Chapter 9
Two hours later, Puck still hasn’t forgiven Anya for coming back into the sauna in search of a missing hair tie at exactly the wrong moment.
Just when the makeout session was getting somewhere, the sound of the other bridesmaid’s footsteps forced Puck to pull away from Robyn and act like nothing at all had happened.
They’ve been antsy ever since then—a contrast to Willa, Lena, and Mia, who remain blissed out from the day’s treatments, their skin as poreless and shiny as the low marble table they’re all gathered around in the Athenian lobby.
“The boys are almost back,” Mia says, checking her phone.
“Boo,” Willa jokes. “And just when we’re the most relaxed we’ve ever been.”
Puck has been bristling more than they expected at how casually everyone uses gendered language here: The boys this, the girls that.
But it’s hard to get hung up on that right now because Mia’s words barely break through their reverie anyway.
They’re wishing they could rewind time, put an extra hair tie on Anya’s wrist, and see what they could have done to Robyn without any interruptions.
Maybe they just need to fuck her once, good and thoroughly, to get it out of their system.
That’s usually what happens with the straight girls Puck “turns” for a night: After the thrill of the chase is gone, the bubble of attraction simply pops.
Being someone’s experiment is fun, but only once.
And yet, despite outward appearances, there was something about the way Robyn pulled Puck toward her that felt …
experienced? Like she wasn’t at all intimidated.
Straight girls often cross boundaries out of entitlement, acting like their touch should be inherently flattering for Puck, but Robyn’s approach felt different.
More self-assured. So why does she dress like a Barry’s class might break out at any minute?
Puck is still trying to solve the Schrodinger’s box of Robyn’s sexuality when the groomsmen strut into the lobby wearing matching orange hunting vests that were probably purchased for this occasion alone. Even worse, they’re loudly boasting about massacring clay pigeons.
“Phil, you were a killer out there,” Tom is saying loudly, his volume not calibrated to the sanctitude of the lobby, where the bubbling fountain has so far been the only background noise.
“Yeah.” Peter mimes Phil’s movement, bursting through the sliding door as he cocks and fires an imaginary shotgun. “Buh-duh, boom!”
Lena, no fan of killing make-believe birds that aren’t even shaped like birds, audibly sighs.
It’s days like these that Puck experiences gender most clearly as a masquerade that would be funny if it weren’t so annoying to sidestep.
What if Zander wanted a pedicure or Willa wanted to fire a shotgun?
These are all young—and if they’re close enough to Mia to be invited, Puck would hope somewhat progressive—people in their late twenties and early thirties and they still readily divide themselves along gendered lines, based on …
what? The way people have “always” done it?
If Puck didn’t want to spend most of this week with Mia, they would have been more vocal about how distinctly 1950s the entire wedding itinerary felt.
They might have even chosen shooting over the spa—and it seems like some of the groomsmen would have gladly given up their spot.
Francis, in particular, looks crestfallen, like he didn’t perform as well as he wanted to. And Zander looks downright bored.
Puck stands up to intercept him as the groomsmen approach. “Are the big strong men back from hunting so soon?” they joke as the rest of the guys move out of earshot behind them. “Why, we haven’t even had the chance to bake all the berries we gathered into a pie!”
Zander laughs. “Yeah, this caveman shit is not for me. The only shotgun I care about is the one in L.A. Confidential.”
“The sawed-off one? From the shootout scene?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“So good,” Puck agrees. “Why can’t we all have a movie night this week, instead of you guys going off to war while we beautify ourselves?”
“Yeah, well, take it up with that Robyn girl,” Zander says. “She seems to be in charge around here.”
Puck casts a nervous glance around the lobby.
Apparently, one never knows when Robyn is about to stampede into a room.
For now, the maid of honor is safely out of sight, probably printing off a dozen photocopies of tomorrow’s itinerary or hand-sewing the picnic blankets for Thursday.
What is she getting out of this wedding, exactly?
Puck knows what it feels like to be in friend-love with Mia, and the kind of devotion that can inspire.
But is that all this is? Is Robyn’s neuroticism over the wedding purely protective?
Robyn may just want the same thing Puck wants—for Mia to be happy—but Robyn would be wrong about what that means in practice.
And there’s nothing more frustrating than someone with completely misplaced confidence.
“She’s a handful,” Puck agrees, and even that phrasing evokes images that are difficult to shake off.
Zander shifts his weight on his feet as though he’s about to head elsewhere, which Puck can’t have.
There are other, more painstaking plans in the works, but even this interstitial moment is an opportunity, they remind themself.
There’s a notepad upstairs that says “M + Z” on it, and “M” and “Z” are indeed both here, not to mention the “L” who’s supposed to help.
“I think I’m gonna go upstairs and make a sandwich or something,” Zander says. “Do you want one?”
As perfect as that sounds, food can wait. There’s work to be done.
“Hang on a second, Zan,” Puck says, before whipping around to locate where Lena went, hoping that she remembers their conversation in the sauna.
She’s still sitting at the marble table, so Puck backtracks a few steps, listening to make sure Zander doesn’t wander off somewhere.
Fortunately, they soon hear him strike up a conversation with Francis.
Meanwhile, Puck leans down to whisper in Lena’s ear. “Hey, remember that thing?”
Lena turns toward Puck, looking momentarily confused, but Puck nods almost imperceptibly toward Damon, who’s chatting with Peter nearby.
“Oh, right,” Lena says, a little too loudly for Puck’s liking, but then she launches out of her seat. Puck keeps one ear trained on Lena as they return to Zander, just as Francis heads over to the bar with Phil and Tom. So far, this is working out perfectly.
“Sorry about that, Zan,” Puck says. “I’ll come up for a sandwich, but Mia, Willa, and I were about to have another cucumber water. We got hooked on the stuff back in the spa. Want one before we go up?”
Zander considers the invitation. Behind him, Puck can see Lena pulling Damon aside.
They can’t hear all of the conversation, but based on the few words they do catch and Lena’s odd hand gestures, it seems like she is talking about needing something heavy moved, and that’ll have to do.
Damon takes the bait a lot more eagerly than he would have back in college, and the pair disappear together, with Damon offering a hurried explanation to Mia as he walks by: “Sorry, babe. I’ll be right back; I just need to help Lena for a second. ”
Zander clocks Damon leaving, which is great, because the groom’s departure seems to be enough to tip the scales. “Yeah, sure, I’ll have one,” he says. “Even though I pity the poor guy who has to slice cucumbers all day.”
“OK, have a seat, I’ll bring over a tray,” Puck says.
“You don’t need any help?”
They try to say “Don’t worry, I’ve got it” with as relaxed an air as they can manage, but internally, Puck is sweating. Even small moments are a lot to orchestrate alone.
They watch Zander long enough to make sure he sits down at the table with the girls before darting off to the Grove.
The same smug bartender from yesterday afternoon is, of course, the one Puck has to ask for four cucumber waters.
“Please,” they add, even though he doesn’t deserve the politeness.
A minute later, when he brings a tray over to Puck, he orders, “Just bring this back when you’re done”—no “please”—and Puck promises to comply, even as they fantasize about decapitating him with it.
Puck doesn’t command remotely the same respect here that they do on Homewreckers—and these “contestants” could just get up and leave at a moment’s notice.
There’s no guarantee Mia has stayed put or that Zander didn’t get distracted.
But when they return to the lobby, everyone is still in place, chatting away.
In fact, Zander has thoroughly enraptured Willa—a predictable and not entirely unwelcome development.
Men with his looks who can cook tend to have that effect on people—life’s two great needs, sex and food, wrapped up in one pretty package.
“So, what’s your favorite thing to make?” Willa is asking Zander, and Puck can see her fantasizing about dating him already.
“At the restaurant or at home?”
“Either.”
Willa fawning over Zander could help Mia realize what she’s missing out on, which is why Puck doesn’t mind the third wheel right now. As Homewreckers has proven many times over, the triangle isn’t just the strongest shape, it’s also the sharpest wedge.
They set the tray down, and Zander picks up one of the glasses with a brief “thanks” to Puck as he considers Willa’s question.
“The dishes at the restaurant don’t really feel like mine. I like making them, but it feels like doing paint-by-numbers for somebody else’s vision.”
“At home, then,” Willa prompts, not even hiding her interest.