by Becky Monson
“Oh, come on.” She bats her hand at me. “It’ll be fun! Do you think that Justin of yours can make it?”
“Well . . . I would have to ask him . . .”
“Great! Text him right now and see.” She looks at me, and then with her eyes, gestures down at the phone sitting to my left.
Text him? Right now? Oh, the tangled webs I have woven . . .
I pick up my phone, looking at it. What do I do? I look up at her and see her nod her head in approval. I let out a nervous laugh. I think the best thing to do would be to simply send out a fake text. So I type in a random number and start texting.
Justin, do you want to do dinner next Friday with my ex-boyfriend’s family?
I press send and set the phone down. “There, it’s all done. I’ll let you know what he says when he texts back.” He will say no, obviously, and I will come up with a reason to not go either. It’ll all be fine.
My phone beeps. Random number has texted me back. Oh, holy hell . . .
“Don’t ya wanna see what he says?” Carla looks at me inquisitively, since I haven’t picked up my phone.
“Um, I’ll check it in a minute. I’m hungry! I think I’ll eat my salad—”
“Oh, just give it to me.” She reaches across the table, and before I’m able to stop her, she has the phone in her hand.
“Let’s see what he had to say!” With lightning speed, she grabs her glasses out of her purse and puts them on so she can read the text.
“‘Who the hell is this, and how did you get my number?’” she reads, furrowing her brow, confused.
The phone beeps again. She looks up at me and then down at the phone.
“‘There ain’t no Justin here, you mother—’ Well, I’m not going to read that!” She holds the phone away from her face, repulsed. “Huh, that’s strange. Did you get the wrong number?” She looks at me curiously.
“I guess I did.” I shrug my shoulders. I start shoveling salad into my mouth like I haven’t eaten in days. I’m still not hungry; I’m basically eating my stress.
“Well, I’ll fix that,” she says as she taps her finger on my phone screen.
I try to tell her no, but my mouth is full of salad.
It’s silent while she works my phone. “There’s his name right there! I’ll just send him a message,” she says, fingers tapping away. “Justin, dinner with Adam’s family next Friday?” She dictates as she writes.
“There. It’s all done.” She smiles at me. I sheepishly smile back, ninety-nine percent sure there’s spinach in my teeth. But I don’t care.
Oh how I wish I could start this lunch over. Start it over and say these words: “I’m not dating anyone right now.” Why did I have to open my big mouth? This is why your parents teach you not to lie. Because someday you may be having lunch with your ex-boyfriend’s mother, and you will stick your foot in your mouth so ridiculously far that it will actually come out your rear.
My phone beeps. Oh. Dear. Heaven.
Carla clicks on the screen. “‘Are you … high?’“ she reads the text slowly.
“Oh, that silly Justin,” I say, as I reach across the table and snatch my phone out of her hand. “That’s a little game we like to play. He asks if I’m high, and I say ‘high for you.’ You know, romantic dating stuff like that.” I laugh nervously, cheeks blazing from the ridiculousness of that last statement.
I quickly text Justin.
Just shut up and I’ll explain later
I put my phone on silent and slide it into the pocket of my coat.
“It’s all settled then?” Carla looks at me, inquisitively.
“What’s all settled?” I say, trying desperately to recover from the absurdity of the last five minutes of my life.
“Dinner at my house, next Friday?” She looks at me, concerned that I’ve already forgotten.
“Dinner, right, you know I don’t think—”
“Oh, come on now, Bridgette. You know I won’t take no for an answer.” Carla cuts me off before I can tell her what a bad idea the whole thing is.
“Well, let me talk to Justin in person, and I’ll let you know, okay?” Maybe this answer will suffice for now, and then I can text later and tell her no. “Okay, well let me know soon. It’ll be fun. You’ll meet Serene the witch.” She sighs dramatically. “And we can all meet Justin. I thought this breakup between you and Adam would ruin what we have. You are like a daughter to me, you know. I always wanted a daughter. I sometimes wish F.J. had been a girl. Maybe he wouldn’t have been such a disappointment. But you know these things . . .”
She keeps talking, and I go back to my nodding and courtesy commenting. I did feel a twinge of guilt when she said she thinks of me as a daughter. She’s like family to me, after all. I don’t want to disappoint her, but I don’t think I could handle dinner with Adam and this new, stupid woman in his life.
Of course, on second thought, maybe if I prance around with Justin and show Adam how happy I am—maybe he’ll realize what he’s lost. And since Justin is an actual, tangible person, and not some made-up guy, I might pull it off. Plus, I do want to see this Serendipity girl, so I can point out all her flaws and feel better about myself.
Maybe this isn’t such a terrible idea after all.
CHAPTER 3
“Absolutely not,” Justin says as he grabs a tray of bacon-wrapped scallops.
“Justin, please. I swear I’ll do anything you want. Anything!” I beg him, as I grab a tray of crab-salad canapés. You would think he would take pity on me after seeing my blood-shot eyes and red-blotched face. I waited until after lunch, after I hugged Carla goodbye, to bawl my eyes out. I was barely able to contain myself enough to come to work. I’m still hiccupping every now and then.
“I will not go to some dinner party with you just so you can parade me around and try to make Adam jealous.” He gives me an appalled look.
“That’s not why I want you to go!”
That’s exactly why I want him to go.
“Bridgette, you’re completely delusional.” He looks away from me, annoyed.
“Stand down, everyone, the Sea Witch is coming!” Ashley announces as she walks into the staging area, carrying an empty tray. We all look lively. The chef starts calling out directions more rapidly, while the prep cook vigorously starts handing out prepared trays to the servers. There are eight servers on tonight, so with the chef and the prep cook, it’s been a little crowded back here, to say the least.
Justin and I each quickly grab a stack of cocktail napkins and head out into the dimly lit venue where we’re working tonight.
“I’m not done begging,” I whisper loudly to Justin as we walk out the door. He feigns ignorance.
Justin is my only hope. I could beg someone else to do it and convince him to change his name for the evening, but I want Justin to come with me. I need support, and I will take it where I can get it. Even from Justin. Besides, it’s not like he has anything to do with his extra time. We’re not even sure what he does. He’s with us a lot, and obviously he works, but he often has “something to do,” and neither Ashley nor I have a clue what that is. We’ve asked, of course, but he’s very vague and changes the subject. We stopped trying a while ago. It wasn’t getting us anywhere, anyway. Now it’s become more of a fun game for Ashley and me. We’ve come up with ideas (some ridiculous, some gross, some illegal) for what he might be up to. I’m not even sure we want to know the truth, at this point. It might be dull and ruin the guessing game.
Ursula stalks by us as we leave, looking slightly peeved. Ursula, whom we lovingly refer to as “The Sea Witch” (as in Ursula—the witch from The Little Mermaid), is our boss and the owner of the catering company we work for, Edelweiss Catering. She’s tall, thick, and very German. She’s mostly scary, with a dash of frightening.
I start offering people the canapés. Everyone is talking and laughing over the music in the background, drinking their alcohol and eating the hors d’oeuvres we’re passing around. Tonight’s party is h
ors d’oeuvres only, thank goodness. The full-service meals are the harder ones. More prep and more cleanup. As it stands, this black-tie event is set to end at midnight, which means we won’t be done until nearly two in the morning by the time we clean and I take the subway home, that is.
I nod pleasantly as people take canapés off my tray. We are told not to fraternize with the attendees, which is fine by me. I have no interest in finding out what’s going on—unless famous people are involved, which happens sometimes. One of the perks of this job. The biggest one, actually. That, and the leftovers.
I like this job a lot, even with Ursula and all her scariness. This was the first job I got after applying for a ton after I moved in with Gram. My goal is to eventually get into event planning, and I thought catering would be a good way to get started. I didn’t expect to be working here as long as I have, though. I’ve applied to so many places, with no response. I’m kind of hoping one day Ursula will see me as Catering Assistant material. No such luck, yet.
Like me, most of the people who work for Ursula are only working here to keep money coming in while they land their dream jobs. Most of them are actors or wannabe actors. That’s why Ashley is working here and also how we met. It’s how we found Justin, too. Unlike most of the other servers, though, Ashley has real talent. She just hasn’t found the right part yet. Justin, I’m not really sure about. We’ve asked; he’s been very vague. I suspect he’s in the not-sure-what-I-want-to-be-when-I-grow-up category, or he’s too busy playing video games, or whatever he does, to make up his mind.
“How you holding up?” Ashley says, out of the side of her mouth as she sidles up next to me. Talking to each other in front of the attendees is also forbidden, so we’ve learned ways to be discreet.
“Meh,” I say through fake-smiling teeth. I shrug my shoulders, and she gives me a sympathetic look.
We move away from each other so as not to get caught by Ursula. The last of the canapés is taken off my tray, so I head back to the staging area to get another tray full of hors d’oeuvres.
“Bridgette?” I hear a male voice say my name as I near the staging door. An extremely familiar voice.
I turn around. “Yes?” I ask, searching through the crowd for the person who’s calling my name. Thinking it couldn’t possibly be him. Not after all this time.
“Bridgette Reynolds?” The voice gets closer. A face comes into focus. My blood starts pumping through my veins at a ridiculous pace.
“Ian?” I say, my eyes bugging out of my head and my stomach twisting into knots instantly. “Ian Davies?” It can’t possibly be him. But, on closer inspection, it is him.
I swallow hard to push back tears that are already on the surface because of Adam. But seeing Ian after all this time pushes those tears to the very edge.
“Bridgette? Oh, wow.” He wraps his arms around me, lifting me up and spinning me long enough for me to gather my tears and force them back.
“What are you doing here?” he asks as he puts me down, gesturing to the catering uniform I’m wearing, which, thank goodness, is a black skirt and a white dress shirt, paired with lovely black no-slip shoes. And by lovely, I mean they are hideous. I can handle this ensemble, though. There are other, much-less-attractive uniforms I’ve had to wear.
“I work for the catering company. What are you doing here?” I gesture to his black suit, white shirt, and black tie. Armani, no doubt.
“I work for the brokerage.” He nods his head toward the party going on behind him. “I can’t believe I’m seeing you. Here, in New York. What’re you doing here? Do you live in the city?” Ian asks.
“I moved in with Gram in Carroll Gardens,” I say, shaking my head. “I can’t believe it’s you.”
This is all incredibly hard for me to wrap my brain around. I had honestly given up hope that I would ever see or hear from Ian again. Of course, I had envisioned running into him—many, many times—but it wasn’t like this. Most of the time, I was in a tight dress, wind in my hair . . . not at a party I’m working, in a not-so-flattering uniform, smelling of onion.
Four years. It’s been four years since I’ve seen the likes of Ian Davies. Four years since he ran off with my heart to London for an internship, and I went back to live with my parents to figure out what I wanted to do with my life. Four years since things ended so badly.
I hear a throat clear behind me, and my eyebrows shoot up, my eyes wide.
I lean my head slightly in toward Ian, whispering, “There’s a very large German woman standing behind me, isn’t there?” I look to his face for an answer.
He nods, looking slightly stunned at the site of Ursula.
Oh, no. I’m fraternizing. This is bad.
Taking a cue from my pained look of helplessness, Ian opens his mouth. “I was just telling—I’m sorry, what was your name?” He gestures toward me. My, his acting is good. I don’t remember that.
“Bridgette,” I squeak out, my back still turned to Ursula. I envision her looking Frankenstein-like, with steam coming out of her ears.
“Yes, thank you. I was telling Bridgette here that the food has been spectacular tonight,” he says, seamlessly oozing charm and confidence.
“Vell, I zank you fery much,” Ursula says, still behind me. I turn to see her nodding her head approvingly, looking slightly—what is this exactly? Nervous? And is she batting her eyes a little extra? Oh, heavens, is she trying to flirt?
Ah, yes. Ian’s still got it. That understated charm, which woman of all ages—and apparently all sizes and nationalities—find so alluring. I know I fell for it once upon a time. It’s kind of hard not to fall for it even now.
“I’ll just be getting back to work.” I smile at Ursula and quickly turn away from her, mouthing a “thank you” to Ian as I head back into the staging area.
I walk in and set my tray on the counter, still reeling from seeing Ian again and then having my boss catch me chatting with the guests. That is a huge no-no. She has fired for less.
“What was that all about?” Ashley asks as she comes in with an empty tray.
“Yeah, who was that guy?” Justin says, coming in practically on her heels.
“Do you remember Ian? I told you about him a while ago.” I turn to Ashley, because Justin will assuredly not remember.
“Do you mean Ian from college, ‘the one that got away,’ the one who took off for London and you’ve never heard from since?” Ashley counts off the facts with her fingers.
“Yes, that one.” I give her an odd look. “I can’t believe you remember. You have the memory of an eagle.”
“I believe you mean an elephant.” She shakes her head at me, a tendril of red hair falls out of her tight bun, and she tucks it back in.
Ian was more than “the one that got away.” At least until Adam came along.
“Whatever. Anyway, so he’s out there, at this party. Do you know how long I tried to find him? And now he’s here. ” I still can’t believe it. I truly never thought I’d see him again.
“I saw Ursula catch you fraternizing,” Justin says, shaking his head in disapproval. “How did you get out of that one?
I open my mouth to respond at the same time the door swings open, and in walks Ursula. We quickly go over to the food prep table and grab trays filled with hors d’oeuvres and shuffle back into the party. This discussion will have to wait until later.
The rest of the night goes quickly and fairly smoothly, minus the near calamity Justin caused when he dropped a tray of ham and gruyere palmiers. Luckily it was in the staging area. Dropping trays in front of guests is grounds for firing according to The Sea Witch.
I catch Ian’s eyes every now and then as I serve, and he always smiles at me. I still can’t believe he’s here. I’m dying to talk to him again, but for fear of being caught by Ursula, I restrain myself.
At the end of the night, the party goers say their goodbyes with handshakes and the occasional hug or fist bump. I begin clearing plates and napkins from tall cocktail tables wi
th the rest of the servers. I happen to look up at the main entrance to the ballroom and spy Ian there, trying to get my attention. He nods his head toward the doors, silently inviting me to meet him outside the ballroom. I make a quick scan of the room, looking for Ursula. With no visual of her, I make a beeline to the tall, ornate ballroom doors and make a quick exit.
“Hey,” I hear Ian say to my right. I turn my head to see him standing there, left hand in his pants pocket, right hand hanging casually at his side. The light is much brighter out here, and the sight of him standing there brings back instant memories, and with them, old feelings. My heart speeds up. That dark, thick head of hair, those stunning green eyes . . .
“Hey,” I say, smiling brightly. He smiles brightly back. Oh, wow, I’ve missed that smile.
“I won’t keep you long. I just wanted to say goodbye.” He studies my face, now seeing me in the full light.
“Oh,” I say, trying not to sound as disappointed as I feel. How will I ever see him again?
“And I wanted to give you this.” He hands me a business card. I take it from him and look at the small black card with his name and information in tiny silver-blue print. “Sorry. It’s all I’ve got.” His hand motions toward the card. “Let’s have lunch this week. Catch up.”
“Yeah . . .” I trail off, looking down at the card, “I mean, yes. Definitely. Lunch would be great.” I look up at him and smile brightly.
“Great. Call me early next week, and we’ll figure something out.” He grabs my hand and pulls me toward him into a tight hug. “It’s so great to see you,” he says in my ear.
“And you,” I hug him tightly back, feeling a tingle go down my back with his lips so close to my ear.
After we say our goodbyes, I walk back into the ballroom feeling somewhat elated, which is a feeling I haven’t felt in quite some time. Three months and four days, to be exact.
