22
22
WEDDING PARTY POOPER
W e were immediately handed flutes of champagne, and I immediately took a glug. Unfortunately, I, in my current state, couldn’t really appreciate the magical setting before me. Acres of long-stemmed red roses in black lacquered vases perfumed the air with the smell of love. Formal white tablecloths were set off by mirrored chargers atop which sat white swan napkins kissing. Black crystal chandeliers icicled down over tables already sparkling with candlelight.
I dispassionately took it all in as Ranger accepted congratulations for the both of us and effortlessly made small talk with big wigs as we made our way very slowly to the bridal table. By the time we got there, Ashley-Leigh already had her claws sunk into Slater’s arm, and I was out of champagne. By happenstance, a black and white caterer was hovering nearby and poured some forthwith. Our table was located up front and center, and I sat back and watched the cover band—I didn’t pick—play hit songs that spanned enough decades to please everyone. I did this while nibbling on a tasteless assortment of fancy food, presented artfully on ornate black and white china. Jess cast me looks of concern as I sat listlessly propped between my husband and Andrew.
I couldn’t even concentrate on the conversation buzzing around me. Mikey leaned over Ranger’s arm twice to ask if he had to dance. I was in the midst of a shrug when Ranger answered for me, reaching over to replace my champagne flute with a water glass. My husband was a little bit more than dazzling in his performance, overcompensating for the missing leading lady. By sleight of hand here, replacing champagne glasses with water there, in between laughing, receiving continued well-wishes, and chatting with my father about the military situation in the Middle East. By the time an MC announced the first dance, my head was beginning to bob, and it wasn’t to the groovy beat. Wasn’t entirely my fault—someone had dimmed the lights. My husband gallantly helped me up from the table, and we performed a simple waltz number, practiced one day on his brief furlough from South Africa. A happier time for us, to be sure. By the end of the dance, he was more holding me up than dancing.
Next, he handed me off, very carefully, to my father, leaving me with a warning look I stared right through. Funny how it didn’t singe a single hair on my head, or freeze a single droplet of blood in my veins. While my father proceeded to awkwardly sway me side to side in a continuous square, I tried very hard not to tip all the way over and fall to the floor.
“Katie-girl, you look like you’re at a funeral and not yer own weddin’. I know you’re nervous, but you need to smile more for your husband. No man wants a sourpuss for a wife.” His final words of advice to his daughter.
A weird laugh bubbled from my throat. “That a girl.” He patted my back so that my laugh vibrated.
After a couple of clumsy dances with my brothers, I was dragged off the floor by my husband and ushered over to the cake table. Slater relinquished his saber to Ranger as a crowd gathered around to witness the ceremonious cutting of the cake. It was a five-tier tower of white chocolate confection decorated with sparkly black beads of sugar. The wedding planner had gone over the night’s festivities, so I knew we were to feed each other cake. But I’d never attended a wedding before so didn’t know we were supposed to smash it into each other’s faces. Had I known, I would’ve definitely participated in that particular tradition. Ranger made up for my lapse by smearing it across my lips, to more laugher from the spirited crowd. After which, he leaned over to kiss it off.
Boy, he really was a one-man show tonight, taking up the slack for his wife, who’d just about flat-lined. Everyone must’ve thought Officer Nealson picked the dullest knife in the drawer. They should’ve given him a gold star or another stripe on his jacket, something for his efforts.
The next order of business was the garter belt I’d forgotten I was wearing. The lights were dimmed even further and a giggling Ashley-Leigh pushed me into a rolling chair, then three elite cadets rolled me into the middle of the dance floor. The drummer began a dramatic drum-roll that had me feeling like I was standing in front of a firing squad. Ranger got down on his knees, to a whole lot of hooting and hollering from important, buttoned-up types, who looked a little uncool letting loose. Ranger slowly slid my dress up to about my knees.
“Use your teeth!” a running-buddy called out. I didn’t even blush or blink an eye when my husband’s mouth roamed up my thigh in front of my father, my brothers, Weston, Dr. D, the mayor, Academy peers, and the bemused priest who just performed our ceremony. Ranger playfully tugged with his teeth, to more jeers and whistles, before slipping it off with his hands. He agilely rose to his feet before snapping it into the amped-up crowd of eligible bachelors. It was caught by Instructor Fuentes, head of the Spanish department, of all people. I idly wondered what he would do with it.
Ranger was still pulling double duty, holding me up and joshing around with some boisterous cadets, when I realized I needed a breather.
“I know it was you, Hargrove,” Ranger announced. “I recognized the red ass from when I spanked you in Thursday night’s pick-up game.” Raucous laughter, that included Ashley-Leigh’s high-pitched giggles, followed.
My ears felt cottony. I couldn’t hear the witty comeback. Or whatever my maid of honor was prattling in my ear about the best man. It’s like everyone’s mouths were open, but the sounds were coming from far away. This was when I decided to try and break free. But my husband only tightened his hold on me. I resorted to physically prying his hand from my waist. His eyes flashed to mine, disapproval replacing humor.
“Where do you think you’re going?” he growled into my ear before loosening his grip to kiss my temple.
“Bathroom break.”
“Okay. I’ll walk you.” He squeezed me to him. “Leave you pups to scrap over who gets to dance with Laticia.” He grinned away, replacing his hand around my waist to steady me.
We were still wading across the ballroom, when we were accosted by a stuffed-suit well-wisher. I took my opportunity to escape to the bathroom while they were shaking hands, unaccompanied by my irritated better half. I swayed and waved and watched smiling faces turn to ones of concern as I made my way to the lobby. A bride on the loose must’ve been a rare sight, because I was relentlessly stared and smiled at. Seeking privacy, I eschewed the regular ladies’ room for the handicapped one around the corner. I crashed through the door and immediately slunk down the wall, resting my heated cheek against the cool green tile. The night was beginning to tilt and whirl. Colors, faces, music, laugher, all smearing together in a merry-go-round of obnoxious sensory overload. In contrast, my heart felt sluggish in my chest. Or just heavy. Or maybe out of rhythm. All I knew was, it was getting harder to breathe and I was dying to pee. So, after a minute of deep breathing, I girded up my loins enough to get up and go do that. But it was a lot of work and seemed to zap whatever energy I had. I could barely reach behind me to flush the toilet. I staggered to the mirror to wash my hands, maybe splash some water on my face. My eyes looked flat, my cheeks heated, and I was beginning to glisten around my hairline and upper lip. I felt retched. I looked retched. Like I was about to hurl any second.
I stared at my face and saw spots dotting my vision. I looked like a Rembrandt version of myself, a smeary watercolor. How much champagne had I drunk? Was I drunk? Too much, combined with the little blue pill. Maybe combining the two halves was a bad idea. Like our marriage.
A polite knock at the door let me know this wasn’t a private sanctuary, after all.
“Just a minute!” I called, turning on the faucet and running cold water over my wrists. I wet a wad of paper towels and pressed it to the nape of my neck. Then grabbed some more and blotted at the sheen of perspiration on my forehead. I deep breathed in through my nostrils. This part of the night was almost over. A good thing and a bad one. The next part of the night’s agenda sent a jarring pang of anxiety to my gut, despite the chemical muting.
Another knock.
I took in another deep breath, steadying myself. You can do this. Keep it together, Kate. I fought with the lock a moment before opening the door and almost falling over Dr. D’s wheelchair before righting myself, with the help of her firm arm. Alarmed concern clouded her face—the same look I’d seen multiplied across the party.
“Katie dear, are you alright? You look quite out of sorts.”
My face crumpled. “No!” I sobbed. “I’m not quite alright. Everything’s all wrong!” I threw my arms out, almost toppling over.
She grabbed my arm to steady me again. “Katie.” There was warning in her tone.
I broke out of her grip, falling back against the door. “I’ve been goin’ against your ”—I rudely pointed at her chest—“instructions and Mama’s, this whole time. Ignorin’ my gut instinct.”
Dr. D looked pained, bracing for what she knew was coming next. She didn’t wait around for it, flipping her chair so her back was to me. “Katie, you need to stay right here.” She peeked over her shoulder to see if I registered her warning. I must’ve looked mutinous because she said, “ Please, dear. For your own good. I’m going to come right back. Will you wait for me?”
She didn’t give me a chance to reply before whirring quickly away.
“It should’ve been Pete!” I called after her rapidly departing back. “It should’ve been your son!” If she heard me, she didn’t indicate it. But an expensive-looking couple sauntering by looked askance at my bold declaration.
An indiscernible amount of time later, a rude knock rattled the door. So, she’d brought back my husband. I felt inexplicably betrayed by this. I hoisted myself back up and smoothed my hair back down, wiping a bead of sweat from my upper lip. I glanced at the mirror—wilting flower came to mind.
Pound. Pound . “Open up, sweetheart.” Didn’t sound sweet when he said it.
I heard the retreating whir of Dr. Benedict Arnold’s wheelchair. I exhaled and unlocked the door. Icy irritation had changed to burning anger. “Look at you,” he spat. “You’re a goddamned mess!”
I stood there, undenying and swaying.
“I can not believe you got podunk-drunk at our wedding!”
I went to apologize but didn’t seem to be able to move my lips.
My husband made a face, putting the lecture on hold to get down to business. “Do you think you can make it for one more thing?”
I nodded listlessly.
“Because if you can’t stand up for five more minutes, I need to know now. I’ll be pissed as hell, but it won’t be as bad as if, when we go back in there, you stumble over and fall down like a drunk clown.”
I nodded again at him, swallowing down an enormous amount of saliva. My mouth was watering like one does when they have to throw up. I deep breathed in through my nostrils and felt a light sheen of sweat pop up on my face again. I was just so dang hot.
Ranger swore a low oath before slamming over to the sink. He yanked some paper towels out of the holder and flooded the faucet with cold water. He soaked them and wrung them out before lifting my hair and clamping them on the back of my neck. He didn’t look at me. His whole body was a rigid block of reigned-in anger.
“Let me know when you’re able to go back out there,” he said, after a few hard beats of silence. “It’s ten thirty. Too early for the happy couple to depart for the night, but I don’t see you’ve left us much choice. You still need to toss the bouquet and then we’ll say our goodbyes and bow out. Can you manage that?”
I could barely manage to pull a piece of veil back from my face, but I nodded, not daring myself to speak, less I vomit all over the metal pinned to his suit in lieu of a boutonniere. He sponged me off a couple of more times. Hoisted me up and ran my wrists under cold water. Pulled my hair off the back of my neck to allow more air.
“Did you eat today?” he demanded.
Did I? The half pancake and cheese crackers seemed so far away. I felt so far away. I nodded.
“Look.” He gripped my shoulders and stared into my eyes. “You need to act like this is a life or death mission. This is what you’ve been trained for. To perform. Even when you don’t want to. Even when you’re sick. Or tired or drunk . . . or whatever the hell you are right now.”
I tried to focus on his face and almost reached up to pat it. And then I remembered I’d rather punch it.
“I already overheard Weston make an excuse for you,” he hissed. “Our guests are gossiping and speculating. It’s time for you to tape up and play hurt. Put a stop to the murmurs. I need you to dance like a monkey for your keep out there. Smile, walk in a straight line, talk without mumbling, throw the goddamned bouquet without falling over. Can you do this for me, Katie-Kat?”
I swallowed. Nodded seriously, because he was staring seriously down at me.
“You stay here.” He plunked the toilet seat down with his foot. “Sit with this on your neck and your head between your knees until I get back. Then you better be ready to roll.”
I nodded queasily.
He walked out the door, only to walk back in a minute later with André, who was accompanied by Dr. D. After she whirred away, André came at me like I was a skittish colt. He carried with him a little black satchel, like an old-fashioned doctor’s bag. “Mon dieau! What has happened here?”
“Can you fix it?” Ranger said tersely.
“Jez. But of course.”
“Do it. Fast. I’ll go back out and make a round. It looks bad for us both to be MIA at our reception.” Ranger turned back around. “Remember . . . ready to perform when I get back,” he warned before storming out the door.
André clucked around me, dusting my face and erasing my smears and fixing my hair back into working order. He finished with a red glossy sheer on my lips, which felt like the consistency of glue. Lastly, he gave me a ginger mint “for my queasy stomach” and a much-needed hug and kiss on the cheek.
“You got this, girl,” he declared, before making his departure.
A few minutes later my ginger mint was the size of a baby tooth and Ranger reappeared. He immediately grabbed my arm and hauled me up. “I’m helping you to the door,” he said, wrapping his arm around my waist. “Then you walk in unassisted. I’ll hold your hand. We talk two minutes to some important people. You make a good final impression. Then it’s toss the bouquet time. You stay upright at all costs.” He turned to me and turned up the intensity of his neons. “Then two more minutes of goodbyes, and I’m whisking you away to our honeymoon suite.”
We arrived without incidence to the entrance to the ballroom. He squared his shoulders and turned to me. “Remember . . . life or death.”
I nodded, also applying this advice for my imminent hike to my honeymoon suite. I straightened my shoulders, took in the deepest breath I could muster while wearing a squeezing vice, and crossed myself.
I did it. Performed like my life depended on it. I was still half in half out, but clung to the cognizant half that was still rooted in reality. I smiled and laughed and gazed adoringly up at my husband, allowing him to do most of the talking. I took my cue when prompted and said socially appropriate comments. The only lapse in my performance was an overthrown bouquet. Those summers spent playing softball had my muscle memory overestimating how hard I needed to throw. The crimson bullet glanced off a dangling chandelier, plummeted to the floor, dropping a puddle of petals, before it was snatched up by a couple of over competitive cadets (one of whom I’d swear I’d never even seen before). Thankfully, this elicited laughter all around, everyone being in a jovial mood. The wedding crowd was boozed and loose now, their carefully coiffed hair a little undone like their mouths and their ties. A deejay had been rolled in after all. Modern hip-hop turned the party back up for the younger crowd and everyone lit out for the dance floor at once. Ashley-Leigh collared Slater, who shot Ranger a helpless look. Stewart and Jess joined hands and followed suit. Even cool Savannah looked like she was having a blast with Azaltov, who didn’t look quite so severe boogying down to the funky beat. I was just realizing that Savannah’s bestie, Liz, was conspicuously absent, and that Reese was MIA. I was just wondering if she was off on a mission when Weston wandered over.
“It was a beautiful wedding,” he announced, surveying the scene with us. This was our exit cue. We finally headed to the receiving line to say our final goodbyes to the VIPs.
“It was very nice to meet you, Congressman,” regurgitated robotically out of my mouth at the right time.
A few minutes later and we were holding court in a tight quartet with Weston and his way-better-half. “You make a beautiful couple” was gushed by someone’s important wife, I’m sure. I smiled prettily.
Weston beamed with pride, clapping Ranger on the shoulder. “I’ll forgive your early exit since I’m sure you’re anxious to get on with the night’s festivities.” He winked lewdly at me.
His beautiful, young wife rolled her doe eyes at me. I managed to share a smile.
Ranger squeezed me to him, laughing loudly. “Thanks for understanding, sir.”
Two hard claps on Ranger’s shoulder. “Okay then. I’ll let you get to it.”
“Good night, sir.” Ranger formally shook Weston’s hand before grasping mine. He was just beginning to lead me away when Weston arrested our flight long enough to give my cheek a wet, bristly kiss that caused my mouth to start producing water again. I gulped and tried very, very hard to smile pleasantly.
Then my significant other tugged on my hand, and we, at long last, made our escape.
“Wait!” I stumbled to a stop. “What about my brothers?” I hadn’t seen them in the sea of faces upon my return.
“Already left when you were hiding out in the bathroom,” he retorted, ushering us down the hall and into an empty elevator. He dropped my arm to insert a black key. My heart dropped the instant the elevator jolted up. Together, but apart, we ascended to the special floor that housed our honeymoon suite.