9. Sunny #2
That’s how summer flies by, in a febrile haze. And marking the end, this time, is Ben’s wedding, which I’ve been looking forward to since spring, when Dex asked me to go with him. I was sure, by this point, he’d be calling me his girlfriend. But the wedding is today, and that still hasn’t happened.
It’s one of those relentlessly hot days—the kind where the heat soaks into your skin and stays there long after the sun goes down.
While the rest of the bridal party are flushed and sweaty, and even a bit wilted after taking wedding photos outside, Dex is somehow impervious to the humidity and looks like an actual movie star in his tuxedo as he accompanies the bride’s pre-teen cousin down the aisle.
Every female in the room has some sort of reaction to him, from wide eyes, to giggles, to swoony sighs.
And when the bride walks in, blushing and radiant in her satin gown, I turn to glance at Ben catching sight of her from across the room.
Instantly, my eyes fill with tears. And I know I’m not imagining things.
The way he looks at her—it’s the same way Dex looks at me…
But only when we’re alone. And I don’t know what that means.
Cocktail hour is outdoors at a beautiful winery, and the sun is just setting beneath the hills, bathing us in peachy pastel light. Dex comes from the bar with two glasses of champagne and hands one to me.
I still can’t get over him in his tux. He could be the next James Bond.
For the first time in my life, I’m a little starstruck.
“To summer,” he says as we clink glasses.
To summer , I think. And what happens next? It’s late August, and summer will be over soon.
“You look so damn beautiful,” he says as my mind begins to wander.
“Not too shiny?” I ask, wiping my brow.
He slowly shakes his head without taking his eyes off me. “You’re radiant.”
I smile and look down at my dress. I’m wearing a vintage silver embroidered piece I found in my mom’s closet.
She wore it in the seventies. It’s sleeveless and floor-length, with a deep V-neck that makes me feel very glamorous.
I usually opt for warmer tones, but I like the way the silver threads glint in the light.
Standing next to Dex, I can’t help but feel insecure at times. But tonight, I know I’m beautiful .
We head inside for dinner and dancing. The dining room is dreamy and romantic, with gossamer drapes and wildflower centerpieces, tea candles gleaming in glass holders, and golden starburst chandeliers hanging from the vaulted wooden ceiling.
We’re seated at a table with Dex’s parents, his Aunt Jane and Uncle Rich.
The wine is flowing—Aunt Jane tells us she’s enjoying a rare night away from her young kids, and she wants Dex’s mom to join in her merriment.
The two sisters laugh and reminisce while sipping glass after glass, mixing reds with whites and getting livelier as the night wears on.
Despite being a little more effusive than usual, Mrs. Dexter is still mostly holding it together, but by the time dinner is served, Aunt Jane is three sheets to the wind and loving every minute of it.
Occasionally Dex looks over at me and gives me a secret wink, or rests his hand on my knee under the table where no one can see. Normally that would be enough to make my heart flutter with joy but, for some reason, tonight it’s not.
Maybe it’s because we’re seated mere feet away from the newlyweds, kissing to the whoops and yells of friends and family.
Not to mention the maid of honor, whose husband keeps lovingly rubbing her shoulder.
And the bridesmaid seated to their left, whose boyfriend’s arm rests casually on the back of her chair, as if to say, This woman right here?
I love the hell out of her. And I don’t care who knows it .
No, a surreptitious wink and a stolen squeeze, here and there, aren’t enough for me tonight. They feel like consolation prizes. Like I’ve spent months waiting to be reunited with my soulmate but, instead of any grand gestures of love, all I get is felt up .
Or maybe, like Aunt Jane, I’ve had too much to drink (there’s an open bar, and no one’s carding) but the alcohol’s having the opposite effect on me. And rather than feeling bubbly and carefree, I’m insecure and anxious.
After the main course, Uncle Rich asks his wife to dance, and Mr. Dexter excuses himself to find the restroom, leaving Dex and me with just his mom, who moves to sit beside me.
“Sunny, you are so beautiful,” she says, squeezing my hand.
“Thanks,” I say, squeezing hers back. “And you are gorgeous as always.”
“Oh, honey,” Mrs. Dexter says with a dismissive grin.
But it’s no secret that Dex got his stunning eyes and radiant smile from his mom.
“Thank you,” she says more seriously now, and I watch as those stunning eyes start to glisten, and that radiant smile begins to fade into a thin, straight line.
She tilts her head and slowly exhales. “We just love you so much,” she says, her eyes fixed on me.
“I hope you know…you’ve always been like a daughter to us.
” Then she looks over at Dex, and I think I see her lips quiver.
“ Okay , Mom,” he says, reaching across me to grab her wine glass. “Time to get you some coffee, I think?” He chuckles and turns his gaze to me. “You know how it is—my mom always gets sappy when she’s had too much to drink.”
“Well, you can blame your Aunt Jane,” she tells him, shaking her head and smiling at me as she wipes a single tear from her eye. “That baby sister of mine is always getting me into trouble,” she jokes.
I laugh, my head spinning as Dex and his mom excuse themselves to find coffee, leaving me alone at the table.
I have absolutely no clue what’s happening, but it feels like Mrs. Dexter just broke up with me.
Does she know something I don’t? As far as I know, Dex still hasn’t told his parents what’s going on between us. But they’re not idiots.
Suddenly, I feel like the fool. And the more time I spend alone at the table, the more self-conscious I become, so I get up to find the restroom.
I’ve just entered a stall when I hear the door to the ladies’ room swing open followed by giggling and the loud clacking of high heels. Two women start talking. They sound like they’re about my age.
“Can I borrow your lipstick?” one asks the other. “That’s such a pretty shade.”
“Yeah, go for it.”
“Thanks. Oh my god—Ben’s cousin is the hottest guy I have ever seen.”
My heart leaps into my throat. I stand frozen in the stall and listen.
“Yeah, too bad he’s here with a date.”
“Oh, it’s not like that—they’re just friends.”
My hand flies to my mouth.
“How do you know?”
“I overheard him say so.”
My vision blurs.
“Besides,” the same voice continues, “she’s not pretty enough to be his girlfriend.”
My ears are ringing.
The other girl scoffs. “Um, are we talking about the same person? Silver dress? Banging body? And that hair ? She’s gorgeous!”
“You really think so?” asks the mean girl.
“Are you kidding me? I would kill for curls like hers. I wonder where she’s from? You know…her ethnicity.”
“When I was waiting at the bar during cocktail hour, I overheard someone ask her what she is. I didn’t hear her answer, though.”
“Seriously? Someone went up to her and said, ‘ What are you ?’ That’s rude.”
I can practically hear the mean girl shrug. “Whatever. It probably happens all the time. I’m sure she’s used to it.”
I roll my eyes because it’s true. Puzzled by my ethnically ambiguous features, people do often ask me this question.
Needless to say, it infuriates me, and not only because it makes me feel subhuman.
Because, without knowing more about my absentee father, the answer is, “I have no clue.” He never cared to know me.
And now I’m in a relationship with a guy who won’t acknowledge me. I really am on a roll.
“Well, I’m not asking her,” the nice girl replies. “But my point is, she has beautiful features, and you’re blind if you can’t see that.”
The mean girl sighs. “Well, maybe if that’s your type. I just think that Ben’s insanely hot cousin would look way better with someone more conventionally pretty.”
“You mean a tall, skinny blonde with blue eyes, like you ?” the nice one asks, clearly annoyed.
“Yup!” The bitch cackles.
“You really are a bitch, you know that?” says the nice one.
Great minds think alike .
“A bitch who’s about to give him my phone number!”
I hear their heels clacking again, followed by the creak of the door as it swings open and shut, then nothing but the faint buzz of the lights overhead.
Maybe I’m in shock, but I don’t cry when they leave.
Nothing the mean girl said is news to me.
It was eerie…like she’d read the pages of my nonexistent diary and quoted all the awful thoughts I’ve had about me and Dex.
When I walk back out into the hall, he’s waiting for me.
“Hey, I’ve been looking for you everywhere! Come with me.” He reaches for my hand, his eyes glimmering with excitement.
I let him lead me around two corners, my mind reeling. Finally, we reach a door at the end of a hall and, before he opens it, he looks back to make sure we’re alone.
It’s a staging room of sorts, with unused centerpieces and empty vases on one table, boxes of tea candles and a small stack of dinner menus on another.
Various pairs of men’s shoes, a sweatshirt, and a couple of duffel bags are piled messily in a corner.
A black leather couch sits under a row of windows framing a bright full moon, which provides the only light in the otherwise dark room.
“I was in here earlier with the other groomsmen. The door locks,” Dex says with a mischievous grin, and he gives the knob a quick turn left and right to double-check.