Chapter 28
28
Kayla
Meg and I, along with the rest of her staff, arrive at the country club about two hours before Hungry Hearts is scheduled to begin. Meg is hovering over everyone, supervising on-site cooking, preparing serving stations, giving us all run-down after run-down on our responsibilities. I know she would have let me go to the dance with Gabe if I had asked her, but I can tell she’s glad to have me here. Outwardly, she’s in control. But I know her well enough to see that she’s nervous, like she’s thinking maybe this is the year that she runs out of booze, or the ovens break, or she undercooks the chicken and everyone gets food poisoning and dies.
“It’s delicious,” I tell her as she obsessively tastes her dip. “The Meyer lemons really make it sing. And if you eat it all trying to make sure it’s right, there won’t be any left for the guests.”
“Okay, okay,” she sighs.
“You do this every year,” I remind her.
“I do this every year,” she dutifully repeats.
“And it’s always great,” I press on.
“It’s always great. Okay, I don’t know about great , there was that one time that Stan Hutchinson got drunk and face-planted in the cake, I don’t know what the bartender was thinking by continuing to serve him, if anything like that happens tonight, I’ll?—”
“You do this every year,” I say again. “And it’s always great.”
“Okay. Yes. Thanks.” She smiles gratefully at me. She still seems a little wobbly, but I know she’ll be fine.
I, on the other hand, am a lot wobbly and praying that I can keep it together tonight for Meg’s sake. I have been thinking nonstop since my conversation with my mom. If Gabe really feels what I think he feels, I worry that I am going to break his heart if we part ways in a few weeks or months. But if we stay together, and I can’t be the partner he needs me to be, then I will end up breaking his heart anyway. Only it will be worse, because we will be more entangled in each other’s lives. Probably it’s best to break up sooner rather than later to give him more time to start over.
That all sounds very sensible. However, it leaves out the minor issue of my needing to throat-punch any woman he might date who isn’t me . The thought of him getting back together with Gretchen makes me want to turn over my living room furniture and set it on fire. But at least it would be easy to hate Gretchen. What if he started dating some lovely woman who knew how to appreciate his math puns?
He couldn’t hook up with me. He couldn’t sext me. He probably couldn’t even regular text me, and that would be awful . I missed him when I blocked him after graduation, but it helped that I was mad at him. Now, though… it’s almost too painful to think about.
I had always insisted that I didn’t want a boyfriend now . But does that mean that I want a boyfriend never ? Do I never want someone on hand to reach down the garbage disposal? Do I never want to teach a passel of amber-eyed kids the difference between “its” and “it’s”? Do I never want a little old man to carry my purse while my grandchildren explain how kids today only communicate through fractals?
And really, am I ever going to find a sexier, funnier, more perfect boyfriend than Gabe Wilson?
But still. Those kids are going to move out someday. That little old man is going to die. And they will all demand time and attention and sacrifice that I worry will hollow me out.
So now I have no idea how I’ll react when I see Gabe at this dance. Will I throw a tray of canapés over my head and run screaming from the room? Or will I pin him to the ground with my thighs and demand that he marry me? Only time will tell.
Around 8:00, guests start to trickle in. Many of them are representatives of the Kentwood fifteen: doctors, lawyers, business owners, philanthropists, the women dripping in jewels and the men smug and tan. I think back to Gretchen’s Instagram feed and feel a pang. That’s the world Gabe Wilson comes from. I would never fit in.
The rich are slowly joined by the less rich. I spot Gabe’s boss, Mark Pritchard; my fifth-grade teacher, who is now the superintendent of schools; and Kentwood’s mayor, who pounds so much coffee at the café that I suspect he’s carrying a torch for Meg. Finally my eyes alight on a familiar face.
Allison beelines to the buffet table, dragging Tom by the hand and looking characteristically pretty in a pale pink halter dress that glitters with sequins at the neckline and hem. Her boss, the library director, had a conflict and sent her in her place. Allison was thrilled to have an opportunity to wear something sparkly; Tom was thrilled to have an opportunity to glean more knowledge about local history from Kentwood’s finest.
“How are you holding up?” she asks me. “Any sign yet of You-Know-Who?” In the run-up to the dance, Allison frequently urged me to go with Gabe. For one, she has never been able to understand how I can resist the siren call of satin and sequins; for another, her engagement to Tom has now made her an outspoken champion of marriage, kids, and little old men carrying purses.
“No,” I reply to her now, “and stop it. I’m fine. We’re fine. It’s fine.”
“Fine,” she says with a skeptical eyebrow raise. “I won’t mention it again.”
The party is in full swing by the time I finally spot You-Know-Who, standing alone on the other side of the room. His dark hair is combed back off his forehead and he’s wearing a gray suit and pink tie, as per the dance’s Valentine’s Day theme.
Even though he woke up in my bed this morning—complaining, as usual, that it was far too small for the both of us, before pressing me even closer to his side—he still takes my breath away. He looks incredibly, unapproachably handsome. He’s scanning the crowd, looking for someone, and when we make eye contact I realize with a thrill that he was looking for me .
I can’t help it. I grin at him like an idiot. He grins back and comes over.
“Can I interest you in a salami-stuffed fig?” I ask, perfectly innocently.
“Is that a euphemism for something?” he replies in a low voice, leaning close to me. “Because those figs really remind me of?—”
“Stop it,” I say, repressing a giggle and shooting surreptitious looks at the other servers. “I’m working .”
“And then if you add the salami?—”
“If you make me snort-laugh, Wilson, I swear to God?—”
“—the whole thing really becomes shameless,” he finishes with a smirk. He pops one into his mouth and I’m smiling at him so hard my cheeks hurt. He is so, so cute. “They’re good, though. You should get the recipe. Maybe we can make them together later.” He wiggles his eyebrows at me suggestively and now I really do snort-laugh, earning us both an eye-roll from Meg. He takes that as his cue to go circulate, though not before affectionately brushing his fingers along my cheek.
And just like that, I feel better. All of my worrying seems as meaningless as fractal-based messaging, and while I still I don’t know what I’m going to do about us, it feels so good—so right—to just be us. All throughout the night, whether he’s dancing with his grandmother or getting cornered by his boss, he keeps catching my eye and giving me a smile or a goofy lewd wink, and generally making me feel that I’m the only person he’s truly thinking about.
Until, inevitably, Gretchen Meier approaches him. She slinks up to him in a slinky red dress and even though I’m trapped behind a buffet table on the other side of the room, I can tell she’s flirting with him. She’s tilting her head at him. Touching his arm. And despite the fact that he’s standing stock-still, hands in his pockets, listening politely but clearly not engaging, it feels like a fire alarm is going off inside my head.
“ What. The. Fuck. ” I hiss under my breath as I’m refilling a plate of smoked trout croquettes.
“C’mon, Kayla, pay attention,” Meg admonishes me as several croquettes bounce onto the white tablecloth.
“Sorry, sorry,” I reply, but my hands are shaking.
“How are we doing on the brie and prosciutto shortbread?”
“ Bitch ,” I force out through clenched teeth as Gretchen takes another step closer to Gabe, wrapping her hand around his biceps.
“Jesus, okay, I’m sorry,” Meg replies, irritation in her voice.
“What? Oh, God, no, Meg, not you, it’s just that—well, for fuck’s sake, look at her! She’s got her fucking hands all over my boyfriend!”
“Boyfriend?” Meg forgets about shortbread for a moment and raises an eyebrow at me. “Not fuckbuddy? Not friend with benefits?”
“Who’s got a boyfriend?” Allison asks, coming to snatch up a stray croquette.
“ Kayla’s got a boyfriend,” Meg says like we’re all six years old.
“Did she say boyfriend?” Allison gasps, grasping Meg’s arm for support. “Not booty call? Not boy toy? Not bum chum?”
“I think that one’s more for guys,” Meg replies.
“ I don’t know what Kayla’s into, I didn’t even know she had a boyfriend .”
“Alli, look ,” I say, too upset to respond to their ridiculousness.
Allison casts a token glance over her shoulder. “Okay, so, yes, the ex-fiancée is coming on to him, pretty hard, I’d say, but I really don’t think you have anything?—”
“Cover for me,” I say impulsively, staring urgently into Allison’s eyes. I have no rational thoughts as I watch Gretchen attempt to entwine herself around Gabe. The only actual words thundering through my skull are intervene and throat-punch . “Stand here and arrange prosciutto or whatever,” I tell her. “I’m going over there.”
“Kayla, no, you’re a server, you’re representing my company, you can’t just go bitch-slap a guest,” Meg protests.
“ She’s whispering in his ear! ” I practically shout. “He doesn’t even know—” I struggle to explain the problem to them while barely understanding it myself. “It’s just that… I’ve been so ambivalent, so wishy-washy all this time! He’s so great, and I never even told him —” What, exactly? I turn to my boss in frustration. “Meg, please .”
“I’ve got it,” Allison says, eyes shining in a way I definitely do not like. “You can borrow my dress. Then you’ll just be a private person, right? Not Meg’s employee. I’ll wear your uniform and man the prosciutto.”
I hear Meg mutter something about Stan Hutchinson as she covers her eyes with her hands. But now Allison is bustling me through the kitchen to the employee bathroom, singing “Makeover!” in a tone of barely suppressed glee.
Part of me seriously doubts that Gabe will give into Gretchen’s slinky slinkiness. But on the other hand, she agreed to marry him. They probably discussed the prospect of having amber-eyed kids. No one would blame him for choosing a woman who can commit over one who can’t. Have I offered him any hope for the future beyond “maybe I won’t move away today” ?
My brain has finally turned a somersault. Now, it seems like the worst thing that can happen to me is not getting stuck in a job I don’t like, but instead losing Gabe . I have to fix this right now. I have to put on a dress that doesn’t fit and march over to that sweet man and tell him exactly how I feel. Even though I have no idea what I’m going to say.
The dress, by the way, definitely doesn’t fit. Allison and I are about the same width around, but she’s bustier than me, and the halter top is gapping obscenely. She’s standing in my waitress uniform, long pants pooling around her feet, trying to tie the slippery fabric in a secure knot.
“Bend down,” she orders. “Dammit, I can tie it, but it just won’t stay.”
We need a Boy Scout, I think ruefully, wondering if Gretchen’s forcing Gabe to dance with her now.
“Just hurry up,” I fret impatiently. “It doesn’t matter what it looks like. What about my—” I start just as Allison shouts “Got it!” again and mercilessly yanks the rubber band out of my hair. She twists it around the straps of the halter top until it finally feels secure.
“Pretty,” she says, satisfied, smoothing the fabric over my hips. “Your hair will cover the knot. I was going to improvise an up-do, but?—”
“He likes it down anyway,” I interrupt, starting to push past her out of the bathroom.
“He’s got good taste,” she says, and I can hear the smile in her voice. “Knock ‘em dead, babe.”
I rush back towards the party before I can change my mind.
“You have to smile at people,” Meg berates Tom, who was roped into pouring champagne while Allison and I swapped clothes.
“You told me to stop asking people about genealogy,” he says. “What is there to smile about now?”
He gets his answer as soon as Allison comes up next to him and wraps an arm around his waist. I scan the crowded dance floor and see that Gabe is in fact dancing with Gretchen. He looks unhappy, and seems to be touching her as little as possible, but still .
I need something to pump me up. A shot of whiskey, a slap in the face, a?—
“—song,” I finish my thought out loud. “I need a song.”
Allison turns to me and nods slowly. “But what?” she asks. “Is there anything that means something to both of you?” I start to shake my head, then smile.
“ No ,” Jason says when I approach him at the DJ booth moments later. He shakes his head to emphasize his point. “No, that is such a stupid song. It’s about fractals and you can’t dance to it. Cindy Wilson would fire me on the spot. No, no, no .”
“Remember that time you were on a deadline?” I wheedle. “And Meg had to work, so I watched the kids? And Daisy puked in my hair? Remember ?”
He stares unhappily at his laptop and controller. “You were pretty cool about that,” he says grudgingly.
“I was very cool about that,” I insist. “And I’d do it again in a heartbeat.”
He shifts from foot to foot and runs both hands through his blond hair.
“Are you sure you don’t want ‘Hungry Eyes’, it’s much more?—”
“ No .”
“Okay. Okay.” He nods his head in resignation. “But I’m calling you the next time one of the kids is puking.”
“Deal.”
My detour to the DJ booth cost me time, but it steadied my nerves. Briefly. By the time I make my way over to Gabe and Gretchen, though, my palms are sweating and I’m breathing in short, raggedy gasps. I walk past his parents, who fortunately don’t see me, and Adam and Lucy, who definitely do. Gretchen spots me first and gives me the kind of withering stare that I imagine the stepsisters would have given Cinderella if they had managed to recognize her. I ignore her, though. I suddenly have no interest in attacking her; I just want to talk to him .
“Wilson,” I say breathlessly.
He spins around. His eyes register surprise at my wardrobe change, but when he speaks his voice is full of concern.
“Johnson! What’s up? Are you okay?” He takes my elbow as Gretchen literally stomps her foot in frustration behind him.
“I’ve been a stubborn jerk,” I start, staring pleadingly into his amber eyes. “I’ll stay in town for as long as you want. We can live wherever you want. Just please… please don’t get back together with her.”
“Excuse me , but that is not your choice,” Gretchen protests, but Gabe pays no attention.
He slips one hand behind my back and cups my face with the other. “I wasn’t going to,” he replies, the beginnings of his best-friend smile playing on his lips. “But why don’t you tell me why I shouldn’t.”
I grin back at him as Gretchen huffs off, and suddenly it all seems so easy. This is Gabe. This is me. We’re old friends. And we belong together.
“Because I love you,” I say, squeezing him around the waist. “And you love me.”
He dazzles me with his smile, pulls me closer, and then stops. “Wait, is the DJ playing ‘Mandelbrot Set’?” I nod, laughing. “You remember that night?”
“Of course,” I reply. “It was the most romantic thing anyone has ever done for me. I’ll never forget it.”
“I can’t believe this is our song,” he laughs, beaming down at me. “I literally Googled ‘songs with math’ and chose the first one that wasn’t just counting. It’s about fractals. You can’t dance to it. You know that, right?”
“I know,” I say with a chuckle, happy tears spilling over my lower lashes. “Now shut up and dance with me.”
He does. And we dance to the song after that, and the song after that, and the song after that.
He introduces me to his parents, whose expressions change from reservation to joy when his grandmother stage-whispers to her daughter and son-in-law that this is The Girl With the Ankle— whatever that means.
“Why, she’s just as pretty as that librarian girl! You’re from the café, right?” Mark Pritchard shouts as he nearly shakes my hand off my arm. “One thing’s for sure, Gabe, we have an embarrassment of riches in this little town, an embarrassment of riches! Did I ever tell you how I met my wife? She was engaged to Bill Olson at the time, of course, kind of a nasty business, to be honest, but all’s fair in love and war, you know what I mean, Gabe?”
“Kayla,” Adam says, meeting us shortly after we escape Mark. “I’m…” he starts, then stops. The four of us—Adam, Lucy, Gabe, and I—stand facing each other awkwardly. The men square their shoulders. Lucy and I make brief eye contact.
“Do you think we could start over?” I ask Adam when it becomes clear that he can’t finish his sentence. I hold out my hand. He takes it less hesitantly than he did after the mediation meeting and offers me half a smile.
“I’d do just about anything for this loser here,” he says, giving Gabe a playful shove with his free hand.
“Me too,” I reply, grinning broadly at my boyfriend . Gabe retaliates by tickling me, and I giggle in his arms in full view of his hopefully not-so-terrible brother, his extended family, and the entire Kentwood gossip mill.
Later, Gabe pulls me into a quiet corner, away from the trout croquettes and dried-flower bouquets and ungrammatical pop songs.
“You know I love you, too, right?” he says quietly. “And we’re going to figure it out. Your work, my work, and maybe none of it will be exactly what we planned, but?—”
“It’ll be great.” I beam at him. “We’ll figure it all out. Together.”