My Big Fat Fake Wedding(94)

Holy shit, there are so many people, and while I agree with Kaede that Dad’s invitation of everyone and their brother is sort of a dick move . . . it has its benefits. This is going to be a party, a celebration of Violet and me, and maybe the start of something greater than either of us had ever dreamed.

On stage, the triplets are ready, and as the DJ throws it over to the orchestra, they kick into their first number. Maybe they’re trying to have fun, maybe it’s just part of the collaboration, maybe they’re trying to respect the fast-paced public nature of our engagement, but as they launch into a jazzed-up version of the eighties classic Making Love Out of Nothing At All, I feel a little chill down my spine.

Really, girls? Sure, they change the lyrics, and I’ll give them credit for personalizing it, changing lines like “I know just how to fake it, I know just how to lie,” to “I know I can’t keep fakin’ it, I can’t keep up this lie,” in a way to play up our public story that Violet and I have been in love since childhood and only recently came to our senses.

As I spin Violet around the dance floor, I can’t help but think of the original and can only pray that what Estella, Vanessa and Marissa have done to the song will stick with us. I want that happy ending they’re singing the hell out of. I want it desperately, with Violet.

The crowd eats it up, ahhing as I dip Violet and giving the girls thunderous applause as they blow us kisses when they’re done. “Okay, Ross, now that you’ve given us this big stage, we wanted one more before we let the DJ take over. If that’s okay?”

“Only if you give me a liner credit when your album drops!” I toss back, earning a laugh from everyone. Violet laughs along with them, leaning into me as the music starts and then the triplets start singing in Italian.

“Oh, no, I forgot to warn you! It’s the Tarantella!” she says suddenly.

I look at her, confused as my brows jump together. Did she say tarantula? No, that’s not it, but I have no idea what Italian word sounds like tarantula or what it might mean.

But the Russo family is getting up en masse and virtually sprinting for the dance floor, yelling loudly. I have no idea what’s going on and have a split-second fear that I’m about to be thrown over someone’s shoulder and carted out of here for a ritual initiation into the family.

“Just go with it,” Violet calls out to me, but I have no idea what she’s talking about until someone catches my elbow with theirs and spins me. As I start to ask what’s happening, my other elbow is snared and I’m spinning with someone else.

Soon, we have two circles, the men in one and the women in the other. I’m doing this weird elbow thing that vaguely reminds me of square dancing in elementary school, and then we join hands and march around counterclockwise and then reverse to go clockwise. Every once in a while, by some cue I can’t discern, we all shuffle to the middle and back out.

It’s a loud, wild celebratory dance.

I look to the other circle and see Violet’s face beaming with happiness, which lifts my spirits even more. As we dance, even apart, I can feel her. She’s a part of me.

The circles surge and become one, and someone pushes me into the center. I have that middle-school fear of being in the spotlight at the school dance and freeze a bit. But Violet hooks her elbow in mine and spins me, and I relax. This I can do.

Her whole family surrounds us, and even some of the people from my side of the aisle get up to join the fun, all encircling us with joy and love and celebration. The music gets faster and faster, and we spin wildly. Every once in a while, the whole circle comes in close and I can hear their outbursts of congratulations before they spread back out to move around us once again.

It’s amazing, and all for us.

The triplets hold a long note, and the music stops with sharp freeze, and the whole group cheers and claps.

“Wow,” I say too loudly into Violet’s ear, but she smiles anyway.

“So, that’s the Tarantella, an Italian wedding dance.” Her laughter is bright and bubbly, music even more beautiful to my ears than the triplets’ singing. Even when she snorts, and chokes out, “You should’ve seen your face! What did you think I said?”

I laugh, vowing to never tell her I thought she had seen a tarantula, despite the fact that that’s highly unlikely.

The DJ takes over while Violet and I take our seats, catching our breath and watching everyone have some fun. The DJ’s good, mixing in songs for every age.

A few minutes later, a sultry guitar riff comes through the speakers and Violet smiles and says, “Oh, here we go again.” She’s up and pulling me to the floor when I recognize Carlos Santana’s Maria, Maria. She starts to sway, and I let her hips guide me as the dance floor fills back up with Italians, Italian-Greeks, Italian-Americans, and just everyone who feels the groove moving their feet and asses.

“I guess everyone caught their breath?” I whisper in her ear. We’re not exactly dirty dancing, but it’s as close as we can get with her in the poof of her wedding dress. Why does there have to be so much fabric?

Violet smiles as she looks up at me through her lashes. “This is Mom’s absolute favorite. She’s been obsessed with Santana since she was a kid, and when this song came out, she always joked it was about her. I think she watched interviews where Santana talked about the song just so she could hear him say her name.