Really Good, Actually(66)
She smiled happily. “I know, right? I’m like an empath. I adjust to the emotional output of people around me, even if it’s all goth and intense like yours.”
“I’m wearing Reformation,” I said.
“Sure,” she said. “But you are exuding a gothic energy.”
Across the room, Ryan the therapy clown was wearing 1920s-style plus fours that ballooned stupidly below the knee. His outfit was so embarrassing I could tell he really cared for my friend, though I guessed he was also used to wearing ridiculous outfits at work. He did a huge, eager wave in Amy’s direction; Amy waved back and indicated that one of the drinks she was holding was intended for him. She turned to me.
“Can you cheer up, please?” she said. “You already brought an old lady as your date. You can’t bring bad vibes too.”
Amy skipped off, and I tried to figure out how to exude happiness or at least confidence, almost instantly admitting defeat and ordering a tequila soda instead. Across the room, Emily let her new husband hoist her onto his shoulders, his head disappearing beneath the huge, fluffy skirt she’d changed into for the party.
6pm DINNER—Please find your seats and enjoy a three-course meal from the couple’s favorite eco-friendly farm-to-table establishment, Recyclage.
The tables were named after famous couples from history, though the wedding planner had played fast and loose with the definition of “famous,” and “history” too. Merris and I were at “Sandy & Danny,” along with an extremely ragtag group of professional acquaintances and lesser relatives who had clearly been lumped together after the rest of the tables were decided and only a few randoms remained. I sat between Merris and a lanky man called Jesse, who was there with his partner, a freckled, braless woman called Darragh.
Darragh was so much hotter than her boyfriend it would have been inconceivable had I not encountered three hundred other couples exactly like them already that evening. It was not that Jesse was hideous, just that his girlfriend was more attractive than him by every possible metric: funnier, sexier, smarter, and more charming. I remembered a joke I used to make to Simon, that I was queering the straight relationship by being less attractive than he was. Thinking about Simon was a mistake.
“Me and Patrick worked together at the marina in Port Hope,” Jesse said, attacking a seeded sourdough bun with a too-hard ball of whipped butter. “Back in the day, obviously. How about you guys?”
An older woman across from us perked up—mine and Merris’s relationship was obviously causing some confusion at the table.
“Emily and I went to high school together,” I said. “And this is my friend Merris.”
Merris waved. “A bit of a last-minute substitute,” she said, though that didn’t seem to clarify things for our dinner companions.
Darragh leaned forward: “So are you two . . . ?”
“Together?” I said. “No, no, it’s more glamorous than that. I live in her basement.”
Servers descended on our table with the smallest possible servings of “cured beet carpaccio,” and Darragh smiled at me like Princess Diana visiting those orphans. “I used to live in a basement,” she said. “Think I still have my SAD lamp somewhere.”
My stomach growled, and I wanted to eat a roll more than I’d ever wanted anything, but the Eating Window dictated by my fasting schedule did not open until 6:30. Clear liquids were allowed any time, so I had more of my tequila, then I went to the bathroom and composed a tweet regarding that feeling when you’re at a wedding and want to burn down the entire marquee.
8pm SPEECHES—A chance to hear from Emily and Patrick’s loved ones and, of course, the couple themselves!
Everyone congratulated the couple at length. This was the smartest thing they’d ever done; it was meant to be; they were perfect complements to each other and welcome additions to their respective families-in-law. Their parents could not wait to give them money and hoped they would start having sex to make babies as soon as possible, preferably tonight.
The banalities were their own kind of drinking game: drink when the mother-in-law cries, drink when somebody says “my person,” drink when a bridesmaid delivers a joke she clearly found by googling wedding speech humor. It was awful to watch, but I knew from experience that it felt amazing to be on the receiving end of this parade of generic compliments.
Between my private drinking game and raising our glasses to the happy couple, I had quickly drained my glass. I turned to Merris and offered to get her a refill.
“Maybe some soda water,” she said. “So we pace ourselves.”
“Don’t worry,” I said. “Tequila is an upper.”
I stood and made my way through middle-aged couples and out-of-town cousins and children, so many children, in the direction of the bar. When I got there, I ran into Amy and told her I was going to win Simon back. She listened patiently as I detailed my various plans: I could leave a secret message in the 6Bites comments section, or send him a cookie with his face on it, or maybe get on the Jumbotron at a soccer game.
“I want something big and impactful,” I said, “to show him I know I fucked up.”
Amy frowned. At the front of the room, the groom’s brother told a story that danced gracelessly around the hiring of a sex worker.