by Amiee Smith
And... she’s kind of drunk.
A server appears over my shoulder. “Ma’am, may I get your entrée choice? The menu is in front of you.”
I don’t glance at the menu.
“I’ll take all four options. And bring some hot sauce.”
“Excuse me?” the server says.
“Bring her one of each entrée on the menu. And if you can’t find a bottle of hot sauce, go get her one,” Alex says, extending the server a hundred dollar bill. (The server doesn’t accept the money.)
“Wow! How lucky you are to have a husband that remembers your food preferences,” Lynn whispers into her glass of red wine.
Nick gives Lynn a WTF face. “Really, Lynn? I didn’t respond to one of the hundreds of emails about this wedding and I’m a bad husband? How quickly you forget that in the last three months I renovated the attic for your writing studio, prepared your flat to be rented, moved you into my place, cooked dinner every night, and met your rigorous sexual demands. Oh, and let’s not forget... I have a job!” he barks in a whisper.
“So! You’re like part mortal, part mystical being. You can handle it, Superstar! And you still managed to find time to make five trips to L.A. for your tuxedo fitting,” Lynn fires back.
Sophia adds lighter fluid to the inflamed conversation. “Five trips to L.A.?! I’ve only seen you twice in the last three months and one of those was a video on Facebook announcing you got married at City Hall! Another one of my children leaving me out of their life.”
Dressed in an elegant cream-colored pantsuit that is a contrast to her dark skin tone, Evelyn stops mid wine-sip to flame the fire.
“Ha! Try having a daughter who disappeared for six weeks in another country, abruptly moved to San Francisco, and now only returns calls when she can find her phone! And Sophia, I saw the same video, except I didn’t know it existed for five days! I only found out when my sister in Baltimore called to ask me where to send a gift. Five days! In five days, the child I spent twelve hours pushing out of my womb couldn’t take the time to call her parents and say she got married!”
I scoff. “Really, Lynn? You waited five days to tell your parents you got married?”
A light-skinned black man, shorter than his wife, and wearing a charcoal Armani suit, Martin raises a finger and drains the last of his Scotch before speaking.
“Brit, you are the last person that should be placing any judgement. Evelyn and I happily took you in after your mom moved to Paris. Raised you as our own daughter. Made sure you got into a good college. Helped you when you quit engineering and transferred to Occidental to major in music. Attended all three of your graduations, including a trip to Boston for your Berklee College of Music graduation that you forgot to attend. Even if Lynn doesn’t call us back, we know you’d always pick up your phone. And not once in all those conversations did you mention you got married eight years ago!”
Martin is always hella nice to me. The dad I always wanted. Right now, he’s pissed. And hurt. I didn’t realize the wound my marriage of convenience would inflict.
“I’m sorry, Evelyn and Martin. Alex and I weren’t, like, real married.”
Nick weighs in. “Yes, you were real married. My brother took care of you and paid for that tear-down of a house in Silver Lake.”
Lynn fumes. “Your brother does not win husband of the year for marrying Brit so he could use her inheritance and rehab contacts to start his business.”
“What inheritance? Who went to rehab?” Alan whispers curtly.
Evelyn cuts in. Her voice peppered with insincere glee. “Oh, Alan don’t feel bad. I learned about Alex and Brit Willingham at a charity event. A couple celebrated on the Westside of Los Angeles. He’s a successful wealth manager and she’s a jazz professor and devoted wife...”
“Mom, it doesn’t matter what story they were in the past, it’s their past,” Lynn says in the direction of her husband.
“You’re right, Lynn. It’s water under the bridge now. Ha... ha... I guess the Bay Bridge. Ha. Ha. See, I can be funny too, kiddo,” Martin says in the direction of his daughter.
“I appreciate your humor, Dad, but I’m too pissed to laugh,” Lynn chuckles.
Evelyn changes the conversation. “Brit, I hear you were hired on permanently at Mills College. Congratulations. Martin and I hope you and Alex will be very happy in Oakland.”
“Oakland? Are you moving to Oakland, Alex?” Alan asks.
“You haven’t told mom and dad you bought a house in Oakland?” Nick asks.
Sophia balks. “I’m losing another son to the Bay Area? To another one of these girls?”
“One of these girls? What’s that supposed to mean?” Lynn asks with darkness in her heart.
Sophia wags her finger in the direction of Lynn and me. Her Italian accent more pronounced.
“You know what you are. Self-righteous. Over-privileged. Overeducated gang of brats who have not worked a day in your life. My husband and I came from nothing. No education. And we created all of this. These boys. This family. I certainly didn’t sex my way into all of this.”
As if carbon copies of each other, both Lynn and Evelyn lift their palms in the direction of Sophia. “Hold up!”
Each woman goes off.
“You better check your facts...,” Evelyn launches into a rant.
“My friends and I have worked for everything we have...,” Lynn parallels her mom’s rant.
Both women talk for at least a full minute straight, articulating eloquent intersecting points about slut shaming, the accomplishments of every member of the Smart Girl Mafia, and the “insidiousness” of women putting down other women.
They so thoroughly outlined my accomplishments, including everything I did to help Alex grow his business while completing my doctorate, there was nothing left for me to say.
Sophia sits back in her chair and crosses her arms, muttering words in what sounds like a mix of English and Italian but offers no rebuttal.
Poor Sophia. She had no idea that when she decided to talk shit to a bunch of overeducated women who earned their privilege with their minds, they would use those book-smarts to tear her a new one.
I feel kind of blue for her. Sorta.
The table is silent for a moment. I stare at my lap, breathing deeply.
“Young lady, you need to leave,” Alan says.
I glance up fully prepared to give Alan a piece of my mind. He can’t tell a bride to leave her own rehearsal dinner.
I find his steel-blue eyes glaring at me.
Alan speaks directly. His voice is just loud enough to be heard across the table, and icy calm. In the background, the orchestra plays Frederic Chopin’s “Nocturne” in E-Flat Major Op. 9 No. 2. It’s the first song I learned to play on the piano.
“Brittney... or Brit...whatever you go by, my wife and I have always gotten along well with the Scotts. We have all been members of The Pasadena Club for years. And we have a great deal of respect for them. We were thrilled when Lynn and Nick got together. Never has there been a problem until tonight. Sophia and I put this party together to celebrate the union of two upstanding families. You are welcome to attend the wedding at the Club tomorrow as I respect that you are one of Lynn’s friends. But your presence has clearly disrupted the harmony of my home and it’s in the best interest of both families if you leave. Now.”
I reach under the table for Alex’s masculine hand resting on his thigh, waiting for him to interject.
Not making eye contact, he moves his hand onto the table. And says nothing.
No words. No words from the man who shared my bed earlier this afternoon. No words from the man who spent the last week professing his love for me. No words from the man who took my virginity. No words from the man who co-parents a dog with me. No words from the man who I have given all that I have to give.
No words from my husband, the only Mr. Willingham that matters.
I push my seat back and rise.
“Oh, my Goddess, Brit, you don’t h
ave to leave. Nick, tell her she does not have to leave. Tell her.”
He says nothing, glaring at his place setting. This is Willingham code, their solidarity. Family over all else. And I am not a member of this family.
“Lynn, Alan is right. I should go. The night is about you and Nick. And your families. If you love me, please don’t make a scene. Just tell the girls I wasn’t feeling well. Please.”
Turning away, I sneak a glimpse at the table where Jen and the rest of the Mafia are seated. They are all focused on Emma’s hilarious and exaggerated retelling of the now legendary story of Oakland’s Barbeque Becky.
With my head held high, I sissy-that-walk off the Willingham property. And I don’t look back.
(I do stop by the catering tent and get my entrées and hot sauce to go. I figure if I’m going to spend the night brokenhearted I might as well do so with a full belly. A girl has gotta eat, right?)
CHAPTER 27
ALEX WILLINGHAM
Out of the corner of my eye, I watch Brit leave the table.
And I don’t say shit.
I know I’ll stutter if I speak. I know any attempt to plead with my dad right now would be futile. I know I’d yell and throw blows, embarrassing myself, my brother and Lynn, the Scotts... and my parents.
I let her go. Because now is not the time.
Our entrées arrive, and I request another Scotch.
“Should you really be having another drink? There are people here from the Club you do business with, Alex,” my dad asks, cutting into his lamb.
And I don’t say shit.
Now is not the time.
The mood at the table turns somber, like the worst kind of funeral.
Guests drop by our table to offer congratulations to the bride and groom, and everyone puts on their happy face. Smiling on cue. Extending pleasantries. Saying all the right things, at the right time. But as soon as they leave, our colorful masks fall away, and everyone goes back to bleak.
My mom continues to drink and mutter in Italian, picking at her salmon. My dad rambles on and on about business.
The Scotts whisper among themselves, eating and drinking.
Lynn stares off into space, twisting and playing with the 2.5-carat rose gold Tiffany Setting engagement ring on her brown finger. The ring my brother sold $65,000 worth of stock to purchase.
Nick eats his filet mignon and forks into the pasta dish covered in a creamy non-vegan sauce on Lynn’s plate, nodding his head as my dad talks incessantly about the Piano Loft Project.
I guzzle Scotch like water, imagining Brit by my side praising the food and giving her critique of the orchestra. “The sauce on the pasta is a party in my mouth,” she’d say. “The oboe player is a bit behind the beat, he needs to put some swing into it. He needs to breathe into the notes,” she’d continue.
She’d thank my parents profusely for inviting her. She’d tell Lynn she looks lovely and fierce in her Sophia dress. She’d give my brother a detailed account of making his pancake recipe. She’d encourage the Scotts to add environmental causes to their philanthropic efforts.
But most of all, she would talk me up, outlining all my charitable contributions, my ability to identify a good investment strategy for anyone, even people with limited means, and most of all she would vehemently share that I’m a good husband who acts with love and integrity.
Her unscripted, completely candid presentation on the virtues of Alex Willingham melts hearts, prompting people to ask for my card and my next available appointment.
She has always been the ideal companion for a business meeting. Stunning. Cordial. Elegant. She knows how to dial back her weird just enough and always goes with the flow.
Without knowing it, for the last eight years, I’ve spent every waking moment trying to live up to the image of me she created. That ideal. Acting as if. And hoping one day I’d wake up and not be a fuck-up.
I’ve spent so much time acting as if, I stopped living in my reality. I stopped being a human being with parents, a brother, a dog, a wife, friends... who have always loved me. People became fixtures, props in my Alex Willingham show. And Brit was the main fixture, like a beautiful woman paid to sit at the side of a man while he conducts business over dinner. I was dirty. Too dirty.
Everything I have done for her, all the money I threw at her problems, had so much to do with maintaining the appearance, the mask of the man who has his shit together. A man with a wife who has her shit together.
I was ashamed of her.
I was ashamed of myself.
I’ve become my dad, more concerned about appearances than real life. A life with a very real, beautiful woman who has supported me... always.
***
Dessert is served. Crème Brûlée. Brit would have loved it and then asked for another one to take home. My dad gives a toast to the bride and groom but it’s just a pitch for his business. Guests mingle. The orchestra plays showtunes.
Jen approaches the table, beaming. “Where’s Brit? I convinced the orchestra to play ‘Some Enchanted Evening.’ We can do a Mafia sing-along.”
“She went home. She wasn’t feeling well,” Lynn responds.
“I have seen her rock out a party with a fever. She never leaves early,” Jen says.
Jen and Lynn exchange a solemn glance, communicating without words. Smart Girl Mafia code. I expect Jen to dig into me. Get loud and call me out. I’m prepared for it. I deserve it.
Scanning the table, her smile fades to bleak and her crystal-blue eyes turn watery. “Brit is the best company. How unfortunate for... all of you,” she whispers, walking away.
Jen’s words pop the somber bubble covering our table.
“You... you... you... shouldn’t have mistreated my wife,” I say in the direction of my parents.
“Martin, we should call it a night. I have two episodes of ‘How to Get Away with Murder’ on the DVR,” Evelyn says, placing her napkin on the table.
“Yes. Wonderful idea. Let’s have a glass of the port Lynn and ah... gave us.”
The Scotts offer no words of gratitude to their hosts. No “good night.” No polite pleasantries.
“Mom and Dad, I’ll go with you. I’m behind on “How to Get Away with Murder,” Lynn says.
She rises, dropping her sparkly engagement ring on the table in front of my brother. She speaks plainly. Definitively.
“Superstar, I can’t be a part of this fucked up family,” she says, turning her back on my brother and leaving.
I wish I could say the same thing. I wish I could leave and never return. But if I’m ever going to have a life... a real life, I’m going to have to deal with the fucked-up assholes sitting at this table, myself included.
It’s as if every guest can feel the shift in energy, and heads toward the exit. A few people stop by our table to say, “good night” but no one says, “great party” or “I had a good time.”
Within an hour, only the four of us and the catering staff remain on the property.
***
I stand in the den in front of the fireplace, staring at a framed photo of my mom and Aunt Mia, both smiling from behind white sunglasses. They are sitting in lounge chairs, under the citrus and avocado trees that used to be in the backyard of Aunt Mia’s home in Mount Washington.
The home that she left to my brother. The same home Nick spent three tireless years and thousands of dollars renovating, only to sell it and move to San Francisco to be with the woman of his dreams. The woman that left him the night I barged in on their date night, insisting she help Brit with her dissertation. The same woman who left him in the middle of their rehearsal dinner because I couldn’t speak up.
Nick enters the den.
“This is your fucking fault!” he barks, shoving me between my shoulder blades.
The strength behind my brother’s aggression sends me flying forward. I nearly knock over the photo and Aunt Mia’s ornate sterling silver urn resting on the mantle.
Hours of boxing training keep me on my
feet. I weave around, facing him. Fist formed and ready for a fight.
My 6’3, impeccably dressed, athletic, beast of a brother holds a wine glass in his hand. A deep, teary, sadness hangs on the edge of his scowl.
Just the thought of my big powerful brother weeping causes me to drop my hands to my side. My shoulders slump.
My mom waltzes into the room with a very full wine glass.
“Nicholas, do not blame Alexander because you chose such a flighty girl.”
“Do not make this about my wife!” my brother roars.
His voice echoes off the beige walls, sending a chill through the room.
My dad enters the room. “No, it’s about Alex’s wife...”
“Don’t... say anything... about Brit,” I say, quietly.
I don’t trust my voice. I know I’ll stutter. I know I’ll make a fool of myself.
My mom shakes her head.
“Oh, my poor boy. That daughter of a whore brainwashed you. She’s turned you against your family!”
“What planet are you living on, Mom? No one wants to be a part of this family,” Nick yells.
“Nick, lower your voice. The neighbors might hear you,” my dad says sharply.
Nick yells within inches of my dad’s red face. “Fuck the neighbors, Dad!”
My dad and brother haven’t fought in years. And by all accounts, I’d say they have formed a father-son relationship built on mutual respect. This is not their fight. This is not their problem.
I know I need to say something, but I can’t collect all the words in my mind. I want to be eloquent. Convincing. Command attention. But, I can’t. Maybe it’s the booze or maybe I’m just tired of pretending.
I inhale and just start talking.
“I...I...I... cheated my way through college... not on tests or anything... but I’d make friends with the teaching assistants for my classes. The girls. Flirt... be nice... sometimes hook up with them... to ensure I’d get a good grade. I did most of my work myself, but if I struggled with... the reading, they’d help me out. I did that for almost every class, except Brit’s. She was my TA for... ah... this history of jazz class I took senior year. She didn’t fall for my bullshit. It was the only class I got an A... ah an A minus... that I actually earned... without help.
