Chapter Seventeen
Seventeen
The unofficial theme of Gin’s bridal shower is The Chrissy Amato Show.
That much is evident from the moment we arrive; when Renee and I step onto the patio, we’re given hot-pink feather boas, bestowed upon us by Chrissy and Asha.
They’re wearing matching pale-pink custom tees that say Virginia is for lovers, only lovers is crossed out and Rishi is printed over it.
“Welcome, welcome!” Asha greets us with a wide smile and enormous hugs.
Gone is the snarling woman from the engagement dinner; Mrs. Bhat has been fully Chrissy-fied.
She sweeps her arms, motioning with her feather boa to the patio as a whole—the photo backdrop made entirely out of paper hearts, the big inflatable engagement ring, the pink sequin tablecloths and silver cushions on every seat.
“Isn’t this just…” Asha glances at Chrissy. “Perf?”
I barely contain my snort; Renee nudges me, a smile plastered on her face. “Yeah,” she says. “Totally perf.”
Gin is easy to spot from across the patio; her sparkly white feather boa flutters behind her as she scampers toward us, gathering me and Renee in one giddy group hug.
“Yay, all the bridesmaids are here!” Gin says, then softly, still holding us close, “Do you think Chrissy brainwashed my mother-in-law?”
We turn toward Asha, who, mid-conversation with an auntie, tips her head back with a Weedwacker cackle.
“Yes,” I say.
“Definitely,” Renee agrees.
“Cool.” Gin smiles. “I’ll thank her later.”
After a trip through the buffet line, Renee and I carry our bruschetta-packed plates to a table at the far end of the patio. Chrissy appears almost instantly, sliding into an empty seat beside me.
“Any eyes on Waiter Boy?” For days, she’s regaled us with the details of every text, voice memo, and lewd photo exchanged between her and this man whose name she still does not know.
I am deeply invested; Renee, less so. Now, Chrissy is halfway through describing what she envisions for her and Waiter Boy’s perfect first date when Renee’s phone buzzes, and she disappears into it, frowning and scrolling until Chrissy pauses to whine.
“Hell-ooooo? Renee? Are you even listening?”
Renee sets her phone face down beside her plate. “Sorry. Just work stuff.”
My body reacts the way it would to a misplayed note. Work stuff? What could that mean?
“Just closing out a few things before we start…” Renee’s eyes flick to one of the card stock programs scattered across the table. “The shoe game.”
Chrissy lights up. “I love the shoe game.”
“I hate the shoe game,” Renee says in near unison.
I’m intrigued. My eyes bounce between them as I prepare to pick a side. “Am I supposed to know what that is?”
“Essentially, the bride and groom each take off their shoes, and they hold one of each,” Chrissy explains.
“So like, one heel and one men’s dress shoe.
They sit back to back, and someone asks a question.
Like, who is the messy one in the relationship?
They hold up Gin’s shoe if they think Gin is messy…
” Chrissy lifts one hand in demonstration, keeping the other at her side. “And vice versa.”
“So they can’t see how the other one answers,” Renee interrupts. “It’s to see if they agree on things.”
I nod, only sort of getting it. “Sounds…fine?”
“It’s pointless,” Renee says flatly.
“It does sound like something straight people would like.”
Chrissy, representing straight people, pouts. She flips her feather boa over her shoulder, smacking Renee in the face in the process. “It’s funny,” she says while Renee spits out a feather. “And I’m the one who wanted to play it, so be nice.”
Not five minutes later, Asha taps a fork against her water glass, calling everyone on the patio to attention.
Except for me. My attention is still entirely caught up in what work stuff might mean.
Based on Renee’s less-than-convincing smile, I’m guessing it’s nothing good, but she seems determined to keep her eyes off mine, like I might see something she’s not willing to share.
The game begins just as Chrissy explained: Gin and Rishi pull up their black vinyl banquet chairs so they’re back to back, each of them barefoot and holding a high heel and a dress shoe. Asha stands ready with the microphone and a prepared list of questions.
“Who’s a pickier eater?” They both hold up Rishi’s shoe.
“Who’s a better dancer?” They both hold up Gin’s.
“Who spends more time staring at their phone?”
My head snaps toward Renee, who drops her phone on the table with a clatter, caught in the act again.
“Ooh, here’s a good one.” Asha waggles her eyebrows deviously. “Who’s better at keeping secrets?”
Without a second of delay, two nude stiletto heels shoot into the air. Instead of laughter, there’s a collective low-pitched “Ooooh.”
Gin laughs and waves her arms like an umpire calling safe. “Just secret keeping in general! I’m not keeping anything juicy. No babies or anything.”
My head whips back to face the bridesmaids, brows scrunched. “Did she say babies?”
“I think it’s like, if she’s good at keeping secrets and she’s getting married, she must be pregnant,” Chrissy explains.
With that, I’m officially on Renee’s side: The shoe game sucks.
The questions persist, but I skip the show in favor of a virgin Bloody Mary. The bar is inside, and the bartender looks at me like I’m crazy when I place my order. I look back at him like he’s…wait. Like he’s Waiter Boy.
“Here’s your…soup.” Waiter Boy slides my drink across the bar top, and I giggle nervously because, unfortunately, I have seen this man naked.
“Thanks. I mean thank you…Hey, what’s your name?”
He looks at me, if possible, like I’m crazier. “Chris?”
My gasp is, out of context, completely unwarranted. I try—unconvincingly—to hide it with a cough. “Sorry.” I grip the edge of the bar, leaning in conspiratorially, but I can’t look him in the eye without laughing. “Did you just say your name is Chris?”
“Yes?” He squints at me, suspicious. In fairness, I’m reacting to a top-ten generic guy name as though Waiter Boy had introduced himself as Gizmo the Clown. I slap whatever cash I have onto the bar, muttering something like “Okay, thanks” or “Wow, that’s cool,” and race back outside to the table.
“CHRISSY.” I whisper-shout as I crash-land into my seat. “I FOUND him.”
“You found him!?” Chrissy launches out of her chair like it’s spring-loaded, her whole body pivoting left, then right, like she’s trying to sniff him out.
“YES. He’s inside. And get this—”
Before I can reveal the true identity of Waiter Boy, Chrissy takes off like someone set her on 3x speed, and the rest of the shower goes by almost as fast. Gin and Rishi open presents one at a time, everyone oohing and aahing over trivets, until one auntie squeals that she felt a raindrop.
No sooner is it said than the sky opens up and the rain dumps down in buckets.
Everyone scrambles to grab a present or decoration, slimy wet feather boas whipping around.
Inside, we wring them out in the bathroom sinks or else slop them into trash cans while reassuring a panicked bride that this definitely won’t happen on her wedding day.
As if that’s something any of us can control.
The I Do Crew posts up at a table by the window, and Gin chews her lip raw, watching rain pelt down in sheets.
Chrissy is the only dry one among us, having been inside talking to Chris when the storm rolled in.
She tries to lift Gin’s spirits with a Waiter Boy name reveal (Chrissy loves that his name matches hers), but Gin is unmoved, her attention entirely caught up in the weather.
“Do you have a backup for the wedding?” Renee is brave enough to ask. “For if it rains?”
“We’ll have a tent if we really need it,” Gin says, still not looking away from the window. “It’s not, like, a circus tent but a classier one. A clear one, so we can see the stars.”
“That’ll look so good,” Chrissy assures her.
“If you even need it,” I add. “Which you probably won’t.”
Gin perks up a little at the positivity. “Yeah! So if it rains, we’ll just move the tables out of the way and have the ceremony under the tent.”
“What about the dance floor?” Renee asks, and Gin’s face falls again. A small breathy “Oh” slips out.
“I, uh…I guess we’ll just…hope it doesn’t rain.”
“And what about the concert, Alice?” Renee spins her worry on me. “Is there a backup venue?”
“It’s an indoor show, actually,” I say. “There’s this little theater in Galena, so it’s a really small, intimate thing. It’ll be cool.”
Gin’s brows pinch, but her eyes stay wide, bouncing between Renee and me in search of a shred of context. “Are you playing a concert in Galena?” she guesses.
The realization sets in as quickly as the storm. Not for lack of trying, but I never did tell Gin about the memorial show, did I?
“Right!” I cough. “I’ve been meaning to tell you. The Handful is playing a memorial concert for my dad.”
“Oh.” Gin blinks. She glances briefly at the table like she’s referencing a calendar, then back to me. “When?”
“Two days before your wedding, actually. On Dad’s Gone Day.”
Concern moves like a rain cloud over Gin’s expression. The bent umbrella of her brow can’t keep the pain out of her eyes.
“I’m gonna drive back that night,” I rush to assure her. “I already have it all worked out with—”
Mom, I don’t say. A chill rolls down my spine like a marble down a track. I have nothing worked out with Mom. Renee shifts beside me, knowing as much. I’ve ignored every one of Mom’s calls and texts since the Kurt incident, so that’s…shit, it hasn’t been a month already, has it?