The Sixth Wedding (28 Summers #1.5)(13)

Jake nods slowly. He can’t bear to imagine things unfolding any differently than they had. “It’s probably safe to assume things worked out the way they were supposed to.”

“Amen,” Fray says.

“Well, I’m not sure about you guys,” Coop says, standing up and tossing his napkin on his plate, “but I’m not missing out on the Chicken Box tonight.”



The Chicken Box looks exactly the same: the concrete floor is sticky with beer and there’s a crush of people at the bar. The only difference between now and the first time Jake set foot in the place in 1993 is that now, every single person is holding a cell phone. The band is on stage singing “Just the Two of Us,” by Grover Washington, Jr., a song so old it’s new again, apparently, and up front there’s a group of people dancing and taking videos of themselves dancing.

Leland and Fray opted to stay home, so it’s just Jake and Coop on this nostalgic adventure. They’re by far the oldest people here. They are gray-haired geezers, and Jake trains himself to keep his eyes off the scantily clad girls his daughter’s age.

“I’m going up front to dance,” Coop says.

“Have fun,” Jake says. “I’ll be at the bar.” He chooses the less populated side, over by the pool tables, where there’s a bit of breathing room. It takes so long for the bartender to notice him that when she finally does, Jake orders four Coronas, two for him and two for Coop. Cooper, however, is nowhere to be seen and Jake doesn’t want to try moving four beers through this crowd, so he stays put and starts drinking.

A female voice says, “I’ll give you twenty bucks for one of those.”

Jake turns. There’s a woman in a white T-shirt and cut-off jean shorts with a long blond braid standing next to him. She’s in her forties somewhere, maybe even her late forties, though he’d be too afraid to hazard a guess.

“Have one,” he says. “Please, my treat.”

“You’re my hero,” she says. She takes one of the cold bottles and rolls it across her forehead. “It’s my girlfriend’s birthday and she dragged me here. It’s fun to dance but it’s hard to not feel completely geriatric.”

“Tell me about it,” he says. He offers his hand. “I’m Jake.”

She has a nice, firm shake. “Brooke Schuster,” she says. “You look familiar to me for some reason. Have we met before?”

Jake stares at the lime wedge choking the neck of his bottle. “No, I don’t think so.”

“Are you sure?” she says. “Because I swear…”

“I’m Jake McCloud,” he says, and when that doesn’t clear up the confusion on her face, he adds, “My ex-wife, Ursula de Gournsey—”

Brooke snaps her fingers. “Yes! That’s where I know you from.” She takes a sip of her beer. “Well, if it makes a difference, I voted for her and I was sorry to see her lose.”

“Everything in life works out as it should,” Jake says.

“Spoken like a man who wants to change the subject,” Brooke says. “And I can’t blame you. What are you doing here at the Box?”

“Ah,” Jake says. “Reliving the past with a buddy of mine from college.” He takes another quick look at Brooke. She’s pretty, he decides, and the cut-off shorts are giving him strong Mallory vibes. He checks her left hand—she’s wearing a lot of silver but nothing that looks like an engagement ring or wedding band. So here it is, finally—an opportunity to have a conversation with a grown woman in real life. He can practically hear Bess urging him along: Come on, Dad, you have to get back out there! But dating, or even chatting up someone, feels like so much effort—getting to know someone from scratch, starting all over with personal histories, figuring out what makes someone else tick—he’s not sure he’s up for it.

Brooke sets her beer firmly down on the bar. “I’ll probably regret saying this in the morning, but I had something of a celebrity crush on you.”

“On me?” Jake knows he sounds surprised, though he’s aware there was a small part of the female electorate across the country who turned a Jake McCloud crush into a thing. (There had been an article in The Cut entitled “The Very Real Sex Appeal of Mister UDG.”) At nearly every event Jake did on behalf of his wife, someone would slip a note to him or brazenly approach his security detail, asking for a “private meeting.” Jake always told Ursula about these overtures and when she could spare a few moments of her attention, she would pat his cheek and say, “I’m well aware how appealing you are, the adoring, devoted husband, handsome and well-spoken, and I’m grateful.” This patronizing response had stoked Jake’s resentment—Ursula only cared about how Jake’s persona reflected on her—but Jake had continued to be up-front about every woman who approached him, in the name of propriety.

Brooke says, “You’re the executive director of the CFRF. And my nephew, Charlie…” She stops and her eyes shine with tears. “We lost him to cystic fibrosis a few years ago.”

“I’m so sorry,” Jake says. “And I didn’t mean to be flip when I said everything works out the way it’s supposed to. In my business, I know that’s not the case. How old was he?”