Chapter Fourteen
Let me tell you something about rich people. They can be on a tropical island, smack-dab in literal paradise, where nothing more is needed but a few tables and some chairs, and they will still find a way to spend gobs of money.
Case in point, according to the itinerary, tonight’s party is being held at the island’s other restaurant, the Boathouse. On any ordinary night, I imagine it’s magnificent exactly how it is. To the naked eye it looks like a large driftwood structure, with no real walls to detract from the stunning beach just yards away. Intricately carved ceiling fans oscillate from wooden beams stretched overhead, and beautiful iridescent shell-covered chandeliers glow above long tables set in pristine white sand. See? Gorgeous. Perfect. Expensive.
But because this is a Weston Party?, it doesn’t end there. Clustered down the center of each table are vases bursting with white orchids and sprays of spiky green palms. The plates are bone china, and they look old, rich old, vintage, with about seventeen matching smaller plates and crystal champagne flutes at each place setting. I wonder idly if Janet had these brought over from her own collection, and then I realize she’d be more likely to just buy an entirely new set of priceless china.
Candles flicker in mercury glass votives. Each chair is topped with a creamy linen pillow. More flowers are arranged in boughs over the bar, and fresh tropical greenery encircles every wooden beam and column. It’s like being in a terrarium on the beach. The air is warm and smells like sea salt and sugar, and I feel slightly drunk before we’ve even stepped inside.
“Why does this still surprise me?” I say, looking at the splendor in front of us. There are so many people here, swarming the bar while ignoring the buffet. You won’t see me making that mistake. Thanks to Vivi’s crash course in being fancy, I spot Valentino and Chanel, Dior and Bottega Veneta. Hermès bags and red-soled Christian Louboutin sandals. Brands I can barely pronounce, let alone spell. It’s a safe bet Janet isn’t the only one in attendance who takes her trash out in a pair of Gucci slides.
“I know what you mean,” he says, and there’s a hint of sadness there. Disappointment? He’s also hesitating, his feet planted in the sand like he’s being led to an audit.
With a hand on his elbow, I coax him to turn toward me. “Hey.”
He smiles and I wonder for the hundredth time why he doesn’t do it more often. “Hey.”
“I forgot to tell you something awesome.”
He tilts his head, the stars reflecting in his eyes. “I love awesome.”
“My manager emailed while you were being accosted by your sister-in-law, and three of my pieces will be at a showing in Laguna!”
His smile grows and I screech as he wraps his arms around my waist and lifts me from the ground. “That’s amazing,” he says, peering up at me. “Congratulations, Green.”
“Thank you.”
After an awkward amount of what now? eye contact, West sets me down and I’m glad to see that his expression is lighter, his shoulders looser. Mission accomplished. “See? No virgin sacrifice required,” he says.
“Oh, good to know,” I say, grinning. “You were gone so long, I wanted to ask if thanks were due, but it felt like that sort of gift is best left unmentioned.”
“Just your talent, absolutely zero blood spill.”
Music drifts from the restaurant as a band begins to play. “Okay,” I say. “So we are madly in love, are the types to have sex before and after this party, and these suckers can only dream of being this happy.” I reach up, smoothing the front of his shirt. “You ready, Dr. Weston?”
“No, but let’s do it anyway.” He winks. “Champagne’s on me.”
As we enter, we are greeted by a beautiful young woman wearing a Weston’s name tag. “Welcome to the Weston-McKellan welcome reception.” She hands me a heavy white bag.
“What’s this?” I say, peeking inside.
West leans in. “Probably a swag bag.”
I blink up at him. “Like at the Oscars?”
He laughs. “Something like that. Stuff from my parents but probably things from other guests, too.”
“They got sponsors? For a wedding?” I push the tissue paper aside. “West,” I say, and pull out the iconic white box. “There’s an iPad in here.” Next to it is an envelope with a crisply folded sheet of stationery. “Oh my God. Ten shares of Samsung stock… a week at a luxury Canadian resort…” It goes on and on: a canister of hand-harvested gourmet dates, Belgian chocolates, a year’s supply of vitamin supplements, luxury bath salts, several vouchers for skin-care products and… my excitement deflates. “A gift card for liposuction?”
West lifts one weary shoulder, leading me farther inside.
Across the room, Charlie and Kellan greet guests as they arrive, and she looks so genuinely happy that my heart grows four sizes. I want that for West so much. I want him to take what he loves in his family and leave the rest, to build a perfect combination of chosen family and given and finally find some relief from whatever the history is with his father.
He leaves me to grab us drinks, and I scan the seating, knowing Janet will not have left something like a seating chart to chance. I set my gift bag next to the place card with Dr. and Mrs. William Weston embossed across it. Married to a doctor, well done, Past Me.
Mother would be so proud.
I look around, hoping to find Jake, but he doesn’t seem to have arrived yet. Nearby is a banquet table heavy with desserts, each accompanied by a tiny silver label. Saffron poached pears with gold leaf and spun sugar cages. Sheep’s milk mousse, pandan curd, and caramelized puff rice. White chocolate mousse with cardamom espuma and clementine sorbet. Papaya curd with black currant jelly, oatmeal, and mint glass.
I think of the last wedding I went to, of a friend from high school who was married at the Los Angeles County courthouse and had the reception at Level Up Dance Studio in Signal Hill. She ordered Domino’s, and afterward we all shared a chocolate sheet cake she got for free because the bakery accidentally piped Congratulations on Your Weeding. Best cake I’ve ever had.
I reach for a plate, filling it with everything I can carry, and turn to see West on his way back. But he doesn’t just have drinks. He has an older red-haired man with him. “Anna, this is Patrick Lemon. Pat, this is my wife, Anna.”
I set down my plate and shake his hand enthusiastically. “Pat is the chairman of the American Dairy Farmer Coalition,” West adds.
“Mr. Lemon, it’s such a thrill to meet you. I am a huge fan of your work.”
He smiles at me, unsure. “Thank you.”
“I personally think a mixing bowl is the correct serving size for breakfast cereal,” I say, winking at West. “And my best friend, Vivi, is lactose intolerant but will happily polish off an entire pint of ice cream as if she won’t be in my bathroom for the next three hours.”
West looks like I’ve just pushed him off a cliff, but Mr. Lemon tilts his head back and laughs. “There’s nobody more fearless than people who can’t have dairy,” he says. “My wife can’t tolerate cheese but she’s always the first to suggest pizza.”
I lean in conspiratorially. “Make it good enough that they’re willing to pay the price, am I right?”
“That’s the idea,” Pat says with a nod.
The two men chat for a few minutes before Pat wanders off and Liam turns to me, an amused smirk tugging the corner of his mouth. “I wouldn’t think a conversation about lactose intolerance could be charming, but I stand corrected.”
My cheeks are still warm from his praise when he introduces me to Danielle Xiu, the congressional aide and avid Barbie collector. As luck would have it, my former boss Barb kept old issues of Fashion Doll Quarterly in the back office of the Pick-It-Up, which I, of course, devoured. Dani and I talk vintage gown re-creations, the brilliance of the Barbie movie, and BarbieCon.
I note the wedding ring on her finger. “Where is your Ken? Or your Barbie?”
She laughs. “My Ken is back home with our kids. He’s a litigator, so he’s thrilled to get some downtime playing Dad this week.”
I wrap my arms around West’s torso. “My Ken’s job this week is Beach.”
“And Drinks,” he says, taking our empty glasses with a charming smile and leaving to get us refills.
The night goes on like this, easy and surprisingly fun, and it’s only after West and I say good night to Nicola Ricci, a vitamin corporation CEO and new emu farmer (thank you to the r/Emu subreddit for all of the amazing intel) that I realize how chatty I’ve been, while West played the part of bemused bystander.
When we’re finally alone again, West puts his hand on my lower back and leads me to the edge of the party. “Okay,” I start, “before you say it, I know I’ve been talking too much.” It doesn’t seem fair that I should get the giant, warm, sexy hand on my back when my entire job here was to smile and be polite, not chitchat and stand out.
West frowns. “Are you kidding? Everyone was completely charmed. Where did you learn all that anyway? Like emus having double eyelids and all that shit about Barbie legs?”
I shrug. “I read a lot. My old job at the Pick-It-Up stocked every magazine ever. And Reddit is both a trash fire and an invaluable resource.”
“I’m impressed, Green. You’re doing amazing.”
These words make my ocean-dwelling ovaries incinerate, but then a shadow looms over the sunshine: this is easy for me. Too easy. The realization makes me feel icky inside, because I suddenly can’t imagine my dad at all, let alone him laughing easily with these people, some of whom have never personally delivered their vehicle to a mechanic. Maybe I’m more like my mother than I thought.
But I don’t have more time to spiral, because the sound of clinking glasses rises in the room all around us. Over near the bar, Charlie and Kellan lean in, coming together in a kiss that is so perfect I wonder if she learned it in finishing school.
When they pull away, they do an adorable “gazing into each other’s eyes” move before Charlie gasps, clapping. In her tiny micro minidress, she attempts to jog-shuffle in her spiked heels—so much for no stilettos on the beach—over to the microphone. “Alex reminded me earlier today that our sweet Liam has been married to Anna for five years this August!”
A knowing smile pulls at Alex’s lips, and he lifts his glass. Fucking Alex.
Bouncing excitedly, Charlie waves to where we stand in the back, and the entire room turns to face us, seventy-five bleached white grins forming a spotlight. I am sure even without the benefit of a mirror in front of us that both West and I look like we have just emerged from a cave to bright sun. “We are so happy to have them with us!” Charlie cries. “Congratulations, you two!”
The clinking starts up again, but this time, I realize we’re the ones who are meant to be kissing.
“What do we do?” I say through my clenched-teeth smile.
“I think,” he says back through his own tight grin, “that we kiss.”
My jaw is cramping. I’m fake-smiling so hard. “Okay, great!”
“Yeah?” he asks, and his own smile is now straightening, his expression turning to determined focus. A big hand comes up, cupping my jaw, and I manage to get out a breathy “yeah” as my knees turn to jelly. His eyes drop to my mouth, and I hold my breath as he leans in.
I realize, just before we touch, that he’s about to erase everything I know about the act of kissing.
The first contact is just a brush of his lips over mine, the briefest sweep. I’m going to be devastated if that’s all I get, but then I hear the quietest moan escape his throat as he leans in again, pressing his soft, strong mouth to mine and taking my top lip between his, sucking gently before he turns his attention to my bottom one. With a smile forming against my kiss, West tilts his head and takes me with a heat I could not have predicted but which makes me feel like I’m falling backward into clouds.
Or maybe that’s the way he’s cupping the back of my head in one hand, holding me around my waist in the other, and dipping me so low I’m nearly on the floor.
The room is quiet and then erupts in cheers as West smoothly brings me back up in what has to be the sexiest move any man has ever pulled off. I feel the ground shake beneath me, but it isn’t the noise in the room. It’s the realization that whatever I thought kissing was before was a poor, diluted impostor to that.
“West Weston,” I say, resting my hands on his chest. “Who knew you had it in you?”
He smiles knowingly down at me. “I’m pretty sure you did.”