The photographer leans down to switch out his lens, and the groomsmen relax out of their ramrod-straight poses. Jonathan shoves his hands into his pockets and stares down at his black leather dress shoes. He fidgets, as if he knows that I’m watching. He looks up suddenly, but just as our eyes connect again, the photographer raises the camera and calls him to attention.
Once Toby and the groomsmen finish taking their set of photos, it’s time for the group portrait. The photographer barks directions: Mary-Kate and Toby in the center, surrounded by the bridal party. I cross over to the bridesmaids’ side, trying to give the groomsmen a wide berth. Charlie swerves. I dodge him and stumble directly into Jonathan’s back. He whips around to face me.
“Hi,” he breathes, reaching out an arm to catch me from toppling over in my heels.
His fingers are warm on my skin, and his touch is still electric. Something churns low in my stomach—nausea? Or desire? All I have to do is say it doesn’t matter. Take him back. If I can do that, my life will fit neatly back together like a puzzle. The cracks between the pieces will always be there, sure, but the pieces will fit.
But the burning sense of betrayal still bubbles under my skin. Maybe I don’t want the pieces to fit together anymore. Mom and I were better off once Dad left. That kind of lesson is hard to forget.
“Hi,” I say quietly, my voice catching in my throat.
“You look beautiful,” he says.
Jessie darts over to us. “You two can make up later. You’re holding up the photographer,” she hisses, grabbing my arm, and deposits me at the end of the line of bridesmaids, as far from Mary-Kate as possible.
A dozen fake cheery smiles later, the photographer decides he’s gotten his fill of this pose.
“Pairs, please, pairs, please,” he calls, snapping his fingers.
His assistant guides us to a shabby chic taupe loveseat in the corner, where she instructs Toby and Mary-Kate to sit, and fans out Mary-Kate’s massive cloud of tulle over his lap. Bridesmaid-groomsman pairs surround them: Jessie sidles up to Charlie. Faye makes a beeline for her cousin. Jonathan is the only one left, and the thought of being cradled in his arms for however many minutes it takes to get the right shot frays my nerves. I glance over helplessly at Mary-Kate, who shoots a look at Jonathan.
“Faye, trade places with Sasha,” Nancy orders, cutting in. “That way, the bride and groom’s siblings will be together. It’s a nice shot, isn’t it?”
The ceremony is formal, and if I were in a better mood, I’d think it’s beautiful. Instead, I want to bolt. Jonathan stands stoically next to Charlie, Toby’s best man, his attention focused on the happy couple. I gaze down the aisle toward the back of the room where Mary-Kate’s other single friends undoubtedly are hating every minute of this sappy nightmare, too. When the ceremony ends, I slip through the crowd and head to the ladies’ room. I just need a second alone to decompress.
The restroom is decked out in white marble. I file into the first stall, flip the toilet lid down, sit down hard, and slump forward with my palms pressed to my cheeks. Breathe, I tell myself. Just breathe. My mind spins in circles: the night we first kissed in Paris, the first time he brought me home to his parents, the easy confidence in his smile. And then, the image shifts: Jonathan’s face on Georgie’s phone, Cassidy’s glossy pink lips, Cassidy’s 250,000 fans, cheering her on daily with likes and praise. It’s too much.
I hear the door open and two more sets of heels clack into the ladies’ room and stop in front of the sinks and mirrors.
“You’ll never guess what Carol told me,” one says, voice dripping with gossip. Carol is Jonathan’s aunt.
“About Mary-Kate’s nose?”
“No, she’s very coy. She never confirmed that.”
“Oh. Well, then, what?”
“Did you see that tall bridesmaid?”
I snap to attention. What?
“Which one?”
“Dark hair, busty?”
I’m torn between opening the door and revealing myself, and staying put. I know it’s about to get dishy. I lean my elbows on my knees and listen as intently as possible for whatever’s about to come next.
“That’s Jonathan’s girlfriend. Her mother is apparently some kind of Russian mail-order bride. Picked out of a catalog and everything.”
“No . . .”
“Mhm. Can you believe it?”
Part of me can’t believe that my secret leaked through the Colton family like that. But part of me feels naïve for ever expecting I could keep a lid on it forever. Of course Jonathan told, or Mary-Kate told, or Toby told. Of course that was the thing that would precede me—not that I’m a matchmaker or that I just graduated magna cum laude from NYU. Of course the dirt would travel fastest.
“How trashy,” one of them continues. “I didn’t even know that Jonathan was seeing anybody.”
“Well, obviously they’re not trying to show her off.”
They fall into silence, probably reapplying lipstick or fluffing their hair. It’s all clear now. I don’t belong here. I can try as hard as I want—borrow a dress from the daughter of a would-be congressman, have my face contoured beyond all recognition, sit idly by as Jonathan cheats on me—but I won’t ever be one of them. I’m not thin, I’m not blond, I’m not old money. What’s the point in trying anymore? I stand up, unlock the stall door, and step up to the middle sink between the two women.
“Excuse me,” I say, turning on the faucet and running my hands under the stream.
I look into the mirror and make eye contact with each woman’s reflection, my lips curling into a smug smile. They’re both middle-aged, lightly tanned, with sun spots on their chests and thumbnail-sized pearls dangling from their ears.
“I couldn’t help but overhear what you were saying about Jonathan’s girlfriend.” They both go wide-eyed, thin lips parted as if about to apologize. I’m relishing this. No fucks left to give. I twist off the faucet, grab a rolled-up fluffy white hand towel from the stack on the vanity, and unroll it with a sharp flick of my wrist. “But before you call me trashy, just know that I don’t sleep around like some of your relatives do.”
The smaller one sucks in her breath, eager for gossip. “Who do you mean?”
I wipe my hands with the towel and toss it into the bin. “Oh, Frank. Nancy. Jonathan. The whole family is quite charming. You can imagine my relief when I caught Jonathan cheating, dumped him, and no longer have to be a part of it.”
I sweep a glossy sheet of hair over my shoulders and stride out the door as their jaws drop. If this family has taught me anything, it’s that you don’t get anywhere by being nice. I’m shocked at my own boldness. Normally, I’m the last person to spill a secret, but I don’t feel any remorse. Instead, I just feel a beautiful, limitless freedom.
Back in the hall for cocktail hour, I ignore the black bow-tied waiters passing silver trays of Mary-Kate and Toby’s signature cocktail—some prissy champagne lemon thing—and head to the open bar for an extra-cold dirty vodka martini. I ask for it very, very, very dry, with three olives. The sound of ice clanking inside the shaker calms my nerves. The bartender pours the drink and hands it over, glass filled to the brim and trembling with surface tension. I take a sip and discover it’s biting enough to cut through the jazz quartet and the mumble of voices that reverberate throughout the hall. I thank him and head over to an empty cocktail table in the corner of the room.
“Mind if I join you?” a man with a British accent asks minutes later, appearing at my elbow.
I look up from my phone. He has a dark shock of hair gelled up in the front and a pleasant face. It takes a second to place him, but we met last year at Mary-Kate and Toby’s engagement party. He and Toby grew up together; he’s the friend who works in entertainment whom I promised Caroline I’d talk to.
“Oh, hi! Gordon, right?”
“Yes, Gordon. Sasha, right? Jonathan’s girlfriend?”
“Oh, um. Yeah. I mean, no. We just broke up this week,” I say, try
ing to fake a lighthearted laugh.
“I’m so sorry to hear that.” He puts down his glass of Scotch, looking concerned.
“It’s fine, it’s fine . . .” I insist, taking a gulp of my drink to stall. “You work in TV, don’t you?”
“I do.”
“My best friend is working on a pilot and I know she’d love to run some questions by a person who actually works in the industry. It’s like The Vampire Diaries meets The Bachelor, if that makes any sense.”
Gordon laughs. “I mean, I work at PBS. But I could take a look at it.”
“Really? Oh, thank you! That would be amazing.”
“Of course. So, how’s it going? What’s new with you? Aside from, you know.”
“Ha. Well. I graduated from school and started working . . . it’s kind of an insane job. I work as a matchmaker for a dating service.”
It takes Gordon a second to wrap his head around that. “You do . . . what?”
I launch into my usual explanation of what I do at Bliss. After weeks of reciting it multiple times a day to potential matches, I have my lines down pat, down to the exact inflections of my tone. I love watching the intrigue build behind Gordon’s eyes. It’s so simple to dangle Bliss into the conversation and captivate people. Even this room, filled with Colton blue bloods from Westchester, Toby’s tech mogul buddies, and Mary-Kate’s glitterati or Twitterati or whatever, I’m the most interesting one.
It occurs to me that Jonathan could very well be watching us, so I make a show of touching his arm and laughing. Talking about Bliss reminds me: I need another date for Mindy. And here’s Gordon: a cute, successful man with a gloriously posh accent who’s hanging on my every word. What’s not for Mindy to like?
“Hold on. You don’t happen to be Jewish, do you?”
“There’s some Jewish ancestry on my mother’s side, actually.”
Close enough. “You know, I just realized that you might really hit it off with one of my clients. What do you think about letting me set you up?”
He swills his Scotch, considering the idea. “What would that involve?”
“Tell me . . . what do you look for in the women you date?”
“You mean in terms of personality?” he asks.
Men who want to appear sensitive always rush to ask that. They don’t want to give me the impression they care chiefly for looks. I nod.
“Well, passion is huge,” he says. “She has to really love something, whether it’s her job, or her friends, or her travels. Spontaneity is important, too. Quiet, loud, doesn’t matter to me . . . but I want someone with a good heart. A caring, considerate person.”
I have no idea if Mindy would consider herself spontaneous or what exactly constitutes a “good heart.” I nudge Gordon on, trying to land on anything that would make him and Mindy a compatible match. He says he could see himself settling down in a few years and would love to have kids one day. He’s mostly dated brunettes in the past. Boom, boom, boom. I slide an olive from my drink between my teeth, bite, and swallow.
Matchmaking is not as straightforward as I’d imagined. But at least I know thus far that Gordon’s breath smells fine, he’s not wearing a wedding band, and he doesn’t have any jarring speech impediments or facial tics. Not bad. That’s essentially what I’m here for as a matchmaker—to weed out any total disasters and introduce my clients to people they wouldn’t necessarily encounter on their own. It’s impossible to predict with 100 percent certainty if two people will hit it off, but it’s pretty simple to tell if someone is a disgusting scumbag. I ask for Gordon’s number and tell him I’ll follow up soon. He reaches into his suit jacket and pulls out a thick card. I don’t have a purse with me, so I tuck it into the neckline of my dress instead, securing it between my bra and my skin. He raises an eyebrow and gives me a bemused look.
“Pleasure to see you again, Sasha.”
Cocktail hour is over, and guests are filtering into the elevators for the rooftop reception. Gordon heads to the bar for another refill, and I head upstairs to find my table. At 7 p.m., the sky is just beginning to turn a dusty blue. Pink and orange streaks hang across the west side of Manhattan. Golden yellow lights flicker on in buildings below us. I watch Mary-Kate and Toby’s first dance as Mr. and Mrs. Warren, then drown myself in a second martini as couples stream onto the dance floor. My phone dies, so I can’t even retreat online.
Jonathan maneuvers into the open seat to my right. I fix him with a stone-cold gaze copied directly from his mother.
“Will you dance with me?” he asks.
I give a short, hollow laugh. “You must be kidding me.”
“I’m not.”
“No.”
“Sasha, please.” He buries his face in his hands, then smoothes his forehead with tense, flexed fingers. He has that same look of frustrated concentration he gets when he receives a particularly bad work email. “I know I hurt you. Just dance with me and let me talk to you. Let me explain.”
He looks so goddamn sharp in his tuxedo, like an old Hollywood actor. I’m reluctant to give him an inch, but I’m curious about what he wants to say. I like that for once, he’s begging me.
“Fine. You have one dance.”
“Thank you.”
The song is winding down and another one starts up. I rise out of my chair and walk to the dance floor. He holds out his arms stiffly, like he’s recalling the correct position from the dance lesson Mary-Kate and Nancy forced him to take last month. I step into his arms, and he relaxes, like this is the most natural thing in the world. The sensation of his grip on my waist and his fingers curling over the top of my shoulder makes my brain vibrate in an uncomfortable way.
“I want to apologize,” he says, leading us into a slow, rocking two-step. “I messed up. Big-time. And I know this doesn’t make up for what I did, but I promise it won’t ever happen again.”
“Why did you do it?” I ask after a pause.
He tilts his head back and groans. “I don’t know. I wish I never did.”
“But you did.”
Couples slow-dance all around us.
“I felt powerless, okay?” he spits out bitterly. “My job controls my hours, what I do, when I do it. I don’t have any say over my life anymore. You don’t know what it’s like to feel so powerless.”
I would push away from him, but the photographer chooses that exact moment to sidle up to us for a shot. I stay put, fuming, in his arms. It’ll be an awful photo.
“I don’t know what it’s like to feel powerless? How about, oh, I don’t know, feeling powerless to stop my boyfriend from sleeping around?”
“Sasha, shhh. My family is all here.”
“You think I give a shit if they hear?”
Jonathan’s grandparents, to our left, look over, alarmed.
“You’re right. I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”
When I don’t respond right away, he looks around the room and sighs loudly.
“Did I tell you that you look beautiful tonight?”
“Yes.”
“ ‘Breathtaking’ is really the right word.”
“Mhm.”
“I mean it.”
“Mm.”
“Sasha, damn it, talk to me. I need you to forgive me.”
He continues leading me in slow two-steps around the dance floor. I’m sure my teeth are leaving irreparable imprints on the inside of my lip. If I bite down hard enough, I’ll be able to focus on the pain, not the man in front of me, not the wedding, not my life.
“Fine. You want me to talk? I’ll talk.” I take a deep breath and will myself not to cry. If I cry, he’ll see how weak I am, how easily he can bend me back into his arms. “You knew my dad cheated on my mom for years. And she hasn’t had an easy life—she taught herself English, worked her way up from a minimum-wage job. But you know what the proudest moment of her life was? Leaving him and starting a new life for herself. That’s what she considers her biggest accomplishment.”
“I know I messed up!”
he explodes. He stops dancing. “But I’m nothing like your dad. This isn’t like that. Just please. Forgive me.”
Nancy strides over to us, nostrils flaring like all hell, hands on her hips.
“What do you two think you are doing,” she whispers, razor-sharp, through gritted teeth. “You’re causing a scene.”
Jonathan opens his mouth, then closes it again. His eyes deaden. If he thought he could win me back this easily, he’s just now realizing he can’t. I might be the first thing he’s ever wanted and not gotten right away.
“I was just leaving,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest.
“You can’t leave!” Jonathan protests, just as his mother says, “That sounds very wise.”
I spin around, hold my head up high, and walk back to my table. I pick up my martini and raise it to my lips; fleeing a wedding is no excuse for not taking full advantage of an open bar. But then I see Jonathan rushing after me, scooting around the two dancing flower girls and an elderly relative trying to catch his attention.
“Sasha, please, just listen to me,” he pleads, catching my arm.
I try to pull away, but his fingers tighten around my wrist.
“Let go.”
“If you’ll just listen, I swear—”
In one lightning moment, I slosh the martini glass toward him. The vodka arcs gracefully through the air before splattering across his blinking, sputtering face. He drops my wrist and yelps, and I dart out of the room.
— Chapter 15 —
I don’t charge my phone until an hour later, after I’ve trudged twenty blocks home in pumps that rub my feet raw and recounted the wedding in exquisite detail to a near-hysterical Caroline. (“You did what?”) That’s when the missed calls flood in from both Eddie and Diane. Was their date scheduled for tonight? I listen to the first voicemail in horror.
Playing with Matches Page 14
