by Poppy Dunne
“Hi sweetie,” Dad says to me, a little distantly but still with a smile. That’s Dad all over, smiling and distant. When I graduated high school, he shook my hand and went to a dinner meeting. He cares, he just doesn’t know how to show it.
“Hope we’re not interrupting anything,” Mom says, clutching at the front of her silk blouse like she just caught us hate-fucking in her bed. Oh, that can be arranged, I’m sure. Slip me your key card, mother.
“Not at all,” I say, but Ben’s already looking around the place, scanning the sour-looking Wall Street guys and overdressed women with fluffy purse dogs. He’s probably angling for an escape, and truth be told I’d like to piggyback on his shoulders and join him there. “I mean, we’ve been planning to take down this place for a while now. At the moment we’re just scoping out the situation. Doing recon.”
“Figuring out which of the waiters is a spy,” Ben deadpans, squeezing my thigh under the table. Aw, the fake couple that plays together maybe fucks each other’s brains out later. Here’s hoping.
“Really?” Mom doesn’t like the fact that this scenario has the taint of fun to it. I can tell.
Then I notice a man with a health club tan, shades, and a kind of unfashionably fashionable tweed hipster jacket as he enters and makes a beeline for Ben. Ben, for his part, follows my gaze, sees the human embodiment of Williamsburg headed our way, and gets up. He almost jumps up, actually. Considering he’s the most easygoing man on the planet, that deserves a highly raised eyebrow.
“Sorry folks, have to see a man about saving the free world. Top secret. Please destroy the message I’ve just given you,” he says pleasantly to Mom. Then he kisses me (way too briefly) shakes Dad’s hand and is off like a hot, sexy shot. Dad beams; it’s unusual for anyone to pay him a lot of attention when Mom is in the room.
“Nice guy, cupcake,” he tells me, then kisses me on my head. Cupcake is his nickname for me, ever since I wanted cupcakes for my ninth birthday. Yes. That’s as wild and out there as this family gets with our nicknames.
Mom sniffs. But it’s a snooty sniff, not a condescending sniff. We might be making progress with her. “Well. I personally think it’s a little rude to rush out of here like that.”
“Yeah, it’s almost like this isn’t the most rocking fun group in town,” I say flatly. Mom tuts and smooths the front of her blouse.
“Still, that’s no excuse for bad manners,” she says. There it is again, the little twinge in my heart. It’s not that Ben and I are really together, not like she’s in danger of actually coming between us. I just wish when I seemed happy—and I am sort of happy right now, thank you very much—Mom wouldn’t judge so damn much. It’s like she does it on purpose, looking for everything I enjoy and picking it apart to find the flaw.
Still, she doesn’t keep talking about it, which means she’s run out of steam. Always a good sign.
While my parents join me for our favorite morning ritual, getting coffee and finding a million ways to talk about the weather because we have nothing more substantive to say, I sneak glances at Ben. He and Hipster Guy are grabbing some coffee to go, and then duck out of the place really fast.
Mysterious and mysterious-er. What’s Ben up to?
8
“All I want is to see hot men making out with each other. Is that too much to ask?” Katie cries as we slide out of the limo, all of us desperately trying to keep our legs together to avoid flashing the world. Marcie, one of the bridesmaids, is already shrieking about how it’s too damn cold in New York, and why didn’t Rollie and Katie get married in Miami? Besides the principal reason that we’ve never been to Florida and know absolutely no one there? No idea, Marcie. No idea at all.
Katie’s at least comfortable for her bachelorette party. Mom sent up a cute little cocktail dress and strappy sky-high heels for her as a not-terribly-subtle signal, but Katie decided that her combat boots, faux leather skirt, and studded collar are good enough for a night out on the town. She sticks out like the proverbial sore thumb in this group, though. The women are very attractive, in that ‘Buzzfeed quiz basic girl’ kind of way. Me? I’m somewhere in the middle of the spectrum.
My phone buzzes as we get inside the club. I wish I’d taken over the maid of honor duties a little sooner, so I could’ve found us another place to dance. This is one of the trendiest, most fashionable places in the city, which means that it’s not really Katie’s style. It’s one of those places where Jay-Z’s supposed to hang out with his entourage early on in the evening before hitting up another, less exclusive club. This place has a lot of blaring EDM music, complete with people dancing around wearing Styrofoam mouse heads. Apparently, it’s what the kids are doing these days. A gaggle of barely twenty-something women stampede past us, all desperately trying to take selfies as they run to the bathroom. They keep smacking into people, tripping over their shoes, running headfirst into the wall. Still, a little pain is worth it for a great Instagram page, apparently.
Right now, though, I’m distracted by another buzz from my phone. While everyone hands their coats to the nice coat check lady with the elegantly frosted hair tips, I read Ben’s text:
Compliments of the house
It’s a picture of Todd, sitting slumped in his Hummer limo seat, a pair of plastic antlers strapped to his head. He’s nursing what looks like a glass of scotch, and has a sour ass expression on his face. Wonderful. This is the kind of thing I live for.
You’re a true gentleman, I text back.
I just know what women want to see.
I laugh. Make sure he’s still wearing them when you get here.
I make no promises, but I’ll die trying.
Smiling, I slide the phone back in my purse and head onto the floor with Katie and the others. This club is where the guys are supposed to join us, another reason I couldn’t just change venues at the last minute. The men should be en route right now, if Ben’s adventure with Todd and the way it’s showing up on Twitter are any indication.
The club is a little too noisy and probably a little too young for me. But to be honest? I never let that kind of stuff stop me before. So when I get offered an absinthe and mint Jell-O shot, I take it, say thank you, and pound it back. Perfect. Just enough of a buzz to have fun, not enough to embarrass myself.
Pretty soon I’m grinding on the dance floor, by which I mean I am being squished between two people’s asses while they shake and try to hump against one another like a pair of mating whales. They carry me from one side of the floor to the other, while I wave frantically for Katie to come and get me. She’s a little busy, though, since she’s teaching some super drunk guy how to box. Normally a situation like this would be headed for a nightmare involving rushing the poor girl to the hospital, but in this case I’m more worried about Katie knocking him out than anything else. She apparently made her way across Mongolia by working as a wild horse wrangler and a kickboxing champion.
And they say there are no accomplished women left.
“Prosciutto!” Vass says as she comes over to me. In her sky-high shoes, she’s now approaching six seven in height. She’s got a neon blue cocktail in her hand, and starts getting down and groovy with some bleach-blond man in a tank top who can’t believe his Nordic good luck. Vass gives me a thumbs up, then swipes and hands me a cocktail of my own. It’s got a plastic penis floating in it. At first, I think she’s giving me something like a Godfather-level warning that there’s a hit out on me, but then I realize it’s a bachelorette tradition. Put as many phallic things on as many people as you possibly can.
Vass giggles, then gives me a quick side hug. Honestly, she’s a sweetheart.
“You’re all right,” I yell into her ear as the club music turns up to ‘melt your eardrums’ levels. “I’m sorry you’re dating such a reprehensible douche bag.”
“Toboggan,” she cries, puts her drink down, and throws her arms around me. I have to stagger not to spill my drink, but I give her a shoulder pat. She’s really sweet, with her Dior make
up, and her definitely real breasts—I should know, I just felt them. Poor thing. She’s a good one. Hopefully, Todd doesn’t string her along and then leave her crying into her lobster bisque.
Nah, that doesn’t sound like his style. He’ll probably wait until she’s halfway through the main course, like a gentleman.
And there, cruising through a sea of decked-out, Molly-addled dolphins comes an oily shark. A Todd Beauman shaped shark with a well-coiffed fin and a perpetual sneer. I really like this shark bit; I should think of some more to work into my Humiliate Your Ex routine. Thankfully, the cavalry shows up just then. Ben’s right behind Todd, looking around the room for me. Me, or another mysterious hipster. Whichever comes first. Vass notices the men, because she starts enthusiastically waving, her overly-braceleted arms jangling. They nearly catch me in the face.
“Stroganoff,” she calls. (Am I being a little insensitive while reporting what she’s saying? Eh. Who gives a damn.)
Nearly lifting Vass up to plow our way through the crowd, I manage to shove us through a sea of armpit sweat and overheated perfume, and we make it across the dance floor. We’re only felt up twice and offered drugs once, so I consider that a pretty safe crossing. Some women disappear, never to be heard from again. You may catch their drunk ghosts wandering around the upstairs balcony, asking if anyone has an Advil because they got so wasted last night.
“Baby, I love it when you’ve been drinking. You’re so much easier to get into bed,” Todd says when Vass turns up. She just laughs. Then they make out with a lot of tongue, and before I can give them the withering side eye, Ben sweeps me up and away.
“Do I get to demean you in front of your friends, too? I can’t remember if you bought the deluxe all-encompassing deal, or the platinum package.” He sets me down, and we stand by the bar. It’s shaped like a neon glowing submarine, and keeps changing from brilliant pink to ice blue. How very nautical.
“Well, much as a girl likes being carried around like property, I’m afraid it’s hard to find good, miserable men these days.” I finally take a sip of the drink Vass gave me. Mmm. Tequila, blue curacao, arsenic, and lamp oil. Just the ticket for a New York bachelorette party. I probably could’ve spit that out and started coughing sexier than I did, but hindsight is twenty/twenty. Ben pulls my hair out of my face. What a gentleman.
A very sexy, very service-oriented happy gentleman. He’s put on the casual navy blue ensemble again, which was very thoughtful of him. Thoughtful in that it lets me have all the erotic fantasies about the color blue I’ve ever wanted. Blue man group gang bang, here I come.
That’s when I realize my drink was probably poisoned. Fantastic.
“I’ve got an idea,” Ben says, pulling me up and murmuring in my ear. Mmm, yes, tell me all your ideas while I chug a glass of water to get that taste out. “I don’t think Katie much likes it here.”
“Or Rollie,” I agree. The two of them are happy now that they’ve been reunited—they’re standing in the corner and making out like a couple of middle school kids at their first homecoming—but I know that once the endorphins wear off, they’re going to be trapped in a sea of loud music, obnoxious people, and too much money. And they get two out of three of those at home already.
And this isn’t the type of loud music they like, so that’s another strike.
“Does your family do everything for appearances?” Ben asks. He watches the bachelorettes dance around, swaying and bobbing to the music in such a way that they hopefully won’t sweat their makeup off.
“This is the most socially high profile club in the city right now,” I call into his ear. His very perfectly shaped ear. “Of course we’ve got to go here. Even if no one likes it.”
“What do the bride and groom like?” Ben asks, getting a lively twinkle in his eye. God, if only it were a horny twinkle.
“Carnivals. Metal bands. Disneyland. Fighting the system. Plaid.”
“That’s a weird combination. I think I know the perfect place to end the party, though,” Ben says. When he tells me, I can’t help but be impressed. He wasn’t kidding. Ben really is a man who knows what people want.
And what we want, right now, is to get the hell out of here.
“I love you guys so much!” Katie yells as she pushes off from the side and glides across the ice rink. She’s a bit wobbly on her skates, since you don’t get a ton of practice out in New Mexico, but she’s nicely holding her own. Rockefeller Center is ablaze with leftover Christmas lights. The buildings are lit up on every side, and the statue of Atlas even seems to be enjoying himself. Not enough to toss the world off his shoulders and go have a drink, but enough to smile.
Or maybe that’s me I’m talking about, not Atlas. Either way.
“When’s the last time you went skating?” Ben asks, putting a hand under my elbow as I step out onto the ice. I see where this is going. He thinks I’m going to wobble and nearly fall on my ass. Then maybe he can swoop in, pick me up, hold me close while the snow falls…
Man, that’s a tempting image. But I don’t believe in letting things be too easy. No, make the man work for it.
“It’s been so long,” I moan, pretending to tilt and start to fall…before I skate away easily, doing a couple of long, looping turns before skating backward to Ben’s side. With a flourish, I finish by stopping hard, shooting a fine mist of ice right at him. This takes me back to my glory days of pretending I was in the Mighty Ducks. As you can gather, my childhood was a little pathetic. Ben brushes himself off, and leans against the railing. He smiles, grabs me around my waist and sweeps me in close.
I melt just a tiny bit. With all this ice around, I needed a little melting metaphor. I’m only human.
“You ever try out for the winter Olympics?” he asks, leaning in to whisper in my ear. “You’re incredible.”
So are you seems like the more obvious, cutesy thing to say right now. So instead I skate backward slowly, enticing him further onto the ice, like a figure-eight making Mata Hari. Ben moves in a slightly less assured way, but he does move well. Under the glow of the lights, with the clouds clearing and the black velvet sky above, this’d be the perfect place to go in for a kiss…
“Colors! Colors everywhere!” Marcie the bridesmaid coos as she inches past us. She’s crawling across the ice, slipping and sliding, her ice skates glinting uselessly behind her. Her Gucci cocktail dress is hiked all the way up around her hips, showing off her pink lacy thong. Man, I never saw anyone be so into ice skating…oh. Right. They were passing out tabs of ecstasy at the club.
Apparently, Marcie never learned the important life lesson of ‘don’t take drugs from strangers, you idiot.’
“Er, are you okay?” Ben asks her, skating up alongside. She demonstrates how cool she is by licking the ice and getting her tongue stuck.
“Gahlurzzzz,” she cries, waving her arms and shrieking as she realizes what exactly her situation currently is. I will not videotape this on my phone. I will not. Even I have higher standards than that. Just barely.
“I think we should get her up,” Ben says as I skate to the other side of the poor girl. “Otherwise I might take a picture, and then I’d have to show someone, and I don’t feel like turning this woman into an internet meme.”
“I know those feels.” Grunting, I manage to lean down alongside him, and with a quick movement, we wrench poor Marcie from off the ice rink. She makes an excited squeal, then skates away, going after some bewildered-looking children.
“Gremlins!” she cries, trying to catch them. And probably eat them. They take off in shrieking horror as Ben and I look at each other.
“Let’s—”
“Get her out of here, yeah,” I finish, and we start hunting Marcie down, skating after her like silent, predatory creatures. Jaws, but on ice. We manage to chase her down and stop her as she begins to taste her own gloves. Then, the loudspeakers come on overhead.
“Let’s hear it for Katie and Roland, about to get married at the Courtyard. By special requ
est, this one’s for you,” the man on the speaker system says. A minute later, It Had to Be You starts up—the head-knocking, punk rock version. The version with a lot of F-bombs. Not the most popular rendition, but special in its own way. Rollie and Katie start rocking out on the ice, spinning around and around, sending up little swirls of sleet wherever they go. They fall over and land on top of each other, but neither seems to mind. My little brother’s entire face is red as he gazes into the eyes of the woman he loves more than anything. Then there’s passionate making out on the ice. Ew. And also aw. I seriously hope no one trips over them. That would be too funny.
Actually, it’d make a great end to the wedding video…
“Got her.” Ben loops his arm through Marcie’s, and I take the other arm. “Good work, team.”
“I believe in synchronization,” I tell him. He winks at me, and I try not to get ridiculous and giggly. It almost works. We glide back toward the exit to the rink, passing Todd and Vass as we go. Vass is chirpily pointing at all the Christmas lights, and wobbling on her skates. Todd has his fists jammed into the pockets of his coat, and is glowering after me. I suppose he’s surprised by seeing how much Ben and I have been laughing this whole time.
Yeah, that’s right, dipshit. Watch me have a great time without you. And as Ben and I deposit Marcie out of the rink, take off her skates, and call a cab, I look over at him and realize what a damn good time I really am having.
Ben’s like the steady beat of a drum against my crazy guitar solo of a life…okay, not my best simile, but I’m trying. He’s calming, is what he is. He’s like the hottest, sexiest chamomile tea of all time. Ben beams at me, the tops of his cheeks reddened from the cold. I want to bury myself against him, suddenly. It’s the kind of move where you bundle yourself up into a man to the point where there’s nothing outside of him. You’re practically climbing him like a mountain. It’s been a damn long time since I’ve held onto anyone like that, let alone a sexy anyone. If only…
