Chapter 3
Brooke
“Always Be My Baby” blasts as Maddie and I get out of the Uber and head inside.
I gasp as we enter the dark warehouse. The space has been turned into something right out of MTV, a combination of the ultimate house party and an episode of Total Request Live.
If Carson Daly jumped on stage right now, I wouldn’t be surprised. I’d probably also faint.
The Warehouse Rentals team always kills it with the theme. It helps that everyone in the industry loves the party, offering their services at no cost, and this year is no different.
“Holy shit,” Maddie shrieks. She’s dressed as Baby Spice even though her red hair and fiery personality are perfect for Ginger. “This is amazing!”
First order of business: drinks. We head to one of the four bars occupying each corner of the space. If you’ve got a room full of wedding professionals, at a party for wedding professionals, I can assure you no one will have to wait more than two minutes for a drink.
“Stop!” I squeeze Maddie’s arm. “I can’t even!
” The bar in the corner we’ve chosen is designed to look like 90210’s The Peach Pit.
I turn to see if I can spot the themes of the other three bars while Maddie orders us peach martinis.
It’s hard to tell, but diagonally across from us looks like The Max from Saved by the Bell. This is what dreams are made of.
We take our drinks to one of the high tops and people-watch.
Everyone’s gone all out with their themed outfits.
Boy bands, girl groups, Fresh Prince, Run DMC, and some grunge bands I never listened to are enjoying themselves all around us.
The cover band finishes their set and a DJ I’ve worked with before takes over the turntables.
He’s known for his epic mashups. Maddie and I make eye contact and smile.
We down our martinis and skip over to the dance floor.
“Jordan!” I shout when I spot my favorite photographer and our third in the trio that is me, Maddie, and Jordan.
She dances over and wraps one arm around each of us in a hug.
God, I needed this night. So much has happened since last year’s party, and I’ve got tomorrow’s meeting with Mom looming over me.
Jordan’s career has taken off, and she’s made a name for herself beyond our seaside Connecticut town.
She used to shoot nearly every wedding I worked.
Now she can only squeeze in a few (specifically our highest budget weddings) between the destination weddings and elopements she has booked all across the country—some outside the country, too.
It’s hard to keep up with her schedule. I had no idea she was going to be here tonight, and I’m so glad she is, dressed as Daria with clothes she probably already had at home.
We join a group of photographers dancing to a mashup of Spice Girls hits.
It’s divine to be the one on the dance floor for a change.
Watching from the wings at two dozen weddings a year is downright excruciating, and not just because I endure the same three Bruno Mars songs performed by a different band every weekend.
Sometimes 24K magic isn’t in the air. It gets harder and harder each week not to jump on the dance floor with my couples and their guests.
Occasionally, a drunk groomsman will try to pull me into the crowd, and no matter how good the song is—or how handsome the groomsman is—I have to remain professional.
Everyone here is feeling the same. At this party, I—and every other vendor who wants to dance every weekend—can finally let loose.
I can finally let my hair down. Figuratively.
Literally, it’s time to pull it into a high pony.
The sweat from all the movement (my watch has started tracking a workout all on its own) and humidity is turning my waves to frizz.
The high pony works better with my themed outfit anyway.
I lose myself in the next mashup until I notice Jordan and Maddie whisper-yelling to each other and looking at me, narrowed eyes of concern on both their faces.
“What?” I ask them.
“Nothing,” Jordan says, but Maddie’s eyes are glaring across the room. I follow her gaze. My stomach drops, does a summersault, then drops even more. I suddenly feel sweaty, and not from the dancing.
Fuck.
I look back at my friends. “It’s fine.”
“Are you sure?” Jordan asks.
Maddie brings her right hand into a fist and punches her open left palm. “Want me to go smack him in the throat?”
I’m not sure I’m fine, but I am sure I would like Maddie to punch him in the throat. I can’t let her do that, though. However, it is comforting to know she would if I wanted her to. Honestly, she’d do it even if I didn’t want her to.
“Yes, I’m sure,” I lie. “And no, Maddie. I appreciate it, but let’s not get kicked out this early.”
“Fine,” Maddie says, resigning herself. She loves a fight. “Just say the word and you know I’ll do it.”
“Oh, I know you will. C’mon.” I grab each of their hands and pull them deeper into the dance floor where no one can see us and, more importantly, I can’t see him. “Let’s keep dancing!”
We’ve been dancing for an hour, and I never want this night to end.
The bass pumps through my chest, the drinks have me in that perfect balance of tipsy and happy, and I’m not thinking about to-do lists, timelines, or anything related to work.
And I’m definitely not worrying about who we spotted earlier.
It doesn’t hurt that the DJ keeps playing throwback after throwback.
I simply can’t leave the dance floor in the middle of “MMMBop.”
“Macarena” starts to play, and yup, I can absolutely leave the dance floor for this one. By the looks on their faces, Jordan and Maddie feel the same. We all raise our voices above the music at the same time.
“I need some water,” I say.
“I’m going to use the bathroom,” Jordan says.
“I see Baxter!” Maddie waves to her off-and-on, hot-and-cold situationship of a year. I turn and wave at him, too.
“You okay if I go?” she asks.
“Of course, I’m fine,” I tell her.
“Okay, good,” she squeals. “Because he owes me!”
“He owes you what?”
She winks. I roll my eyes, but she doesn’t see as she runs off to Baxter and whatever sexual favor she expects.
That’s the last I’ll see of Maddie tonight.
Baxter’s an account manager for Warehouse Rentals, so he knows all the good hiding spots.
In fact, he’s the Spencer Soirees account manager, which might be some kind of conflict of interest, but this industry is already so incestuous that no one would bat an eye.
He’s also one of the best-looking guys here.
Warm, dark skin, short black hair, and a sweet playful smile. Who I am to take that away from Maddie?
The kickoff is as notorious for insane partying as it is for some pretty incredible hookups.
Typically, it’s the junior staffers and assistants getting entangled in one another.
Assistants from competing florists making out in the back staircase.
A junior photographer and an assistant catering manager heading home in an Uber together.
Like I said, no one bats an eye. But every few years there is some scandal with more established industry leads, and everyone knows better than to gossip about those.
I wish I had Maddie’s no fucks left to give attitude.
I envy her ability to have fun and not let any awkwardness set in.
Whatever they’ve had going on for the last year—since last year’s party, actually—it’s never weird between them.
They could be in the middle of a huge fight and act like the best of friends for a client meeting.
I pretend not to, but I still give lots of fucks about a lot of things.
I’ve had my share of fun, of course, but I know how awkward can creep up at the most inopportune time.
And I have a lot to prove this season if I want to show Mom that I can take over the agency.
Messing around at this party is a sure way to get on her bad side.
Dancing my ass off is as wild as it’s going to get this summer.
I need water. If I don’t want a migraine tomorrow, I need to hydrate. I do a 360-degree turn to get my bearings. Where were Maddie and Jordan looking before? Right, over by the photo booth. Which means I’m going in the opposite direction.
The Max-themed bar area is packed. High-top tables with red diner stools are scattered around with bartenders sporting red t-shirts.
It’s all so wonderfully campy. For a moment, I wish I could work on some of the birthdays and mitzvahs the junior planners at the agency handle.
I’d like to do something different every now and then, have some fun with a kitschy theme.
Maybe I could convince some clients to do a ’90s theme wedding.
Cringe. Bad idea. Blame it on the peach martinis.
Mom would never allow it. And if I’m going to take over one day, it’s strictly weddings for me. At the same time, she’s increasingly annoyed every year as more and more new clients request to work with me. I can’t win.
I nudge my way through the crowd, glancing at my phone to read a text.
Jordan: Making an Irish exit. Have an early flight in the AM. xx
Classic Jordan move. As I type back an xx to Jordan, I bump my forehead right into the chest of a man at the bar.
“Shit, I’m so sorry.” I fumble with my purse to put my phone away, lifting my head to find awkward looking right at me.
Fuck.