Chapter 19 #2
“I thought he was finished, but he had one more deal-breaker. He said, ‘Jenn, I know you’ve asked your Pilates instructor about using the reformer to stretch your bones, and you were the first person to have platform Crocs, so even when we’re just hanging out you’re elevated, but when you stand next to me, you’re three-eighths of an inch too short.
I got into this with my therapist, and we agreed that because I’m six two, my spouse must be between five seven and five eight, which is tall enough to qualify as a model, but not so tall that I’d get overshadowed.
And please don’t insult both of us by denying it, but you’re five five on a good day.
I’ve seen you, sneaking onto a higher step beside me, but who’re we kidding?
It’s off, everything about us is off. You’re the most gorgeous woman on Long Island, and maybe my standards are too high, but isn’t that part of why you love me?
This morning I was going through our engagement album online, with the pictures of us kissing in front of that trellis with the roses, and laughing together on the balcony of our hotel in Cancún, but there’s that one photo, we’re holding hands in that grotto, we’re standing right next to each other, and I hate myself for this, but all I could see was this big handsome dude, this guy whose driver’s license photo could be on the cover of GQ or Cigar Aficionado, and next to him is this adorable wizened troll, this shrunken elf with a skull like a dented honeydew melon, the one you put back in the produce display and it ends up in the dumpster behind the store.
Do you understand what I’m saying? I love you, but we don’t make sense together.
Unless, and okay, I debated whether I should ask you this, but is there any chance that you’ve been cursed by like, a witch or a SoulCycle instructor you accidentally offended, and that’s how you ended up like this?
Because we could postpone, if the curse can be lifted. ’ ”
Jenn was staring at me. She was smart enough to grasp the bottomless depths of Brayden’s oafishness, but she’d obeyed their common priorities for so long.
She was ordinarily so together, so primed with backup plans and specialists for whatever defect had been detected, but today she hadn’t just been irrationally and fiendishly pulverized, she’d been erased.
She was a shell of hopeful and costly preparations that could practically walk around by themselves, with a bereft child inside.
Jenn wasn’t selfish or superficial, even with her glossier preoccupations.
When the two of us had watched the Miss Universe pageant together, Jenn hadn’t cattily critiqued Miss Uruguay or Miss New Zealand, she’d complimented the “architectural construction” of their swimsuits and wept for the first runner-up, “who tried every bit as hard and was just as bright and pretty, and now she has to smile and pack up her hot rollers.” Jenn spent hours online counseling teenagers with cystic acne, lending her expertise and recommendations for free, with constant follow-ups.
Jenn cared about beauty, not from snobbery but the most kindhearted empathy—she wanted everyone to feel good about themselves and have access to the latest hydrating lip butters and mineral milks at Sephora.
“Jenn,” I said. “I am so sorry. You don’t deserve this. And it probably won’t help, but I’m so glad you’re not marrying that scumbucket.”
“Who should never have opened his mouth about another person’s flaws,” added Brock. “Not with that completely flat butt. I’m surprised he doesn’t slide off chairs.”
“I was thinking that!” said Timothy. After getting jilted, Jenn had operated on autopilot, having an assistant mass-email the cancellation and contact the vendors and hotel staff.
She couldn’t face her parents or bridesmaids, so she’d taken the tickets for her intended honeymoon and boarded the Empress Olympia, hiding out in her room, keeping the upheaval at bay.
It was only once we were well out to sea that Jenn had admitted even the most basic facts of Brayden’s reprehensible behavior and her own undoing.
She’d been wearing her wedding gown for almost twenty-four hours, and when a crew member knocked on her door, wishing the just-married couple only the best, asking if they’d like their bed turned down, and carrying a bottle of the ship’s finest champagne in a silver bucket as a gift, Jenn had cracked, rushing outside and standing at the glass railing, intending to jump.
Reggie had joined us and said, “Jenn? You’ve been through hell and it’s not about to get any better. But I have a suggestion, and a request. Can we talk in your suite?”
Jenn and Brayden had naturally booked the Premier Honeymoon Exterior Duplex, with an expansive view of the water and a living area with a heart-shaped sectional overlooked by an upper bedroom swathed in red satin, including the drapes, bedding, and headboard, so it resembled an inflamed esophagus.
Jenn changed into a floor-length robe embroidered with the ship’s logo, a frisky mermaid wearing a crown and holding a martini glass.
She tugged her voluminous hair back with a rubber band and washed her face, so she looked at least five years younger than Brayden, and wistfully vulnerable.
“All right,” said Reggie, once we were all seated downstairs, surrounding Jenn on that unfortunate couch, as Brock and I tempted her with non-diet white wine and a tray of frosted black-and-white cookies, a favorite indulgence that Jen had denied herself for the full year prior to her non-wedding.
“As you may have guessed,” Reggie told Jenn, “Andrew didn’t give Brock a kidney. Andrew wanted to go to your wedding, but I asked him to be here. Because, remember when I told you about the Tuxedo Society and our espionage operations? And you laughed? Look around.”
Jenn’s eyes darted from me to Brock to Timothy to Pei-Sze and Mikaela.
She was cosseted by a stealth cadre of that eternal category, the Gay Best Friends.
As an actor, I’d read for plenty of these roles: the lonely neighbor watering his ficus on a shared terrace, the uproarious party boy with a whistle and a tambourine, or the always-prepared-to-dish (“Spill it, honey”) break room confidant.
I don’t hate these parts, but they’re peripheral and sexless (even if accompanied by muscled love interests with no dialogue).
Gay BFFs exist to gush over the heroine (“You’re hotter than any of those models”), allay her insecurities (“Don’t you dare lose any more weight”), select her ensembles (“I love you in periwinkle”), and tell her, as she embarks upon a first date, a job interview, or testifying at a murder trial, “Girl, you got this.”
Today, the Tuxes were essential to Jenn’s recovery, not as simpering homos-in-waiting, but as highly trained professionals, as People Who Aren’t Brayden.
“Oh my God,” said Jenn. “It’s real? So you’re like—gay spies? And Andrew actually—does stuff?”
“Correct,” said Reggie. “Here’s what I’m proposing. To take your mind off your undeniable troubles, and to reunite with Andrew, and to serve your country, we’d like you to help us out.”
Reggie unspooled a concise précis of the hunt for the three gems, and Elizabeth’s imminent arrival on the ship.
“So you’re after jewelry?” said Jenn, having listened to Reggie intently.
“Elizabeth’s chopper touches down tomorrow morning, three hours before the meeting. I’d like her to wait in this suite with you, so Stanton can’t spend too much extended time with her and suspect anything. He’ll never look here, because you’re technically on your honeymoon.”
“Okay,” said Jenn. “So the Tuxes are this whole undercover cloak-and-dagger Mission Whatever thing, and you’d like me to pitch in. Which I get. And I make my own money, so I won’t want to be paid. But quid pro quo—later this week, can something happen to Brayden?”
I was shocked, although I shouldn’t have been—Jenn’s organizational genius was reasserting itself.
Her checklist had grown by a single (maybe literal) bullet point.
And while I wouldn’t blame her for a second, was she talking about having Brayden arrested, beheaded, or at the very least, photographed in direct sunlight?
“You don’t have to kill him,” she said. “But since you’re so fancy, I’ll leave things up to you. Make him pay.”
“On it,” said Reggie. “And again, I’m not belittling your pain, but you’re doing exactly the right thing—instead of festering, you’re being proactive.”