This Lullaby(20)

What was it about slow dancing, anyway? Even in junior high I’d hated the moment the music stalled, screeching to a halt so that someone could press their sweaty body to yours. At least with real dancing you weren’t trapped, forced to rock back and forth with a total stranger who now, simply because of proximity, felt it was perfectly all right to grab your ass and anything else within reach. What a bunch of crap.

And it was crap. Totally. Because all slow dancing was really only about getting close to someone you wanted close or being forced to be close to someone you wished was far, far away. Okay, so my brother and Jennifer Anne looked totally smitten, and yeah, okay, the words to the song were nice and romantic. I mean, it wasn’t a bad song or anything. It just wasn’t my thing.

I grabbed a glass of champagne off a passing tray, taking a sip and wincing as the bubbles worked their way up my nose. I was fighting off a coughing fit when I felt someone come up beside me. I glanced over to see a girl who worked with Don—her name was Marty, or Patty, something with a middle t. She had long, permed hair, big bangs, and was wearing too much perfume. She smiled at me.

“I love this song,” she said, taking a sip of her drink and sighing. “Don’t you?”

I shrugged. “I guess,” I said as Dexter leaned into the microphone, closing his eyes.

“They look so happy,” she went on, and I followed her gaze to my mother and Don, who were laughing and doing dips as the song wound down. She sniffled, and I realized she was near tears. How weird that weddings do that to some people. “He’s really happy, isn’t he?”

“Yeah,” I said, “he is.”

She wiped her eyes, then waved her hand at me apologetically, shaking her head. “Oh, dear,” she said. “forgive me. I just—”

“I know,” I said, if only to save her from whatever she was about to say. I’d had all the sentimental stuff I could handle for one day.

Finally the last verse came to an end. Marty/Patty took a deep breath, blinking as the lights came up again. Under closer scrutiny I could see she was actually crying: red eyes, face red, the whole deal. Her mascara, which I could not help but notice was applied a bit too plentifully, was beginning to streak.

“I should . . .” she said shakily, touching her face. “I need to freshen up.”

“Good to see you,” I told her, the same way I’d told everyone who I was forced to talk to all night long, in the same cheery hey wedding-ho! voice.

“You, too,” she said, with less enthusiasm, and then she was gone, bumping against a chair on her way out.

Enough, I thought. I need a break.

I walked past the cake table and out a side door to the parking lot, where a couple of guys in waiter’s jackets were smoking cigarettes and picking at some leftover cheese puffs.

“Hey,” I said to them, “can I bum one?”

“Sure.” The taller guy, whose hair was kind of model-poofy, shook a cigarette out of his pack, handing it to me. He pulled out a lighter and held it for me as I leaned into it, taking a few puffs. He lowered his voice and said, “What’s your name?”

“Chloe,” I said, pulling back from him. “Thanks.” I eased away around the corner, even as he was calling after me, finding a spot by the Dumpsters on the wall. I kicked off my shoes, then looked down at the cigarette in my hand. I’d done so well: eighteen days. It didn’t even taste that good, really. Just a weak crutch on a bad night. So I tossed it down, watching it smolder, and leaned back on my palms, stretching out my back.

Inside, the band stopped playing, to scattered applause. Then the canned hotel music came on, and a few seconds later a door farther down the wall banged open and out came the G Flats, their voices loud.

“This is of the suck,” the guitar player said, pulling a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and shaking one out. “After this, no more weddings. I’m serious.”

“It’s money,” Ringo the drummer said, taking a sip of a bottled water he was holding.

“Not this one,” the keyboard guy muttered. “This is a gimme.”

“No,” Dexter said, running a hand through his hair. “This is the bail money. Or have we all forgotten that? We owed Don, remember?”

There was a grumbling acquiescence, followed by silence. “I hate doing covers,” the guitarist said finally. “I don’t see why we can’t do our own stuff.”

“For this crowd?” Dexter said. “Be serious. I don’t think Uncle Miltie from Saginaw wants to dance to your various versions of ‘The Potato Song.’”

“It’s not called that,” Ted snapped. “And you know it.”

“Settle,” the redheaded drummer said, waving his arm in a peacemaking gesture I recognized. “It’s only a couple more hours, okay? Let’s just make the best of it. At least we get to eat.”

“We get to eat?” the keyboardist said, perking up. “Seriously?”

“That’s what Don said,” the drummer replied. “If there’s enough left over. How much longer of a break do we have?”

Dexter glanced at his watch. “Ten minutes.”

The keyboardist looked at the drummer, then the guitarist. “I say food. Food?”

“Food,” they replied in unison. The keyboardist said, “You in, Dexter?”