Once and for All

by Sarah Dessen

  “Worse than being unhappy?”

  “Well, yes,” she replied. “Like, in a marriage, it’s not just whether you see the glass as half-full or half-empty. It’s whether you see it those two ways, or any of the other endless fractions that are possible.”

  William winced. “This conversation is making my head hurt. I give them six years. And she leaves, for someone else. Three kids.”

  My mom leaned her head to the side, considering this. “I don’t know. What do you think, Louna?”

  I blinked, not having expected to be asked to weigh in. This was their game, not mine, even though I had seen Charlotte and her groom laughing happily as they climbed into the car to leave together. For them, and her in particular . . . I wished they’d always put each other first. Out loud, though, I said, “I have no idea.”

  “Smart girl.” William raised his glass at me. “She who doesn’t gamble can never lose.”

  “Or win,” my mom pointed out.

  “Details,” he replied, and they both laughed, then clinked glasses.

  I felt a yawn coming on and reached up, covering my mouth, wishing we could just go ahead and do our final sweep so we, too, could head home. Before that would happen, though, I had to collect all the vases we’d rented from the tables, and I wasn’t about to do it alone. Ambrose, however, was nowhere in sight.

  Just as I thought this, I heard voices from over by the back door where Ira had escaped. When I turned, there Ambrose was with, of all people, Julie the annoying maid of honor. She was holding her shoes in one hand, the thrown bouquet—which, as William predicted, she’d dived for with vigor—in the other. As Ambrose said something to her, she tipped her head back and laughed again, putting a hand on his arm.

  There’s something messy about people at the end of weddings. Clothes, once pressed, are rumpled and creased. Hair escapes from chignons and gets wild from dancing. Makeup runs, as do stockings and tights, and women almost always shed their shoes, men their jackets. There’s nothing neat about that feeling when the finiteness of the event hits and you’re suddenly more aware than ever that tomorrow is just another regular day. Maybe this was what made people drag out the night, stretching the time left a little longer. I understood it: I’d done it. But we were working here, not attending. Ambrose could get messy off the clock. I wanted to go home.

  “Hey,” I called out, and they both looked over at me. “Let’s grab these vases so we can start getting out of here.”

  “Sure thing, boss,” he replied. “Be there in five seconds.”

  The boss thing was new, since an incident earlier when I’d told him that no, he couldn’t accept when one of the bridesmaids asked him to dance. I assumed he’d known this already, having extended the same offer to me at his own mother’s wedding. My assumptions were always wrong when it came to Ambrose.

  “No dancing?” he said, once I’d told him to decline. Still, I could feel the bridesmaid, ever hopeful, hovering behind me. “Aren’t we here to make sure the party is perfect?”

  “You really think that much of your conga skills?”

  “Well, no,” he replied, although clearly, he did. “But a good wedding is at least ninety-five percent based on a great dance floor experience. I can help with that.”

  In the business less than a week and he was quoting statistics. Made-up ones, but statistics. “We’re not here to enjoy the party. We’re here to make sure everyone else does.”

  “What if their enjoyment could be enhanced by us contributing our own?”

  “It doesn’t work that way,” I said, as a girl in her late twenties, wearing a pink dress, began crossing the floor in his direction, that telltale look on her face. What was he, a dancing magnet? “Just politely say no, tell them you’re working, and move off the dance floor. If you’re not here, you can’t be asked.”

  He pointed at me. “That’s my motto in general when it comes to dancing. You have to put yourself out there!” I looked at his finger. He lowered it, slowly. “I mean, unless you’re working. Sorry, boss.”

  “I’m not your boss,” I grumbled, starting toward the buffet line. When I looked back, he was shaking his head, smiling, as the girl in pink tried to lead him farther into the shifting crowd. When he backed away, she made a sad face, then mimed wiping a tear. Jesus.

  Just recalling this was making me even crankier, so I got to my feet, collecting the vase from the table where I’d been sitting, then the one next to it. I was all set to snap at Ambrose as he finally did come over, but then I saw he was carrying three others, one in each hand and another pressed to his chest. “Where should I pour these out?” he asked.

  “Just put them in the crate for now and we’ll do it outside,” I said. I always hated a wedding when we had to collect equipment after the fact, preferring the ones my mom called Zero Footprint, where we just left it all for the venue to deal with. As I picked up another vase, I saw Julie crossing the room, shoes now on, the bouquet dangling down beside her. “What was she saying to you?”

  “Who?” I nodded at her. “Jules? Nothing much. Just wondering where an out of towner could grab a martini at this late hour. I told her I knew just the place.”

  “You’re going out with her tonight?”

  “It’s just a drink. And a ride for me and Ira, which is a good thing. Our dogs are tired.”

  Ha-ha, I thought as I walked over to the wooden rack we’d stored under the cake table and slid the vases into them. The flowers, white roses mixed with those peonies I’d caved on, had held up well, still perky as they bobbed in their water.

  “So what happens to these now?” Ambrose asked, as he added his vases to the rack.

  “The flowers?” I asked. “Usually we toss them.”

  “Really? Seems wasteful.”

  “Maybe,” I said. “But after picking them up, arranging them, putting them out on tables, and then collecting them back up, I feel like our relationship has run its full course.”

  I could feel him watching me as I slid another vase in, a few petals falling off one rose as I did so. “Do you look at everything in terms of coupling and uncoupling?”

  I shrugged, getting to my feet again. “Unavoidable effect of the business, I guess. Grab those across the room, will you? I’ll get this side.”

  “You got it, boss.” This time, I didn’t have the energy to correct him.

  “I need to hit the bathroom, so I’ll take final sweep,” William called out as he and my mom, ritual completed, got up from their chairs. “What’s left besides that and vases?”

  “Cake top from the fridge,” my mom told him. “Charlotte’s mom is supposed to come by the office for it first thing Monday.”

  “And then we’re done,” he replied, holding up a hand. She slapped him five—the champagne was showing—and they headed in their separate directions as Ambrose and I finished filling the rack and carried it outside to the van. There, in the glare of a parking lot light, we dumped the water out of the vases one by one, putting the flowers on the curb beside. By the time we were done, all I could smell were roses.

  “So long, fellas,” Ambrose told the blooms, a solemn look on his face. “It’s not you, it’s us.”

  I rolled my eyes but didn’t say anything, instead focusing on getting the rack secured for the trip back to the office. By the time William and my mom came out, I’d slipped my feet out of the backs of my own shoes, feeling ever closer to the night’s end and my own barefoot drive home.

  “Good job, team,” my mom said as she pulled her keys out of her purse. “Kudos to Ambrose and Louna in particular for finding a wayward child.”

  “Thank you, ma’am,” he replied, giving her a salute. “It was the least I could do for the company.”

  William laughed. “I like this kid. So dedicated!”

  The child wouldn’t have been lost if it wasn’t for his dog, I wanted to say. I d
idn’t.

  “Monday,” my mom continued, “we turn our full attention to the Elinor Lin Wedding. It’s a double hander, with a very detail-oriented bride. So rest up.”

  With that, William climbed into the van, taking off his suit jacket, while my mom headed to her car. I reached back, taking down the bun I always wore when working, then ran a hand through my hair as I dug for my own keys. When I looked up, Ambrose was getting to his feet, a bunch of the discarded blooms in his arms. He’d wrapped them with a crumpled program, fashioning a huge, trailing bouquet, which he held out to me.

  “Oh,” I said, suddenly feeling bad about how short I’d been with him all night. Not that it was exactly proper to give a co-worker flowers, but still, a nice gesture. “You shouldn’t—”

  “No?” He looked down at them. “You said you were throwing them out, so I thought it was okay if I took them.”

  I heard footsteps, and then Julie stepped out from behind the next row of cars. “Ambrose? You ready to go get that drink?”

  He was still looking at me. “Of course,” I told him. “It’s fine.”

  “See you Monday, Louna,” he said, then started over to her, holding the flowers out in greeting. Taking them, she ducked her head down to breathe in the scent, and I thought of her waiting for the bride to throw the bouquet earlier, how she’d gone into a crouch, eyes sharp, determined to be the lucky one. It was so calculated, so different from this, unexpected in that way only weddings could be.

  “See you,” I replied, not that either of them heard me as they started toward the loading bay, I assumed to collect Ira. I waited until they were out of sight before I walked back to the curb, where all the blossoms still lay, petals around them. I picked up one peony and a rose, then thought better and left them where they were. There’s a difference between things given and those you simply find. Julie knew it, and I did, too. I never expected anything from anyone. Which was not the same thing as not wanting, ever, to be surprised.

  CHAPTER

  10

  “WHICH IS which?” I asked, squinting into the dark pan.

  “Does it matter? Just dig in.”

  I looked at Ethan as he poked his own fork into what I thought was the slice of blueberry crumble, scooping out a huge bite. “You can’t just jam them all together and make some hybrid. We got six flavors. Each needs to be tasted individually.”

  “Lulu,” he said. “It’s one thirty in the morning and we’re sitting in the dark. Just eat.”

  I had a nickname now, something else I’d never experienced before. The numbers in that category just kept growing. And yet, I was clearly the same Louna, compelled to add, “That man clearly takes his pies seriously. The way he advised us you would have thought we were buying a car. Or life insurance.”

  “But we weren’t. Here.” The next thing I knew, his fork was up against my lips, and I smelled custard. “This one’s some kind of fruity mush. It’s good.”

  I took the bite, messily. “That’s the lemon-orange crumb.”

  This I remembered specifically, because it had sounded so good. Once inside the coffee shop, we discovered the owner, a guy in an EAT SLEEP FISH baseball hat, was closing up. At the register, a dark-haired boy and his girlfriend, clearly regulars, were getting one last hit of caffeine to go.

  “Anywhere else close by to eat at this hour?” Ethan asked them as they paid up.

  The girl, wearing shorts and a T-shirt that said CLEMENTINE’S, looked at the boy. “World of Waffles, but it’s not exactly walking distance. Or there’s the Wheelhouse.”

  “No,” the guy said flatly. “The coffee there tastes like burnt towels.”

  “There’s a twenty-four-hour café at the Big Club,” she suggested. “Lousy coffee, but great people-watching.”

  “Auden,” the guy said. “Are you trying to give terrible suggestions?”

  “At least I’m suggesting,” she replied. To us she said, “Look, this place is as good as it gets even in daylight hours. Your best bet is to take some pie and drinks to go.”

  “Please do,” said the guy behind the counter. “I’ll even give you a deal. Pie is never as good the second day.”

  Choosing had taken time with so many selections, all looking delicious, and the owner walking us through the particulars of each. In the end, we’d left with two large coffees, a pie pan filled with one of just about everything, and two forks. The slices looked gorgeous in the case. In the dark, though, it was all about the taste.

  “Oh, man.” Ethan sat back, whistling between his teeth, then pointed at the pan. “This one, on the right, is IT. Chocolate and crunchy. And maybe orange?”

  I reached across him with my own utensil, taking some. “Pot de crème and mandarin. He said that one was his favorite.”

  Ethan helped himself to another huge forkful. As he moved it toward his mouth, a mandarin slipped off, landing on my arm with a splat. “Whoops. Sorry.”

  “Look at you,” I said, as he picked it up, still chewing. There was a spot of chocolate on his nose. “You’re a mess.”

  “Try to catch this,” he said, rearing back with the segment. I opened my mouth. He threw it, going wide, and hit my ear. “Bad throw. Sorry.”

  “Give me that,” I said, taking the pie plate. I dug out another mandarin, pinching it between my fingers, and he set down his fork, readying himself, mouth open. I started laughing even before I launched it, sending it sailing over his head.

  He turned, watching it hit the sand. “Well, if you were aiming for the water, I’d call that close.”

  “I was,” I said, and then he smiled at me and reached out, pulling me in for a kiss. He tasted like chocolate, and as a breeze blew over us, swirling up sand, I closed my eyes tightly, thinking no, now I wanted to stay in this moment, forever.

  This was weird, I knew, as I’d only met him a few hours ago. But with our walk, the dance, all the talking, and now pie, Ethan was already familiar in his quirks and tells. The way he squinted, tightly, before saying something he felt strongly. The slow lope of his big, tall guy walk. The feeling of his class ring, cold and smooth, against my fingers when he took my hand. The trill of his ringtone, a pop song so unexpected that the first time I’d heard it, I’d had to laugh.

  We’d been sitting in the sand, sharing pictures on our phones. I showed him Jilly, my mom and William, and the one picture of myself I actually liked, which had been taken under a gazebo at a wedding the previous spring. In turn, I got to see him with the guys he’d been friends with since preschool, posing shirtless, all of their hair wet and cowlicked, by a backyard swimming pool. I’d just been leaning in closer to examine a shot of him on the soccer field when the phone rang, the tone a clip of a girl singing over a bouncy, fizzy beat.

  “What is that?” I said, laughing as he scrambled to silence it.

  “Don’t do it,” he said, holding up a hand. “Do not mock. You don’t know the whole story.”

  I waited.

  “If you must know,” he said, looking down at the phone, “it’s Lexi Navigator.”

  “Seriously?” All I knew about Lexi Navigator, a teenage singer with a statuesque build and a huge amount of dark hair, were the skimpy outfits and plentiful feathers and body glitter that were her trademark. She was the kind of entertainer defined by the fact that I could name at least three of her outlandish getups off the top of my head, but not one of her songs. “I would not have guessed that.”

  “I said don’t mock,” he reminded me.

  “Then tell me the story.”

  A sigh. Then he squinted. “Okay. So, it’s the beginning of junior year and my buddy Sam’s dad, who’s an entertainment lawyer, gets this block of tickets to a Lexi Navigator show. We’re not doing anything, and it’s the whole VIP thing: limo, backstage passes, all that. So we go.”

  “No girls? Just you?”

  “What, six guys can’t hi
t up a Lexi Navigator show in the name of male bonding? You gotta live, right?” I bit my lip, trying not to laugh. “So the seats are, like, third row. We’re all just laughing, making fun of the opening act, having fun. Then she comes out, and there’s fireworks and confetti and she’s in this dress that shoots lasers, wearing a wire basket on her head . . .”

  “Wait, a wire basket?”

  He shrugged. “That’s what it looked like. And the show is crazy, right? All these greased-up dancers, balloons falling, little girls screaming all around us. Then, about halfway through, she goes into this more mellow part, brings down the lights, puts a stool on the stage, takes a seat.”

  “Still wearing the basket?”

  “No, by then she’d changed, like, ten times. She had on, like, a crown of snakes and a bikini tuxedo.”

  “Of course she did.”

  “So she starts talking about the next song,” he continued, “and how it was inspired by her grandmother dying the year before. And then she starts singing, and about a verse in, she’s crying.”

  “Really.”

  “Yup.” He squinted. “And we’re all sitting there, only a few feet away, and I can see the tears and they’re real, and suddenly I start thinking about my grandmother.”

  “Your grandmother’s passed, too?”

  “No, she’s fine. Healthy as a horse. Which is what makes this all so stupid.” He sighed. “So I’m watching, and she’s crying, and I’m thinking about Nana, and you know, maybe I get a little emotional myself.”

  I waited a second. Then I said, “Maybe?”

  “I did.” He coughed. “And, unfortunately, it was seen. And documented by my buddies.”

  I reached over, taking his hand again. “Oh, dear.”

  “Exactly.” He folded his fingers through mine. “And of course they won’t let it go, even when she changes into a mermaid costume with a real flipper. They’re threatening to post it everywhere, immediately, and I just want to die. And kill them. Or kill them, and then die.”