For the Bride

Chapter One

One

Of all the insufferable events straight people have invented, engagement parties must be the worst. Among the worst, at least, next to gender reveals and Dave Matthews Band concerts, neither of which I’ve been unlucky enough to attend.

Prior to this evening, I hadn’t been to an engagement party either, and it would’ve stayed that way, if not for Virginia Bennett.

So much of my life falls under that category: if not for Virginia Bennett.

A decade ago, if Gin hadn’t handed out cookies to our entire freshman dorm, I might have gone all four years at Dunlap College without making a single friend; if not for her soft red hair and freckles, I might have graduated still not knowing I was gay.

As my friend, my girlfriend, my ex, and now my friend again, Gin has redirected my sails so many times, all of which led us here: to a roomful of unfamiliar faces ready to celebrate her engagement. And we will celebrate, of course.

Once we find her.

Imagine a Dave Matthews Band concert without Dave Matthews.

Imagine a gender reveal without the looming threat of a forest fire.

It all pales in comparison to an engagement party without the bride.

We’ve checked the bathroom, the patio, the parking lot, even the dumpsters out back.

Now, the groom and I have resorted to taking shifts: One of us takes a lap to look for our bride while the other guards the exit in case she returns or tries to escape.

Presently, I’m manning the post, harnessing my frenetic energy into shredding monogrammed cocktail napkins.

Silver trays of champagne flutes rattle past, plucked up by members of the raucous but unbothered crowd.

Maybe it’s the heavy pours in the signature cocktails, but everyone seems too wrapped up in the wonderful time they’re having to notice a missing bride.

“Alice, hey.” Rishi rounds the corner, looking quite a bit worse for wear. The man is 90 percent stress, 10 percent pit stains, with two half moons soaking the armpits of his navy suit jacket. “Any luck on Gin?”

I shake my head. “Still just that one coworker who saw her at the bar earlier.”

Rishi’s lips flap with a sigh. He runs his fingers through his dark hair, wet with sweat. “Have we tried her phone?” he asks, sounding desperate.

“Are you talking about Virginia’s phone?

” Rishi’s mother materializes beside me, her sari a flash of turquoise in my peripherals, but my attention sticks to the white clutch in her grip.

“I think it’s in this bag.” She frowns and gives the purse a shake.

“It’s hardly stopped buzzing. The bride asked me to hold it while she ran to the bathroom. ”

“I can check the bathroom,” I say. Again. For the third time.

There’s a visible tick in Mrs. Bhat’s jaw, and her plum-colored lipstick looks less flattering on a snarl.

“Well, let’s hope she’s in there.” Both her words and her glare are directed toward her son.

“There are two analysts here from the firm who have to leave before dinner. They drove in all the way from the city, so I need you to at least say hello.”

I try not to bristle at this flagrant display of priorities.

I was under the impression that the goal was to find Virginia so she could enjoy her own party, not take advantage of a networking opportunity, but maybe I misunderstood.

Regardless, I choke down any commentary about how I, too, drove in from the city or that I, too, am supposed to leave early.

It’s not worth mentioning so long as we’ve got a bride on the loose.

“Why don’t you go talk to the analysts.” I guide Rishi a little closer to his mother. “I’ll check the bathroom again and try to talk to the staff.”

Mrs. Bhat seems pacified by the compromise, and Rishi is nothing if not a team player. “Thanks again for helping out,” he says, so earnest that I can hardly stand it.

“Yes, thank you…” Rishi’s mom trails off, but her mouth stays open and ready, like my name might appear on the tip of her tongue.

“Alice,” I prompt.

“Alice,” she echoes. “Alice, you’re a good friend.”

Maybe for her it’s a throwaway compliment; for me, it’s exactly what I needed to hear.

After a second unsuccessful check of the bathroom, I reroute to the bar, the site of tonight’s only confirmed Gin sighting.

It’s possible that the bride had a few too many glasses of wine and wandered off, a classic Gin maneuver back in our college days.

Not that I’m one to talk. You don’t earn the nickname “Blackout Alice” by sitting at home drinking milk.

I’m dialing back into my role as gay Nancy Drew when someone behind me scoffs almost cartoonishly.

“Um, hello? Are you just gonna stand there without saying hi?”

I whirl around, following the bright, booming voice to its source: Chrissy, the final third of our college trio, balances a glass of wine in one hand, the other firmly planted on the waist of her pink satin dress.

She’s just as tall as I remember, but her hair—once long and box-dyed black in the bathroom of our college apartment—is much shorter now, a sleek coffee-brown bob.

“Oh, um, hi!” I clear my throat. “Chrissy! I almost didn’t recognize you.”

“Uh, duh. Maybe because it’s been, I don’t know, an eternity?

” Chrissy pulls me into the kind of lung-crushing hug meant to make up for the last five years.

She smells like citrus and cherry blossom, notes I can place only because I read them on her perfume bottle dozens of times back in our Dunlap days.

Love Spell, I think the scent was called.

I have never known sisterhood quite like living with Chrissy, a roommate who not only accepted me for wearing the same dirty leggings multiple days in a row but also willingly lent out her good perfume to help mask the smell of crotch sweat.

Chrissy guarantees there’s no oxygen left in my lungs before releasing me to slowly reinflate. “Can you believe our Ginny girl is getting married? And oh my God, don’t you just love Rishi?”

“Who wouldn’t love Rishi?” I say. Truthfully, I’ve had more interactions with the groom in the last half hour than I have in the ten months that Gin and I have been back in touch, but I haven’t heard a single bad word about the man.

From what I can tell, Rishi treats Gin a whole lot better than I did.

“So what’s new with you?” Chrissy asks eagerly. She does everything eagerly. Always has. “Are you still touring with that band?”

I fumble her gaze, falling into the rockslide feeling in my chest. Chrissy hasn’t seen me since my early retirement from rock star life. “I left Cold Sweat a few years ago, actually.”

She sticks out her bottom lip. “That’s too bad! You guys were good.”

They probably still are, I think. I’m just not a part of it.

I clear my throat and bravely lift my gaze to hers again. “I’m an assistant at Gentle Giant now. It’s a pretty prestigious recording studio.”

Chrissy hums around a sip of wine. “I think Gin mentioned you were doing some studio thing.”

My nerves stand alert, a fast-piling stack of follow-up questions clogging my throat. What else has Gin said? Did you know I would be here? Has she mentioned my dad? I swallow twice and try a more relevant question. “Speaking of Gin, any chance you’ve seen her?”

“I was about to ask you the same thing,” Chrissy says with an eye roll. “Like, hello? Virginia? You’re literally the bride. Show up to your own party.”

Before I can provide any context, a dark-haired waiter interrupts with a tray of champagne flutes. Chrissy plucks up a glass, officially double fisting, but not without giving the waiter an appraising up-down. “Thanks, cutie.” She winks. “Love the tux.”

The waiter pauses, considering Chrissy for another moment, then offers me the tray.

“No thanks,” I say. “But any chance you’ve seen the bride?”

Oblivious, Chrissy adds, “She’s the one in white.”

The waiter tilts his head toward the hostesses’ stand. “Bathroom up front,” he says in a low, casual grumble, like he’s not saving the day with this intel.

I’m gay Nancy Drew again, sparking to life at a much-needed clue. “I thought there was just the one bathroom in the back.”

“There are two more single stalls,” the waiter explains, still speaking directly to Chrissy.

I toss back a “Thank you!” as I speed off toward the front of the restaurant. “Chrissy, I’ll catch you later, okay?”

“Sure thing!” she calls after me. “Let’s grab a drink and catch up soon!”

But I know we never will. I’m sure she knows it, too. We’ll see each other at the bridal shower and again at the wedding, where we’ll likely have nearly identical conversations to this one, insisting that we have to hang out sometime, both of us knowing we don’t really mean it.

I weave between clusters of well-dressed well-wishers, half in suits and cocktail dresses, half in tan tunics and jewel-toned saris.

Rishi’s dad emigrated from India, but his mom grew up here in the northern suburbs of Chicago in a less traditional Indian household; together, their friends and family make this mid-tier Italian restaurant look like the photo shoots Dunlap College used to do.

We all know the type: They pick out one student per skin tone and pose them together so the brochure looks diverse.

Plus they’ve got me in the mix, a visibly identifiable lesbian with a shag haircut and canary yellow pantsuit.

All this and a gay person? Your liberal arts college marketing department could never.

The hostess points me down a short hallway, and as the waiter promised, there are two more bathrooms. I grab the handle of the ladies’ door with the confidence of someone about to complete an escape room, but it barely gives.

A deep voice—decidedly not Gin’s—barks from behind the door. “Locked means occupied!”

Shit. “Right, of course, sorry!”

I take a step back, then swivel around when a soft, familiar voice squeaks, “Alice? Is that you?”