by Poppy Dunne
Well, Gracie, the favor ship is in the harbor, horn blasting for you to climb aboard.
With nothing else to do but wait, I change into an ivory-colored sweater and some comfortable black slacks, grab my purse and head for the lobby. This weekend is going to be wall-to-wall awkward family encounters, but there’s one family member waiting for me downstairs who I’m always happy to see. My little brother, the groom-to-be.
“What is this about you having a boyfriend?” Rollie’s waiting for me by the elevators, and crushes me in a giant hug. He laughs as we head for the Lexington Bar, one of the historic, old-fashioned, wood-paneled New York hangouts. Dorothy Parker used to drink here, before she moved into more exclusive circles at the Algonquin. “When Mom told me, I thought she was making it up to make herself feel better.”
“Ouch! Way to be nice to me,” I say, playfully grabbing a fistful of his ridiculous red curls. Rollie—Roland—looks like a handsomer Opie from the Andy Griffith show. Our dad gave him that hair, along with his name. Our parents were expecting a second girl when Rollie showed up, so Dad had to come up with something off the top of his head. He remembered the name Roland Deschain, thinking it was some old French philosopher, and boom. Named. When we found out later that Dad had named his son and heir after the gunslinger from Stephen King’s Dark Tower series, Mom was mad. Pretty mad.
She only let him back into the bedroom a few years ago.
Rollie and I sit at the bar, an antique oaken beast with a mirrored wall and an old New York barkeep with puffed white sleeves and a visor. He gets to making our drinks—one Old Fashioned, one dirty martini—while I tell Rollie everything.
Well, not quite everything. I trust my brother, but I’m a little too embarrassed to tell him I had to pay someone to be my date.
“Seriously, I don’t mean to rattle you, Al. I’m happy for you.” He hooks his arm around my neck and kisses the top of my head. Rollie’s unusual in our family in that he actually shows whatever he’s feeling. He’s like a ginger unicorn that way. And, because he’s funny, genial, majored in business at college and has a penis, he will forever and always be Mom’s favorite spawn. However, I don’t hold that against him. It’s impossible to feel ill will toward anyone who’s that good. “It’s been too damn long since we’ve seen each other. Man, I always feel like I’m last to know what’s going on with you.”
“Only because you don’t pry and secretly plot my downfall behind my back.” That’s only kind of a joke. “I miss you, and Katie,” I sigh. That’s the one bummer about having a home base in Los Angeles these days. Philadelphia’s a hard city to visit on the spur of the moment. Rollie never wanted to leave our home turf, not like me. For him, golf clubs and horse races are fun, if a little eye roll-worthy. He’s definitely built a successful life back there, and he should be damn proud of that. But I do wish we could be a little geographically closer.
“Well, we’re going to have a great time this weekend. And I’m sorry that Todd’s going to be there.”
Rollie gets that angry flash in his eyes at the mention of Todd’s name. When I told him about how my relationship fell apart, I had to keep him on the phone to prevent him from rushing to the airport, getting on a plane, and kicking my ex-boyfriend’s ass. Little brothers are like protective fox terriers, only with opposable thumbs. I pat his arm.
“Katie’s worth having to run into him again,” I say. “Besides, it’s only a couple of days.” There’s the rehearsal dinner, followed by the wedding itself. I can keep my cool that long, provided there aren’t any curveball surprises, like—
“I’m just sorry he’s going to be at cocktail hour tonight.” Rollie takes a sip of his Old Fashioned, making a bitter face. At the drink or my ex-boyfriend, I’m not sure. “Even Katie didn’t want him there. Mom’s just doing it to be difficult.”
And there. Right on time, my stomach starts doing the marimba out of desperate tension. I clutch the edge of the bar and take a nice healthy chug of martini to keep my head on straight.
“I’ll, er, survive,” I say weakly. I will survive. As long as I know how to drink, I know I’ll stay alive. Just not sober.
“He’ll just have to eat it when he sees you with your new guy.” Rollie winks at me. “So his name’s Ben?”
“Yes, Ben.” I stop. Ben? Ben who? Holy shit, I don’t think I know his last name. I put him under ‘Ben HOT’ in contacts. I deserve to die alone. “Ben,” I repeat. “Like bon bon. Heh. I’ll have another,” I say, waving frantically at the barkeep. He hops right on it; maybe I should marry him. “He’s, well, he’s spectacular. Really cute. Looks like he goes out in the sun, even when it’s twenty degrees and snowing. Just a really good fit, that’s us.”
I get my drink and slop some onto my chin as I take a deep swallow. More martini. Carry me away, sweet booze.
“If he treats you right, he’s good with me.” Rollie grins again. “Can’t wait for Katie to meet him tonight.”
“Tonight. Meeting. Will happen,” I say, finger-gunning to show how utterly chill I am about all of this. While Rollie hooks us up with some cashews and olives to munch, I get out my phone and frantically send a text to Ben HOT.
Mayday. Are you free tonight???
An agonizing moment of waiting. Then, a ping.
Are they eloping? I’m going to need time to strategically dishevel myself.
Cute. No, seriously, cute. I text back, my cheeks burning.
No strategy required. Cocktails at the courtyard. Harrington casual.
What’s that?
Whatever you’d wear to your own funeral, but without a tie.
Another minute. Then,
How’d you know I was planning ahead. I’ll be there.
I want to make out with the phone. Then, quickly
Douchiest question of all time: last name?
A minute passes. Wow, I am an asshole. Then,
Williams. Good being in business with you, Harrington.
Likewise.
I take another sip of martini to cool me down. Let Todd do his worst tonight—I’m bringing backup.
3
I wait outside, under the hotel’s red and gold awning, shivering my ass off. The snow’s swirling down in front of me, glistening in the red taillights of the traffic. I pull the collar of my coat closed and shift from one stilettoed foot to the other. Man, if I skid on a patch of ice, I’ll have a broken ankle and will probably have to miss the cocktails.
That is not the worst idea I’ve ever had. Where’s a patch of black ice when you really need it?
If I have to go in there and face my family and Todd and the softly enveloping cloud of smug that’ll be present in the air, I’ll do it. I can do it alone, but I’m hoping Ben got lost, or delayed, or anything that doesn’t involve realizing how insane this proposition is and very reasonably peacing out. After all, we only shared one smiling moment over room service. That’s not enough to build a fake relationship on, much less lie to an entire family. What if he realizes this is insane? What if he thinks I’m trying to murder him? What if he’s right?
I mean, he’s not, but if this were a Lifetime movie I would never go anywhere with me is what I’m saying.
Then, out of the neon darkness of Madison Avenue, he comes running up to me, a now-wet newspaper clutched over his head to shield him from the snow. He hops under the awning next to me, brushing sparkling sleet off his front.
“Nice to see you outside a hotel room,” he says pleasantly, then stops. “That didn’t sound as wholesome as I wanted it to.”
“Hope you like drinking. A lot,” I say, going through the rotating door and whipping out of my coat. Ben follows, slipping off his leather jacket and following me to the Polo Lounge. A snooty maitre-d—what else can a maitre-d be but snooty?—takes our jackets. Actually, he holds Ben’s by two fingers and full on sneers before mincing away to probably toss it in the furnace. Ah, New York high society.
“Have I thanked you for coming?” I ask Ben, turning fully. “Because
...”
I kind of get lost on my way to the end of that sentence, because damn. In a server’s black and white ensemble, Ben’s pretty hot. But here he’s wearing a dark blue dress shirt, unbuttoned just at the collar. His tanned skin is radiant against the blue, and the unpopped button gives a very slight, classy glimpse of a shockingly muscular physique. Even the line of his throat is fucking poetry. When I look up into his hypnotic blue eyes, I want to melt. Ben leans toward me, and whispers,
“You just went cross-eyed. Are you okay?”
“Define okay.”
“Okay is the absence of extended family.”
“Then I will not be okay for the next few days.” Though when I look back into his eyes—now with a glimmer of humor in them—I think about how I actually maybe could be okay, even with the Harrington clan in tow. Being okay right now would involve sitting with this man and ogling his beauty for a solid three hours while people pass me cosmopolitans.
Here’s to hoping that’s how this night plays out.
Snapping out of my distraction as best I can, I take his arm and wobble my way into the Polo Lounge. It’s the standard ridiculously ritzy New York affair, with dark wood-paneled walls and green leather chairs. A fireplace as big as a small horse crackles at the side of the room, and little tables decked out with white linen and flashing silver are scattered throughout the room. Canapes, crab puffs, and other finger foods await me on platters.
Everyone here has an Ivy League education, or at least went to one of the Seven Sisters. And if they didn’t do that, they went to Northwestern. And if they didn’t do that, they’re probably serving the drinks. Being around this much old money is making my skin feel oily. My stomach starts growling, and Ben clears his throat.
“Maybe you should eat something before you have a cocktail.”
“I’ll see what I can do. Frankly, getting a little loaded will probably be the best thing for my anxiety. First thing we have to do is find—”
“Alexandrina. I can’t believe you’re here.”
Oh shit. There it is, that voice so rich and condescending it should be bottled and sold in department stores: Velvet Douche™. The owner of that particular voice, of course, is Todd Beauman.
As I turn toward his voice, I see him standing there, watching me, a wry smile quirking the corner of his mouth. I’ve always been a sucker for the tall, dark, and handsome type, and does Todd ever completely fit the bill. He looks like a GQ cover model, a scotch in one hand, a willowy blonde in the other.
That’s right. It’s not enough that I have to see Todd again—I also need to meet his new girlfriend. His new girlfriend who is likely half his age and looks like she was on Norwegian Baywatch at some point. There is no mistaking that Nordic goddess look; she’s got to be nearly six feet tall, with piercing blue eyes and a perfect tan. Her teeth are so white, she can probably use her smile as reflector tape when she goes jogging at night.
“Oh, how could I be so rude,” Todd says in that way that indicates how rude he knew he was being. “Let me introduce my new girlfriend, Vasilissa.”
“Bleurt!” she says happily. At least, I think that’s the word she uses. She starts talking a mile a minute, stopping occasionally to laugh or take Todd’s hand and look into his eyes. I don’t speak a word of Norwegian/Polish/Ukrainian/Help Me, but that’s not letting Vasilissa slow down. I think the most important thing, for Todd, is that she keeps smiling. No matter what happens, no matter how shocked and numbed everyone looks while she talks, she keeps on going. Todd kisses her cheek and slides a hand down to cup her ass. What a gentleman.
“No idea what she’s saying. But talk’s not what’s important.” He grins at Ben and me, smarming to the max.
“Well, you were never one for conversation you couldn’t keep up with.” I give him my best ‘I’ve had it with this bullshit’ smile. Besides, Vasilissa seems sweet. She doesn’t deserve Dickless over here copping a feel in public and insulting her. Todd narrows his eyes.
“So. You’ve got a date, Alex?” He says it in a way that suggests he can’t believe it. “I’m surprised you were able to stop working long enough to log onto Plenty of Fish. I always told you, women who work too hard get crease lines right in the center of their forehead.” He whistles. “Tragic.”
“What makes you think she went online?”
Ben finally joins the conversation. I get the impression he spent the last few minutes sizing Todd up, and he doesn’t like what he sees. He slides an arm around my waist—good lord, this man even smells amazing, which I shouldn’t notice but I do. Ben’s squeeze is not the possessive assgrab that Todd was about. It feels a lot classier. It feels like the kind of squeeze a knight gives his lady love before scooping her into his arms and having wild, passionate sex behind a potted fern.
A little wish fulfillment, maybe. But still, a classy dream.
Granted, it’s hard to get less classy than Todd, but some people do try.
“So you didn’t meet online?” Todd sounds a little disappointed, like he missed out on a square in ‘humiliate-your-ex bingo.’ “Where’d you two meet, then? Through work, I assume?”
And there. Right there. I can already feel the train going off the rails. Ben and I look into each other’s eyes—such soulful eyes (FOCUS, ALEX)—and realize we’re screwed. We forgot to come up with a game plan before this. Where’d we meet, when, how long have we been dating, etc. You know. All the basics a couple in the first throes of dating should know about each other. Maybe instead of doodling ‘Mrs. Ben HOT’ all over the trapper keeper of my mind, I should’ve covered these bases.
Heh. Second base. Heh.
There’s a reason I’m failing at my job right now.
Why did I think I could get away with this? When Todd finds out the truth, there won’t be a way to wipe all the smug away. It’ll leave a greasy stain on the carpet as a reminder to never try pulling a fast one on your shark of an ex-boyfriend. He’ll tell tales of it to his children, and they’ll tell it to their children, so that it’s like an endless game of telephone, at the end of which it’s gotten so blown out of proportion they think I’ve killed a man.
Okay, back to reality, and the bullshit lie Ben and I are about to invent on the spot.
“We met at a coffee shop,” I say, pretending Ben and I were looking into each other’s eyes because we were so in love, not so trapped.
“Museum,” Ben says. Fuck.
“Coffee shop in the museum,” I say. Man, that was a graceful save. Go me. Todd nods. Good. We’re covered.
“Which museum?” he asks, looking between the two of us.
“Contemporary Art,” I say.
“Mummies,” Ben says. Mummies?? Well, now we know he’s a sucker for ancient civilizations. If only he were into the Babylonians, then we’d be soul mates.
“It was an exhibit on the reinterpretation of Tutankhamen,” I say, squeezing Ben’s arm so hard it might pop off. He grips my fingers like he’s trying to wring the life out of them. We are very clutchy people right now.
“Very modern,” Ben says. “But also not modern,” he adds.
“Interesting.” Todd the Clod lifts an eyebrow.
“Streudel,” Vasilissa says, nodding sagely like she understands.
“We both love art,” I say.
“Art’s where you meet people you eventually date.” Ben nods. “Yes.”
Everyone’s now looking at each other with awkward silence. Except for Vass (which is how I’m going to refer to Vasilissa now, because trying even to think that name is a mouthful of syllables). Vass finds a tray of quail eggs and starts popping them into her mouth, looking like she hasn’t enjoyed anything this tasty in a long time. She rips it right out of the waiter’s hands, and he’s so agog at her beauty that he lets it go with a blissful smile on his face. Man, she is wolfing those babies down. Well, she’s a model. They get a cup of chicken broth a day if they’ve been good.
“Well, there’s Mom. Gotta go,” I say to Todd and Vass, snagging
a vivid pink cocktail off a passing waiter’s tray and wheeling Ben around to follow me. He keeps an arm around my waist, and whispers in my ear,
“Is that the dickhead you’re trying to impress?” His blue eyes flash. “What’d you see in that guy?”
“An orgasm one out of every five times we had sex. In dating terms, that’s more than acceptable.” I flush a little bit, though. Ever get the sensation, when you look at someone you used to date, that you completely wasted years of your life and must have had a temporary left-brain shutdown? Welcome to my perpetual state of existence.
“That all?” He tsks. “Some men don’t even try.”
I kind of want to ask if he does, but this is awkward enough as it is. We hang out in a corner, sipping our drinks as Mom waltzes over. Where’s Rollie when you need him? He’s Mom’s golden child, always ready to take her focus away from her favorite activity. Namely, commenting on my utter failure as a woman. But right now I’m on my own.
Mom’s dripping in gold baubles and sparkling satin, putting on the highest of high society airs. The fact that she’s bringing out the big gun diamond rings means that our Baudelaire cousins are probably here—the ridiculously wealthy European ones—and she needs to out-bling them at all costs.
However, that can wait. Now that she has an opportunity to humiliate me, all other concerns will be swept from her mind.
“You must be my daughter’s new boyfriend.” I see Mom’s gaze slide over Ben from head to toe. Her lips purse; she can’t find anything wrong with the way he looks, that’s for damn sure. So now she’s going to go after the way he talks or thinks. I can read her; I’m like a shark whisperer that way. “I think it’s so wonderful of you to come all the way out to meet us, especially when you can’t possibly have been seeing each other that long.” She smiles, that lazy, dead-eyed look saying she’s going in for the kill. Like I said, sharks. “Alex has a hard time keeping a boyfriend. Then again, it’s not like she’s had much practice in the last year and a half. Really, there’s no time like the present, that’s what I always tell her. You don’t want to be left on the shelf.”
