More Than Water

by Renee Ericson

  The people around us begin to migrate to the area at my back where a set of doors opens to a large room draped in ethereal tones of cornflower and candlelight.

  “Sounds like we are being beckoned into the next room,” Foster’s father says, taking his wife’s arm in his own. “Shall we?”

  At Foster’s side, I walk with him and his parents to the room where the majority of festivities will be taking place for the rest of the evening. Near the entrance on one of four small tables, we find our names and table number, which is different than the one his mother and father have been assigned.

  “Evelyn and I are going to take our seats,” Foster says to them as we are about to part ways. “I’m sure we’ll see you later.”

  “Of course,” his mother says, filled with easiness just like her son described.

  “Enjoy yourselves,” his father says. “It was nice to meet you, Evelyn.”

  “You, too.”

  With our place cards in hand, Foster and I traverse through the crowd and tables, looking for our seating. He pauses momentarily at the sight of Sasha taking a chair at a table that is thankfully many over from our own.

  Her presence in general makes my skin crawl.

  Is it wrong to want to strangle her with the pearls around her neck?

  Likely.

  When we finally find our numbered table, Foster pulls out my linen-covered seat, allowing me to sit first, and then he takes the one next to me.

  “Did you read some guidebook on dealing with parents?” he asks, a noticeable glow plastered across his face. “Or about going to weddings in general? Because that shit back there was textbook, all of it.”

  “I might have some experience on the subject.”

  “Ah, now, it all makes sense.” He presses his tie against his chest. “Was this part of your training to become the daughter your mother always hoped you would be?”

  “It could be. Let’s just say, I did pay attention to some of the things I was taught—or maybe it’s survival instincts.”

  “It shows.”

  Other guests begin to take their seats at our table, two of whom I recognize from the cocktail portion of the evening. We say our hellos briefly as the MC comes over the speakers, announcing the arrival of the bride and groom.

  Over the course of the next hour or so, toasts are made, food is served, and the cake is cut. Now, all that remains is an evening of dancing and mingling.

  At our table filled with two of Parker’s cousins, a childhood friend, and their dates, conversation has been easy, kept to superficial topics about Parker’s misgivings, school, and the bridesmaids’ dresses. I play my part, offering polite comments at the appropriate pauses and bringing up new subjects when necessary to keep a steady flow of chatting while engaging everyone when possible.

  My mother would be so proud that her chirping tidbits on manners are actually serving a purpose. I hate to admit it, but her lessons do have merit in certain situations, such as this one.

  A couple from our table excuses themselves and takes to the dance floor as the bride and groom make their rounds, greeting each and every one of their guests. We’re at the far end of the room from the start of their rounds.

  “C’mon,” Foster says, resting his napkin on the linen surface and rising from his seat.

  “Are you asking me to dance?” I ask, taking his hand.

  “Not yet. I could use a drink though. How about you?”

  “Definitely.”

  Foster guides us around the table and across the dance floor toward the corner of the room where the bar is set up. Halfway there, the smiling and happy newlyweds stop us in our path.

  “Congratulations,” Foster and I say in unison.

  “Thanks,” Hillary says to me, gleaming.

  The men start a small side conversation.

  The bride admits to my ears, “I was so nervous.”

  “What for?” I question, in total awe of her beauty. “Everything was perfect.”

  She breathes a sigh of relief. “It was, wasn’t it?”

  “Absolutely. Seriously, one of the best weddings ever.”

  “Thank you. That means a lot. And I’m so happy you came with Foster. He’s a really great guy.”

  “I agree. He’s something special. I’m lucky to have met him at all.”

  Foster glances at me quickly—so fast in fact that it’s quite possible I might have imagined it.

  “I’m positive he feels the same about you,” Hillary states, clasping my hand.

  “We need to keep going,” Parker tells his new bride. “More guests to greet.”

  “Yes, we don’t want to keep them waiting,” she says with her husband pulling her away. “It was nice talking to you, EJ.”

  “Likewise,” I say, feeling Foster’s arm slide around my waist.

  “Are you ready for a drink?” he asks, his soft lips brushing the shell of my ear.

  “Very.”

  Foster escorts me to the bar with his hand on my hip and then orders me a glass of white wine and himself a beer. Once our drinks are served, he leans his backside against the bar’s edge, and we toast to the evening.

  “Are you having a nice time?” I question after taking a generous sip of chardonnay.

  “It’s tolerable,” he jokes. “You’re making it even more tolerable.”

  “Is that a compliment?”

  “Yes, it is.” Foster shakes his head and leans an elbow on the ledge of the bar. “How about you? Are you having a good time?”

  “It’s more than tolerable,” I tease back, stepping closer until the smell of his cologne occupies my senses. “And yes, I’m having a nice time.”

  “Well, somebody should.”

  A familiar sensation comes over me as we smile at one another, basking in each other’s company.

  There are moments with him, where it’s only him.

  This is one of them.

  Taking the wine glass from my hand, Foster sets it on the bar next to his beer and then holds the tips of my fingers in his hand.

  Concentrating on my recently manicured nails, rubbing his thumb along the length of my middle digit, he softly says, “You’re really good at this.”

  “At what?”

  “Pretending. When I asked you to come here with me, I wasn’t expecting you to play a part. I just wanted you to come.”

  “Really?”

  “Of course. You’re my best friend, Evelyn. Everything is better with you.”

  “Fozzie,” I quietly utter.

  He lifts his gaze to join my own, and I’m sucked into the details of him. Lifting my palm and cupping his cheek, I study every part of his face, memorizing and imprinting into my mind his perfect imperfections, the minute characteristics that make up who he is—the small dimple between his brows when he’s concentrating, the fine line at the corner of his mouth, and the two freckles at the crest of his cheekbone. His hand covers my own, and he slides it toward his mouth, pressing his lips deliberately into the sensitive area of where my lifeline is hidden.

  “Foster?” a female voice interrupts at our side.

  I quickly swipe my hand out from underneath his.

  Sasha, whom I recognize from the ceremony, and a proper-looking man with dark wavy hair and of medium build tentatively wait for a reply.

  “Sasha,” Foster deadpans, straightening next to me while smoothing down his tie.

  I lean in closer to him. He takes my palm in his, rubbing his thumb over the back of my hand.

  “We saw you earlier and wanted to come over and say hello,” Sasha says, reluctant.

  “Hello.”

  She gestures to the man at her side. “You remember Elton, right?”

  “Yes.”

  Elton offers a hand in Foster’s direction, and with a prominent Welsh accent, he says, “It’s good to see you again.”

  Foster regards his attempt at a formal greeting but doesn’t budge. Elton lowers his palm, retreating, and then slides it around Sasha’s waist.
r />   “I’m Evelyn,” I boldly state, taking control of this stupidly uncomfortable situation.

  Sasha hesitantly shakes my offered hand. “It’s nice to meet you.”

  “I can’t say the same about you.”

  Her face goes slack, like someone has just stabbed her in the back, and a white state of shock takes over her pallor. I release her hand and then offer it to Elton, who takes it without any pause.

  “So, are you the prickwad who was boning Sasha while these two were together?” I ask, my voice dripping with saccharine innocence.

  He quickly pulls his grip from mine, shoving it into his pants pocket. “Well now, aren’t you quite forward? And rude.”

  “I’ll take that as a yes.”

  “That’s him,” Foster confirms. “Lord Elton Wellesley of Tool-ing-ham.”

  “Foster,” Sasha pleads, “it was a long time ago. More than a year. Almost two. I was hoping that maybe we could move past all of that now.”

  “We have, Sasha,” he states factually. “But no time in the world will make what you did ever be right.”

  “I’m sorry for what happened and for what I did and how I handled things. I’ve said it a million times. Why can’t you just forgive me?”

  “I do forgive you, but that doesn’t mean I like you.” He glances briefly at Elton. “Or what you’re about. You’re not the person I thought you were. Or maybe you’ve changed. Either way, you’re just a status seeker now. Maybe you always were.” Foster firmly grips my hand and begins to lead us onto the hardwood floor that makes up most of the room. “Enjoy the wedding. And the rest of your lives.”

  My steps quicken, trailing Foster away from his ex and to the far end of the dance floor. Without any words, he whirls us around, places my hand at his waist, rests a palm at my lower back, and claps my other hand at shoulder height. Then, to the steady beat of the music playing in the background, he easily leads me across the dance floor with noted grace.

  “You can dance?” I ask, dumbfounded.

  He laughs. “You seem surprised.”

  “That’s because I am. What other talents do you possess?”

  “None really.”

  He twirls me around, extending his arm, and then gracefully folds me back into an embrace.

  “Where did you learn to do this?” I ask, blissful.

  “After my grandfather passed away, I became my grandmother’s dance partner. She taught me.”

  “That’s kind of sweet. I take it, you two are close?”

  “Somewhat. She’s just partial to me because I was named after her husband.”

  As we continue to naturally sway to the rhythm of the tune blaring through the reception hall, I sink further into him, not realizing until this moment how much I’ve missed the feel of his body next to mine. Closing my eyes, I relish and savor my tiny fantasy—the one where he and I somehow have a happily ever after. It’s a pleasant place for my thoughts to wander.

  When the song ends, I come back to the reality of the dim lights and the harsh lines of the world.

  Over Foster’s shoulder, I spy Sasha and Elton still at the bar, having a drink. While part of me wants to stare daggers at Sasha for what she did to Foster in the past, my gaze keeps wandering to Elton. There’s a certain properness to be noted about the way he holds himself, his glass, and the movement of his arms. His mannerisms and gestures are not that of many people I’ve come to know while attending college, and he appears to be no older than twenty-three. In some ways, he reminds me of Gerard. The way he’s dressed and the way he carries himself tells me that he’s been groomed in some way. It’s somewhat unnatural—almost like me.

  “Foster?”

  “Yes, EJ?”

  “Who is Elton?”

  He halts and takes a step backward, distancing himself from me. “What are you asking?”

  “He’s just…different. And I’m not talking about the European thing. He has this air to him…and I was just wondering if I was missing something.”

  “Well, besides being a total asshole, he’s also the son of a duke. Is that what you mean?”

  “Like, as in royalty?” I question, shocked, recalling when Foster called Elton the Lord of Tool-ing-ham. I thought he was just kidding around.

  He chuckles. “Yeah, he’s considered a commoner, but he’s around number six hundred in line for the crown.”

  “Is that what you meant when you called Sasha a status seeker?”

  “You caught that?” Foster pulls me back into his arms, swaying us from side to side, matching the slow beat of a love song being serenaded throughout the room.

  “I did.” Savoring him, I rest my cheek on his solid shoulder. “Status is grossly overrated.”

  “I’m glad you think so.”

  When the MC announces that the bride and groom will be tossing the garter and bouquet, Foster indicates that it’s time for us to go. We quickly say our cordial good-byes to his parents and a few of his friends, and then we hastily make our way out of the reception hall, stop by the front desk to get the key to our room, and then continue toward the guest room section of the resort.

  The elevator opens on the third floor, and we bank two lefts around beige corners before coming to our room for the first time. Foster uses the key card to unlock the door and then opens it, allowing me to enter first. I flip on the light and see our luggage sitting on one of the beds, as promised. Also, as promised, our room has two double beds—one for Foster and one for myself.

  I slip out of my jacket, hang it in the nearby hall closet, and then proceed to pick up my bag, moving it to the adjacent bed near the window.

  “I guess I’ll take this one,” I proclaim, stepping out of my nude heels.

  “That’s fine,” Foster says as he hangs his suit jacket in the closet. Then, he approaches me while loosening the cobalt tie. “Whatever makes you the most comfortable.”

  “Well, if this were a few weeks ago, I’d probably say that I’d be more comfortable if you were in bed with me,” I tease with one hundred percent truth behind the sarcasm. “But this will do.”

  “Of course it will.”

  He slides the tie out from the confines of his shirt collar and sets it on his bed. Then, like I’m not even there, Foster begins to unbutton his pressed dress shirt from the neck down. When he releases the last one at the bottom of the white garment and is in the process of pulling his arms from the sleeves, I unzip my bag and hurriedly gather my pajamas.

  “I’m going to clean up and change,” I announce, heading toward the bathroom and away from temptation.

  Seeing him with his clothes off is nothing new, but not to be able to touch him is something I’m not equipped for, and it’s best to remove myself from the situation.

  I shut the bathroom door at my back with my heart racing faster than it should be.

  Chandra was right. Coming here with Foster for a wedding was a bad idea. It’s not because of what might happen or what usually happens at weddings—a night laced with alcohol, bad decisions, and regrets—but because of what won’t happen. There will not be any stolen kisses, gentle caresses, or any good old-fashioned sweat-rolling-off-the-back boinking.

  I won’t be that lucky.

  At the vanity, I place my change of clothes on the counter and then begin to unpin my hair, allowing it to drape down the length of my back. I then wash my face, removing the superficial cover of beauty from my skin.

  Reaching behind my back, I attempt to pull down the zipper of my dress, but I fail miserably, unable to get the proper leverage.

  I try again.

  And again.

  Ugh.

  Resolved to needing assistance, I quietly crack open the door and spy Foster pacing about the room in a T-shirt and boxers, staring at the floor and muttering to himself.

  “Foster?”

  His head quickly snaps in my direction, startled. “Yeah?”

  “Do you think you could help me get out of my dress? Zipper issues.”

  “Sure.”


  I widen the door and turn around, sweeping the loose wavy locks over my shoulder so that he has better access to the problem area. Placing a firm but gentle hand on the bare skin of my neck, Foster traces the line of my back, pausing at the crest of my garment. With great restraint, I demand my body to remain still as he pulls the zipper down the length of my spine until it reaches its end just below the small of my back.

  Peeking over my shoulder, I tell him, “Thanks.”

  He lifts his gaze from where his hands rest near my waist, meeting my own with an open vulnerability. I’ve seen that look before. It’s usually fleeting, showing up during a few of the art sessions where he was my subject.

  “You’re welcome,” he replies, stepping backward. He continues to hold me hostage with a myriad of sentiments fluxing in and out of his gaze.

  I’m susceptible to all of them pulling me in.

  I’m ill-prepared for this night.

  I’m not in control of my emotions.

  Finally, he says, “I’ll let you finish getting dressed.”

  I close the door and then my own lids, stifling out the remnants of our small interaction. Changing out of my formal clothes and into my comfortable pajamas of a tank and shorts, I then exit the room, ready to crawl under the covers, praying that morning comes quickly so that this night can be behind us.

  Breathe.

  Two steps out the door.

  Foster.

  Unmoving.

  I stop in my tracks.

  He sits on my bed, next to my bag, focusing on the ground.

  “Foster?”

  “I can’t do this anymore,” he says low and steady. “I thought it would be easier this way, but it’s not. It’s worse.”

  My breath hitches, and the blood pulsing through my body drums loudly in my ears.

  “Was any of it real?” Slowly, he connects his eyes with my own. “For you? Was it ever real?”

  I gulp, unbelieving. “I don’t know what you’re asking me.”

  “The way you used to look at me sometimes, and even still, like you just did when I was helping you with your dress…I wonder if it was real or if you were just pretending.”

  “I…” is all my stunned vocal cords can muster.

  “I’m not going to hide it anymore. It’s real for me, even more so than I thought.”