by Sarah Dessen
“Correction. I want to take a free trip to an island under the guise of considering a wedding there,” he told her. “Just think about it. Beach, clear blue water, cocktails with umbrellas, all expenses paid. If you didn’t already deserve it, you definitely do after tonight.”
As if to punctuate this, Mrs. Lin began at that moment to lay into a member of the catering staff. The woman, startled, cowered back, a tray of empty glasses trembling above her. I looked over to the head table, where Elinor Lin was huddled close with her new husband, their heads ducked together, both of them smiling. While part of me wished she’d take responsibility for the tornado that was her mother, I had to admit she looked awfully happy. And God knew she probably deserved it. We’d only dealt with Mrs. Lin for a few weeks. I couldn’t imagine an entire life.
As I thought this, Ambrose walked up to our little confab. “All clear on the fainting junior bridesmaid,” he reported. “I just checked on her again and she’s fine.”
Hearing this, I glanced over at the head table, where, sure enough, the tween who’d passed out during the vows earlier was now giggling with one of the flower girls. We were used to people getting woozy, if not blacking out altogether. It was why my mom always gave her “don’t lock your knees and standing will be a breeze” speech at rehearsals, especially when it was hot outside. Inevitably, though, we had a few people go down, and this girl had done it in spectacular fashion, crashing into a flower arrangement and taking it with her. When she came to and realized what happened, she was so embarrassed she burst into tears.
I’d led her into a side room, water in hand, prepared to stay with her there until the ceremony ended. But it was Ambrose who proved to be crucial in the moment.
“You think that was bad?” he asked her, sliding into the folding chair adjacent to her own. “I’ll tell you about embarrassing. This one time? I was trying to walk backward while talking to a girl and didn’t see the curb. Fell over it, landed right on my tailbone, screamed like a baby. It was horrifying.”
The junior bridesmaid, face red, just looked at him. “Really?”
“Oh, yeah,” he said, waving his hand easily. “And that was nothing. Another time, at school, I was giving this presentation on toxic waste and my pants fell down. I was into baggy clothes then, but man, not that baggy.”
At this, I laughed: I couldn’t help myself. He grinned at me, then at the girl, who now had the barest semblance of a smile. “And another time,” he continued, lowering his voice slightly, “I was messing with this tape dispenser and it exploded in front of my boss and this seriously pretty girl who worked with me. There was smoke, and I had to get down on the floor and clean it all up, in front of everyone.”
I blinked, remembering. He sure hadn’t seemed embarrassed. And I was pretty now, in this retelling? Just as I thought this, he looked up at me, the tween now tittering beside him, and I felt myself smile. I’d realized a lot of things about Ambrose that day and since, but this one always surprised me. He was kind. So kind. Who knew?
Now I watched as he adjusted his tie, then said to us, “DJ says they’ll do the bouquet and garter toss in fifteen. Next, another half hour of dancing, followed by the grand exit. Then we can start kicking people out.”
“Starting with Mrs. Lin,” I said, as my mother gave me a smile.
“Good luck with that,” he replied. “She just read me the riot act about the dessert forks. I don’t even know what those are.”
My mother, hearing this, turned to look at the nearest table, taking in the place settings there. Even when she thought someone was crazy, she still wanted things to be just right. It was either a professional strength or weakness: I had not yet figured out which.
“Oh, and Louna,” Ambrose added, as she picked up a fork, conferring with William, “that guy at table ten asked if I knew where you were. Just a hunch, but I’m betting he doesn’t know your strict policy about dancing.”
“I don’t have a policy about dancing,” I told him. “Just dancing at weddings at which I am working.”
“Well, you better tell him. Because here he comes.”
Sure enough, when I turned, Ben Reed was approaching from behind me, that same familiar easygoing smile on his face. My mom and William moved aside, giving me space, and I expected Ambrose to follow suit. But of course, he stayed right where he was.
“Hey,” Ben said. “You disappeared.”
“This is the kind of wedding that keeps you running,” I explained. “Having a good time?”
“Yeah.” He glanced at Ambrose. “Um, actually, I wanted to ask you something.”
Now, surely, Ambrose would leave us alone. He didn’t. I turned my body, to at least block him out. “Sure,” I said.
Ben glanced across the country club lawn, where the dance floor, set up under a white tent, was packed with people. “I wondered if you might want to d—”
Just then, there was a burst of loud laughter from the table behind us, followed by the clinking of glasses. But I’d gotten the idea.
“I can’t,” I said. “I’m not allowed to when I’m working.”
Ben looked confused. “Like, at all?”
“Well, no.” I looked at my mom and William, now discussing the forks. “Because we’re part of the staff, it’s frowned upon.”
“So you can’t go out, even after it’s over?”
Now I was perplexed. Ambrose, however, had not missed anything. “He asked you if you wanted to do something,” he said, leaning into my ear. “I think you misheard?”
I felt my face get red, along with a sudden surge of fury that he was even part of this exchange. “I’m so sorry,” I said to Ben, shaking my head. “I thought . . . I thought you asked me to dance.”
“Oh,” he said. For some reason he looked at Ambrose. Maybe he thought he might have to interpret this, as well? “No. But I can. I mean, I will. I just thought because you were working—”
“That’s what I meant,” I said, stepping over his words. “I mean, when I said that. Clients can’t totally forbid me to be social. Yet, anyway.”
At this, he smiled, and it occurred to me, distantly, that this would be the kind of meet-cute story someone in another situation might tell, years later, part of a beginning. “Good. Because I was beginning to wonder if this was a slave labor sort of situation.”
“It can be. But not like that.”
We both stood there a second, recalibrating. Then I felt Ambrose lean into my ear again. “You still haven’t answered his actual question, FYI.”
“Will you butt out?” I said to him through clenched teeth, adding a swat for good measure. This time, he backed away. A bit. With Ben watching, like we were both crazy. I took a breath, composing myself. “I’d love to do something once this is all over. If, you know, you’re still asking.”
He smiled. “I am. How about this week? A movie, dinner . . .”
“Great,” I said. “Just text me. Let me give you my number.”
As he pulled out his phone, opening up the contacts and handing it to me, I wondered why Ambrose was so interested in this, especially since he had his own perfect, awesome girl and, in his mind, our bet pretty much sealed up. I was going to ask him after I’d typed in my number and Ben walked away. By then, though, he was gone.
Two and a half hours later, I was busy untangling yet another tulle bow from a chair. It was ten thirty, long past the originally projected end of the Lin wedding, and we’d just seen the last of the guests out the doors to their cars. This was a full hour after the departure of the bride and groom, which, despite the happy cuddling I’d seen at the head table earlier, did not—as far as my system went, anyway—bode well for their union. While the guests threw birdseed and glitter (great for pictures, awful if you didn’t want it on you and your clothes for eternity), Elinor and her groom came out to the limo to make their grand exit. They smiled for the camera
and their friends and family. But in the final view I had from my vantage point near the country club gates, she was tugging her bias-cut, fluted dress as if he’d sat on it, her face annoyed, while he sat back against the seat, rolling his eyes. For them, I wished for forgiveness.
Maybe, I realized, I believed in wishes after all. At least for other people. Thinking this, I glanced over at Ambrose, who was collecting the large flower arrangements from the tables and toting them to Mrs. Lin’s car. What she planned to do in her hotel room with twenty towering vases of lilies, roses, and greenery was anyone’s guess. She’d made it very clear, however, that she would be taking anything the family paid for with her when she (finally) (blessedly) left. For the time being, however, she was still walking around barking orders. Ambrose and I were the only ones left to hear them, however; my mom and William had taken their ritualistic toast and commentary elsewhere.
“And these programs,” I heard her saying now, grabbing up the stack I’d brought from the church after the ceremony and put on the cake table. “Are the serving pieces ours?”
“No, they belong to the caterer,” Ambrose told her from behind a wobbling iris.
“Oh.” Mrs. Lin glanced around. “Well, the cocktail napkins, then.”
She picked them up, then headed my way, toward the exit. I made a point of bending down deeply over the chair in front of me, as if untying the bow there was on the level of splitting an atom. Even so, she said, “I’ll want all this fabric from these bows, as well. Tulle isn’t cheap.”
“Will do,” Ambrose said cheerfully. I shot him a look, which he didn’t see, too busy trying to keep up with her as she marched across the grass. Not for the first time, I wondered how he managed always to be so good natured, especially when my own patience had long ago worn thin.
By eleven fifteen, all that was left were the tents, tables, and chairs, which the venue would deal with (although I did see Mrs. Lin, on one of her final passes, studying them as if considering whether they, too, would fit in her rental car). It wasn’t until she drove off, the sedan packed to the ceiling, that my mother and William reappeared. They were in a much better mood, red-cheeked and giggly. What Mrs. Lin gives, champagne takes away.
“Ding-dong, the witch is gone,” William said, as her taillights turned out of the gates. “That was one for the record books.”
“Mark my words,” my mother said, “I will not deal with that woman again. If she forgot something, one of you has to get it to her.”
“I doubt that’s going to happen,” Ambrose told her. “She took just about anything not nailed down.”
“But the question,” William said, pointing at him, “is did you take anything?”
My mom and I looked at each other, not understanding. Then Ambrose, smiling, reached into his pocket, pulling out a handful of tissues. “Yep.”
“Damn!” William cackled. “I owe you twenty bucks.”
“Am I drunk? I don’t think I’m drunk,” my mom said to me. “But I don’t understand.”
William was still tittering, pulling out his wallet, while Ambrose carefully folded the tissues. Then, suddenly, I got it. “You took those from her bosom?”
Hearing me say this, William busted out laughing again. My mom, trying to look stern, said, “Okay, despite her behavior, that is not appropriate.”
“Oh, I think it’s very appropriate,” William told her, handing over a twenty to Ambrose, who took it with a grin. “She basically had them there in full view, like a human tissue dispenser. Don’t tell me you weren’t tempted.”
“I was tempted to punch her in the face,” my mom said. “But I guess this is the next best thing.”
“And the next best,” William said, “is us finally being done with this event for good. Next weekend, St. Samara.”
“I have not agreed to that, William,” my mom said.
“I already called Dr. Kerr, who contacted his travel agent. We leave Friday morning.”
“What?”
“Natalie.” He put his hands on her shoulders. “When was the last time we got to go anywhere in mid-summer, much less a tropical island? I need this. We need this. We’re going.”
My mom, exasperated, looked at me. I said, “I think it sounds great. You totally should do it.”
“See? Even Louna thinks so.” He dropped his hands. “Oh, I can’t wait. I am going to buy a straw hat just for the occasion. I’ll get you one, too.”
“I don’t want a straw hat.”
“You’ll change your mind,” he said easily. “Now come on. Let’s go finish that bottle at your place. Then we can go online and order resort wear.”
My mom still didn’t look convinced, but she followed him to the van, climbing into the passenger seat. To be honest, I couldn’t remember the last time she’d taken a vacation, and never during wedding season. Everything was different this summer.
As they drove off, my phone beeped. It was Ben. Already. Interesting.
KNOW YOU MIGHT STILL BE WORKING BUT I WAS THINKING LATE NIGHT BREAKFAST. WORLD OF WAFFLES?
“Well, that’s romantic,” Ambrose, who was somehow looking over my shoulder again, said. “Pancakes and thee? That’s a seriously awesome first date. You have to do it.”
I just looked at him until, slowly, he took a step back. “Why are you so invested in this? You were on us like a chaperone earlier.”
“I’m a curious person,” he said, like this was an excuse. “Also I have a lot invested in winning this bet.”
“I thought you said you had it in the bag. That Lauren makes it easy.”
“I do, and she does. But now you’re bringing in pancakes. I have to stay vigilant.”
I looked back at my phone. It was late evening, the whole night ahead of us. Pancakes would be a great start. And yet I knew I wouldn’t. I’d had the most epic of nights once. Things like that didn’t happen again.
WISH I COULD. WIPED. TEXT ME TOMORROW?
The little dots appeared: he’d been waiting. SURE. SLEEP GOOD.
“What?” Ambrose said. I looked at him. “You just made a face.”
“Did I?”
“Yeah.” He read the screen—of course he did—then clicked his tongue. “And I don’t get it, either. That is good play he’s giving. Pancakes? Telling you how to sleep? How can you not be into that?”
I put my phone back in my pocket. “It’s not him.”
“Then what is it?”
I looked up at him, trying to figure out how to answer this. In the weeks since we’d gone to Kirby’s together, I’d been waiting for the subject of Ethan to come up some other way between us. A passing mention from my mom, or William, or even Jilly. But it hadn’t. As far as he knew, I’d just had a bad breakup.
“Just too much like a first date I had with someone else,” I said. “Nobody wants to be a pale imitation.”
He studied me a second. Then he said, “That boyfriend of yours must have really been something. If the split ruined pancakes for you and everything.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Plus, I’m tired. But don’t worry. Ben and I will have a great date this week. Don’t count me out yet. I’m still on track to win.”
I expected him to laugh at this, or respond in kind with his typical bravado. Instead, he said nothing, just stood there until I was acutely aware of his silence. “Okay,” he said finally. “We’ll see.”
I smiled, shifting my bag to my other arm. It seemed a weird way to leave things, heavy in a sense I couldn’t explain. Without thinking, I reached forward to his jacket pocket, pulling out one of those folded Kleenexes. “Sorry,” I said. “Couldn’t resist.”
“Must be going around,” he replied.
A car pulled into the lot then, curving around to stop in front of us. It was Lauren, in a black tank dress and silver bracelets, her hair in loose waves. Ira was in the front seat, panting, his signa
ture bandana—yellow this time—tied jauntily around his neck. “Hey,” she said. “All done here?”
I slipped the tissue into my pocket as Ambrose said, “Yep. Let’s go.”
She waved at me as he climbed into the front seat, Ira jumping into the back and just as quickly poking his head up through the space between them. Just one big happy family, I thought, as they drove off. On my own way home, I passed the World of Waffles, lit up and busy as it seemed to be all times of the night, and wondered if I’d made a mistake. Just as quickly, though, I’d passed by, and it was behind me.
CHAPTER
20
BY THE beginning of the following week, my mom was finally coming around to the idea of a couple of days away. She was predicting the trip would be a disaster, mind you, and saying she’d never agree to an actual wedding that far offsite in a million years. But for her, this was progress.
“See that?” she said to me on Tuesday morning, as she sat in front of Daybreak USA with her coffee. Melissa Scott was narrating a segment entitled “Tourist Traps!” that detailed various scams crooks used on people while on vacation. Or, as it might as well have been called, Exhibit A. “They ask you for help, then they steal your passport, then you can never get home. It’s evil genius.”
“You can get another passport,” I pointed out, sticking a straw in the smoothie I’d just made. “You don’t have to, like, live there forever.”
Mom grumbled as Melissa held up the travel wallet the current expert recommended, which basically made it possible to attach your currency and documents to your body in a series of what looked like double knots. “I mean, really. I can’t wear something like that! I just shouldn’t go. This is ridiculous.”
I slid into the seat beside her, facing our kitchen TV. “Mom,” I said. “What’s your real issue, here? This can’t just be about an offsite wedding. It’s too crazy even for you.”
She gave me a look. “Oh, that’s nice. Thank you.”
“You know what I mean. Seriously, what gives?”
