate my job, I hate the people there, and I hate rubber stamps.”

  “What about Taylor? Isn’t that the coworker you like?”

  Lara scoffs. “She’s rude.”

  “Well, there must be something good about it.”

  “How would you know? You got the best job.” She releases a deep moan. “It’s not fair.”

  She hates this, she hates that…Forget Stephanie; my Partner is the damn Ice Queen.

  I kneel beside her chair and stroke her hand. “I love you.”

  “Love you too.” Her lips curl downward into a grimace. “But you know, you could be a little more supportive. You work ridiculously late hours, when I need you here.”

  I work late to avoid this BS!

  I grit my teeth. “Sorry. I’ll try to leave earlier.”

  “Promise?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Good.”

  I force a smile. “It’ll get better.”

  She scowls. “Please.”

  I wonder if Trace knows half the annoying characters in my stories are Lara.

  Then again, I bet some of hers are Sam.

  Tracy Bailey

  “Explain this.” I drop a thick blue envelope onto our sorting table—addressed in gold lettering to “Ms. Tracy Bailey and Partner.”

  Please join us in celebrating

  the marriage of

  Mason Allston and Stephanie Butler

  “What, you hate my brother now?”

  “No, of course not. He’s awesome.” I shove Piren’s arm. “But I gotta be honest; I didn’t think I’d get invited.”

  “Why not?” He shoves me back. “Did you not grow up four houses down the street?”

  Yeah, but your parents hate me.

  “Plus,” he continues, “I’m Best Man, and you’re my best friend. So, clearly, you have to be there.”

  I grin. “Well, in that case, I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

  “I’m not going,” Sam says, mashing his thumbs on his video game controller.

  “What do you mean?” I narrow my eyes. “Why not?”

  “Saturday’s online multi-player day.” His keeps a monotone as he blows the head off a robot.

  “Are you kidding me right now? What are you, five?”

  “Die, bitch! That’s fuckin’ right!” Another robot explodes.

  I rip the controller from his hands.

  “Screw you!” he snaps. “Give it back.”

  “God forbid you miss a few hours playing a stupid game with a bunch of online idiots you’ve never even frigging met.”

  He pounces, tearing his toy from my grasp. “Shut up.” He collapses back on the couch, resuming the robot massacre.

  I groan. “Come on, going to a wedding alone is pathetic. I don’t want to be that one person without a date.”

  “Then don’t go…Die, mother fucker! Grenade to the throat!”

  “Ugh!” I throw my hands up and storm from the room.

  The day of the event, I try again. I fling open my Partner’s bedroom door. It’s one in the afternoon, and he’s wrapped like a burrito in his bed sheets.

  “You coming to the wedding?”

  He grunts and rolls over.

  “Hey!” I pound my hand on the wall. “Sam!”

  He pulls the covers over his head.

  “Fine. I’ll go alone. See you later.”

  Everyone can gawk in awe of Tracy Bailey, the grown woman Partnered to a twelve-year-old. Maybe I hate formal events, but I love Piren’s family. I’ll happily be another notch in their guest-count belt.

  Weddings are gaudy events, flaunting over-the-top explosions of wealth and tactless décor. Usually, my parents drag me to garish venues that make me gag. However, Mason’s Ceremony venue is, dare I say, lovely.

  I push through majestic wooden doors and find myself in a jungle oasis. It’s an indoor tropical garden, magically transformed into a grand wedding foyer. Dozens of leafy, flowering plants line the ceiling. Dangling vines drip from the wooden rafters. A waterfall fountain flows behind the Ceremony alter, creating the auditory illusion of a rainforest. Warm dew fills the air, moistening my skin. If I close my eyes, I can almost hear tropical birds screeching. Plenty of potential for Fangs to have adventures in here.

  I sit in a pew with my parents, just in time to hear Mom talking off some poor woman’s ear about how the wooden rafters make the place look like a “square-dance pit.” The orchestra strums to life, thankfully saving me from this conversation.

  Stephanie floats down the aisle in a flowing, ivory ball gown. White feathers woven into her espresso-brown hair, she resembles a glamorous bird, suiting the rain-forest theme. Everyone rises as the stunning bride proceeds, glowing with radiance. Mason Allston waits at the end, mouth slightly parted, dark hair combed to one side. Stephanie reaches her groom at the altar, and they join hands.

  The Ceremony commences, and my gaze drifts to my best friend. Perched beside Mason, Piren stands up front like a good Best Man. His black tux elongates his already tall physique. I remember when we were the same height, long ago. Now he towers over me. He’s no longer a lanky teenager; his broad shoulders frame a perfect triangle over his slim waist. Although his long-sleeved buttoned shirt won’t let on, his arms are nicely sculpted; I’ve noticed when we sort papers. I can’t remember the last time his hair was this tidy. Part of me wants to run my fingers through it and make it messy again. The cute little jittery boy who used to race me to the treehouse is now a dashing, grown man—who’d still probably race me to the treehouse.

  Mason turns to his Best Man, a slight tremor in his hand. Piren nods and flashes a reassuring smile, passing the ring box to his brother.

  Parading happiness on cue, I wonder how Piren’s feeling today. He’s always found Stephanie kind of a pain, an
d now she’s family! I’ve never personally met Mason’s Partner, but from what Piren’s told me, I’m better off. When Piren and Lara get married, Stephanie and Lara can battle for the title of Allston Ice Queen.

  My chest tightens.

  The short Ceremony wraps with the exchanging of vows, and the ritual “I love you’s” with the bride’s new last name.

  “I love you, Mason Allston.”

  “I love you, Stephanie Allston.”

  The perfect Partnership seals their union with a kiss. Four hundred guests politely clap their approval. Here come Mason and Stephanie Allston, joined together forever, just like those mystical puzzle pieces Mrs. Prew yapped about.

  I wonder what would happen if I married Sam, but kept my name Tracy Bailey. Maybe I could hyphenate, call myself Tracy Bailey-Macey. It would throw off the whole effing ceremony. I bet nobody would even clap. I can picture our astonished wedding guests, mouths gaping wide like a bunch of stunned trout. Maybe I’d shock some old codgers to death.

  My parents and I follow the sea of guests into the next room for the reception.

  The Allston and Butler families spared no expense. Like the Ceremony hall, the Reception hall is gorgeous. High wooden ceilings drape over us, adorned with tiny pink and purple lanterns. The tiny lanterns weave around large, black lanterns speckled with white flowers, complementing the jungle Ceremony hall. Dozens of round tables covered in pink satin line the room, surrounding a diamond-shaped dance floor in the center. Glitter-coated white rose petals dapple the tabletops, decorating sets of sparkling white china. Rotating spotlights shine from the floor, illuminating the ballroom in a pink glow.

  I find my place card at a table with my parents and people from our old neighborhood. Veronica declined the invite, which is fine by me; I don’t need her near an open bar.

  The deejay strikes up a romantic melody, and the happy couple glides onto the dance floor. Stephanie twirls like a ballerina, rotating under the arm of her dapper husband.

  One by one, wedding guests join the happy couple. Piren and Lara laugh as they spin each other around the ballroom. In their endless quest to humiliate me, my parents also attempt to dance, breaking into a severely outdated routine that leaves me shielding my face. I violently swirl my straw through my soda, clinking ice around the glass. Since Sam isn’t here, I’m stuck at the frigging table like an idiot. I could bust a few moves by myself, but I doubt anyone would appreciate that. Piren might.

  My elderly former neighbor, Mrs. Riley, is my only companion at our abandoned table. Mrs. Riley’s husband passed a few years ago from a heart attack, stranding her dateless today too. She’s got her gray hair pulled up in a beehive bun; it quivers slightly when she moves, as if actually housing a nest of bees.

  She smiles at me through cherry lipstick. “What a beautiful wedding.”

  I nod, mesmerized by the dancers.

  “I remember my wedding like it was yesterday,” she continues. “Music was different then. But the colors and dresses were the same.”

  “Oh, yeah? I bet it was something, Mrs. Riley.”

  She clasps her hands together. “What about you, dear? When are you marrying Sam?”

  “Oh, I’m only twenty-one.” I squirm in my chair. “Three more years.”

  “Better start planning soon, though.” She winks, sipping a flute of champagne.

  Yes, wedding planning is at the forefront of my one-track mind. Not.

  She reaches across the table and squeezes my arm. “Three years’ll fly by, and before you know it, we’ll be in a room like this one, celebrating your special day.”

  “Yep.” The word feels like a rock dropping into my stomach.

  My life is a ticking time-bomb.

  Mason dips Stephanie on the dance floor. They float together like a pair of graceful swans. I blur my eyes; the glowing bride morphs into an image of me, draped in white, empty-eyed and spinning on a rotating platform, as if prisoner inside a music box. Mason becomes Sam, suited and stoic, hands on his bride. Puppets on strings, my Partner and I twirl around the dance floor like marionettes, stepping a carefully plotted and perfectly choreographed routine.

  I’ve been committed to Sam fifteen years and lived with him for three, but he might as well be a stranger. Yet there we’ll be, three years from now, stars in our own wedding.

  “Aren’t they lovely?” Mrs. Riley says, watching the couples.

  I snap from my daze.

  “Oh, the bride and groom? Yeah, they look great together.”

  She squints at the dance floor. “Well, them, of course, but also the younger brother, the smaller Allston boy, Piren.” She tilts her head to the side. “What’s his Partner’s name? She’s lovely.”

  I swallow hard.

  “Lara Goodren.”

  “Yes, Lara…Well, they’re just perfect together.”

  “Yeah—” my voice cracks “—they are.”

  My words rip through me as I speak.

  What the hell is wrong with me?

  As the night progresses, people gradually filter out. Clutching her belly after devouring the steak dinner, Mrs. Riley squeezes my shoulder as she exits the party. In his usual form, Dad is perched at the open bar, butt cemented to a stool. Whatever the Allston-Butler booze tab totals, they can probably thank my father for half.

  Mom trolls around the guests, instigating petty small talk with the other socialites. Even from across the room, I spy her exaggerated gasps and phony hand gestures; the usual signs she’s fishing for gossip.

  Well-dressed Partnerships drift past my lonely table. My legs grow stiff from sitting still.

  “Hey, look at the groom,” someone shouts. The crowd claps with delight, circling the dance floor.

  Standing on my tiptoes, I peer over a dozen heads to watch the spectacle. Mason gyrates in some sort of drunken break-dancing routine in the center of the room, surrounded by amused guests. The deejay flares up a flashing strobe, spotlighting the groom’s bizarre moves. I cup my hands to my mouth and cheer, pushing forward for a better view.

  Stephanie sulks by the deejay’s booth, staring daggers at her husband, radiant smile replaced with a sullen scowl. White feathers drooping in her hair, she presses her hands over her ears.

  “Mason!” Stephanie’s mouth clearly shouts her Partner’s name, but her voice falls silent to the blaring speaker beside her. “Hey!”

  I roll my eyes. Fuck the Ice Queen, Mason. Enjoy your day!

  Shoving to the front of the masses, I join the clapping hordes. Everyone in the rotunda laughs and cheers at the groom’s silly dance.

  After about five minutes, Stephanie tugs her husband off the stage by his sleeve. Guests dissipate back to their tables. My eyes drift to the corner of the ballroom. Piren and Lara stand off to the side, facing each other. Piren’s leg shakes violently beneath him.

  He only does that when he’s nervous. What the hell did she do to him?

  Hands on her hips, Lara glares at him, pigtails dangling around her stone-cold face.

  She looks like a nine-year-old.

  Hours ago, Mrs. Riley called this brat “lovely.” Old bat. What does she know? Hissing like an effing cat, Lara’s the antithesis of lovely right now. Veronica looks more mature when she’s half-plastered. I sidle over to the cheese and crackers table for a closer view.

  Lara thrashes her hands out, pointing around the room as they bicker. Piren retorts, but as he speaks, his Partner gestures her arms back in his face. Whatever he’s saying, it’s not placating her.

  Damn it, I wish I could hear what they’re saying…

  I meander down the snack table, ears perked, inching closer to the couple. Reaching for a slab of cheddar, I knock a fork to the floor with a clang.

  Clumsy idiot!

  Lara and Piren glance at me, and I quickly scrub my hand down the back of my neck, keeping my eyes dead-set on the floral centerpiece. A rap song blasts through the speakers, and guests flock back to the dance floor.

  Lara stomps off, sla
mming into Mason’s brooding new bride.

  My, what a crowd of ladies we have tonight.

  Head down, Piren kicks an empty soda bottle along the wall. My shoulders droop.

  Why does she have to bring him down like that?

  I bite my lip and linger for a moment, but end up walking back to my table. I haven’t talked to Piren yet today, and I don’t want the first thing I say to him to be, “So, how was your fight with Lara?”

  I take my seat with a replenished plate of hors d’oeuvres. Sure enough, Piren plops down beside me.

  “Hey, you.”

  “Hey, stranger.” I spread some cheese on a cracker. “Tell your folks this party rocks. Great food.”

  “Dude, didn’t you just eat an enormous filet? I’m stuffed. How are you still eating?”

  “Shut up. I’m just grazing,” I mumble through my mouthful. “And I’ve yet to see cake, so I gotta take what I can get.”

  “Steph said no cake. She’s on some weird diet.”

  “Lame.”

  “Totally lame.” He leans his elbow on the table. “You try the quiche?”

  “Stuffed my face with it earlier.” I slide another cracker into my mouth. “Big old fangs sunk right in.”

  “I see you’ve also managed to find the cheese platter.”

  “Indeed.”

  He swipes a piece off my cheddar tower. I hiss at him.

  “Hands off the goods, Fat Head.”

  Piren grins, but his smile fades. He picks at the end of his black tie. “Lara’s upset with me.”

  “Oh?”

  I wasn’t spying, not me.

  He shrugs. “I felt bad. Saw you sitting here, all alone, so I suggested I ask you to dance. You know, a fast song, nothing slow.” He wrings his hands in his lap. “Just wanted to be a good host.”

  The fight was about me?

  I keep my eyes down. “So…what happened?”

  “Lara said no. That’s it. No discussion. Said it was ‘inappropriate.’” He steals a cracker, shaking his head. “So, I told her, at our wedding, I don’t want guests stuck sitting at the damn tables all night. She got all angry and stormed off.”

  I snort. “Bit of an overreaction.”

  “Was it?”