Chapter 34
I take way too long getting ready for the wedding.
This is actually my favorite part—the lazy morning followed by a getting-ready routine that stretches out for hours in some hotel room.
Curling irons ready to go, formalwear hanging off closet doors, room service languishing on a table.
I think maybe I love getting dolled up because I used to love watching my mom get ready the few times she had nights out.
She was still so young and probably itching to remember her old self as she put on a short skirt and fun eyeliner.
I used to sit on her bed and braid my Barbie’s hair as I watched her do hers.
“I wish I looked like you,” I said one time, watching my pretty mother curl her waist-long hair.
Mom raised her eyebrows at me through her reflection in the bathroom mirror. “Why would you want to look like me when you look like you? No one else in the world looks like my Cass.”
I shrugged. “But you’re prettier.”
She put the curling iron down and walked over to me, getting down in a crouch so we were eye level. “First of all, buddy, that’s not true. Second of all, do you know what makes someone beautiful?” She pulled at my dirty sock playfully.
“No?” I said, wary of what kind of sappy speech I was about to get.
“How stinky their socks get.” I laughed.
She went on, “How they pick which Doritos to take on a road trip. How many colors they can fit into a drawing. How loud their burps are.” And to punctuate it, she let out a really loud one.
I laughed so hard, I had to roll over onto the bed to clutch my stomach.
She chucked me under the chin before getting back up. “Those are the things that matter, Cassia. Don’t you forget it.”
Despite having a mother who instilled in me what was really important, I still love a beauty moment.
But I’m very aware that Daniel takes a mere twenty minutes while I’m still in my robe, drinking a glass of champagne, and munching on hotel gummy bears (the thrill of being with a man who insists Life is short, eat the hotel snacks).
He’s got the patio doors wide open and is sitting outside reading something on his ebook reader, his bare feet propped up, his tie thrown over his shoulder, sunglasses on.
GQ would probably style a celebrity exactly like this.
“I swear I’m okay getting ready alone! Go for a swim, catch a movie,” I say as I run a thickening lotion through my damp hair.
He throws me a look. “I came here to spend the weekend with you. And I enjoy watching you do all this stuff. The secrets of womanhood.”
“Wait until I reach deodorant application!”
Daniel smiles at me fondly before returning to his reader.
Nonetheless, it’s two hours later when I’m finally ready.
I’m wearing a red satin dress with a corset bodice.
The straps are delicate and tie at my shoulders, the ends dangling down my arms. It fits snugly at the bodice and hips, then the skirt falls to my knees, with two slits on either side.
It’s vintage and more than a little come-hither—both felt right for this venue.
My hair is set in voluminous waves and pushed over to one side, a la Veronica Lake.
Daniel’s expression when he sees me makes all the effort instantly worth it. “Wow.” He pulls me in, his fingers grazing the ties at my shoulders. “You look like a present.”
I flush. “Insert bad unwrapping joke here?”
The wedding is taking place in an ornate, high-ceilinged, wood-paneled room in the main building, complete with a stage and a spiraling staircase.
Rows of hot-pink upholstered chairs are set up and the stained-glass windows let in colorful, diffused sunshine.
I spot Ellis and Avery right away—both dazzling and young and beautiful—and we sit a few rows behind them.
The ceremony itself is emotional and funny.
Max is Mexican-American and Curtis is Arab-American, so we get a lot of cross-cultural nods.
Tears are shed when Curtis’s father reads a Mahmoud Darwish poem and both their mothers light a candle.
Daniel reaches over and squeezes my hand—because people without parents understand how bittersweet it is to witness such warm family moments.
Cocktail hour is in the lobby by the banquet hall and Daniel and I grab every hors d’oeuvre that passes us.
We group together with the other guests from the firm.
Which means Ellis finally sees me. I swear a cartoon sweat drop appears on his face as he tries not to have a reaction to my dress.
I’m not proud of myself when I say this brings me intense pleasure.
Especially when his date looks like a cotton candy confection in pink taffeta and tanned skin, just ready to be eaten up.
I grab something with a pastry puff involved off a tray and pop it into my mouth in an act of self-defense.
“Such a good ceremony, right?” Avery says, breaking the ice without any knowledge of ice existing.
“So heartfelt,” I say, brushing crumbs off my face.
“Those vows were so Max,” Daniel says with a knowing look to Ellis, who grins in return.
“So Max.”
Avery looks between them. “How was it so Max?”
I cringe inwardly—making people explain inside jokes is painful. But Ellis does, patiently. I notice, though, he keeps his hands in his pockets, his body distanced from Avery’s.
Laura from the firm runs over to us with her harried husband, who is holding her jacket, purse, and heels (she’s barefoot now), to tell us we all have to take shots.
Oh, god. I look to Daniel for help; he just gives me a shit-eating grin and shrugs.
“We gotta.” He puts a hand on my lower back and leads me to the bar.
I am aware of Ellis behind us and resist moving away from it.
Everyone from the firm is waiting for us and they hoot and holler.
“Let’s get the boss der-runk!” the cute girl with the bob says, the one I remember from Joshua Tree.
Her name is Sonya. We’re all handed shot glasses full of a brown liquid and I brace myself before throwing it back with everyone else.
It burns down my throat and I try not to say, “Gross!” It’s mezcal, a liquor I truly hate.
The smokiness of it haunts my nostrils long after it’s taken.
Another round is poured and I tense up. I really don’t want to take this nasty shot.
When I reach for my glass at glacial speed, it’s suddenly swapped out with an empty one.
I look up to see Ellis holding a full shot glass and downing it.
When I look down at the empty glass and then at him again, he gives me a little wink before stepping away. Oof. I resist clutching my chest.
Soon after, the doors to the reception are opened and I’m relieved. I can’t hang with these party animals. I need a meal and a chair.
The firm is all placed at the same table, but luckily, I’m seated at a distance from Ellis and Avery.
After we’re settled and served champagne, the wedding party comes out to the Game of Thrones theme song, setting the tone for the entire night immediately.
Max and Curtis dance their first dance to a beautiful acoustic cover of “Last Dance” by Donna Summer and then we’re served salads with wedges of beautiful ombre-colored citrus and slivered almonds.
After our table toasts, party-animal Sonya says, “Should we play ‘Never Have I Ever’?”
A bunch of us groan, including me, but she powers through. “Come on! We have free drinks, we have to play a drinking game.”
“We don’t have to do anything,” Ellis says, taking a sip of water. “We can just eat and be normal people at a wedding!”
“Boring,” says Sonya.
Avery nudges him with her elbow. “Come on! It’ll be fun!”
Our main courses arrive—mine is a beef bourguignon—and everyone digs in for a moment before Sonya says, “I’ll start. Never have I ever hooked up with someone at a wedding.”
“Wait,” Avery says. “Like, even with your date?”
“No, no, with a stranger you meet at the wedding,” Sonya clarifies.
No one under the age of thirty drinks, the rest of us do. Including me.
“Respect,” says Avery. “Okay, I have one. Never have I ever been engaged.”
All the married couples take sips of their drinks, predictably. And then Ellis does, too. Everyone stares at him.
“Wait, what?” Avery asks, her jaw on the floor. Daniel looks equally confused.
“You guys didn’t know Ellis was married?” Parker asks, already drunk as well.
“Married?” Daniel asks.
Ellis shoots me a little knowing look and I feel the intimacy of it sear across my skin for a brief moment. “Yeah. Married my high school girlfriend, got divorced soon after. It’s not a big deal.”
There are so many questions. So many from everyone. But the game goes on and then it’s time to dance and everyone storms the dance floor, incredibly drunk. Well, everyone but Daniel. He shakes his head and says, “I want you to still fancy me. If I dance, the jig is up, as you Americans say.”
I hate when people pressure others to dance so I give him a little kiss on the forehead and say, “Just sit here and continue to look handsome, then.”
Whitney Houston tells us she wants to dance with somebody and all of us dance with each other.
I’m in a dance circle with some of the singles from the firm, vaguely aware of where Ellis is on the dance floor at all times.
He’s a good dancer in that effortless way, not in the “I can be in a boy band” way, which always intimidates me as a woman who can dance just okay.
He’s comfortable in his body, which reminds me of what it was like to have him put all his focus on my body.
I decide the logical thing to do when having this train of thought is to drink more.
Somewhere in the back of my mind a tiny red flag is being raised but I ignore it.
Drunk dancing is the best dancing, and I don’t often get opportunities to do that anymore.
I am vaguely aware at some point that the song I am dancing to is a slow one—meant for couples.
But I just stand with a couple randos from the wedding and sway with them, our arms draped around each other.
Suddenly I realize one of them is Ellis.
“Oh,” I say, my voice sounding far away. “Hello there.”
“Hi,” he says in that way that he used to say to me. Is he drunk, too?
Then I see the silver glimmer under the collar of his unbuttoned white shirt. Without thinking, I reach out and loop the chain around my finger. “This thing kind of drives me crazy.”
He laughs. “Why, too tacky?”
“Not that kind of crazy.”
His eyes get dark and suddenly it’s so intimate around us that I let go of the necklace and look anywhere else but at him. Then I ask, to completely break the spell, “Where’s your date?”
A flicker of annoyance passes by his features. “Um, Avery went to the room. Too much to drink.”
The room. Careful use of words there, Ellis. Also, he didn’t go back with her. He does not strike me as someone who would let his girlfriend go back to her room alone. They are clearly just friends and even though Avery said as much, this confirms it for me.
“Where’s your date?” he asks. And there’s something challenging there.
I glance over at a table where Daniel and a few others are drinking and chatting. He’s animated and having a good time. “He’s fine. He’s enjoying himself.”
The other people in our little dance circle break off and suddenly it’s just us two. We don’t touch, but we stay close, our bodies swaying near each other. I ask him, “Are you fine?”
His limbs are loose, his eyelids heavy. He’s drunk, too. “I’m not fine, Cassia.” His voice is low, gravelly.
I swallow, suddenly feeling like this is not a good idea. But I say it anyway. “Why?”
“Because you’re in that dress”—his eyes glide down, leaving a searing path in their wake—“with my boss.”
Yup. Bad idea. We’re in a big crowd, being blocked from Daniel’s view. I step in closer. “I know.”
“Why did he pressure you to come here anyway? I feel like that was kind of shitty of him, don’t you think?” His voice is angry—and I know it’s not at me. It’s at him.
“He didn’t pressure me.” But it’s unconvincing and Ellis knows. He always knows.
“Well, it’s shitty to put you into that position.”
“I know,” I say, my voice tight.
“You know?” He raises an eyebrow. “You know how shitty this is?”
Tears fill my eyes, surprising me. “I’m sorry.”
He looks struck, and he reaches out to pull me into a hug. “Hey, hey,” he says against my hair. “I’m sorry. Please don’t cry.”
I’m mortified and try to pull away. This is all so inappropriate. But he keeps me tightly in his grip and his voice is close to my ear. “I shouldn’t have said that. Forgive me?”
Forgive him? It hits me then, the full impact of Ellis. Of this walking, talking open heart of a man. A man, who, when he was twenty years old, was so swept up by love that he wanted to marry someone.
“You didn’t do anything wrong. I did everything wrong.” I pull back to look up at him but he’s looking at someone behind me.
“You doing okay there, dancing queen?” Daniel’s whiskey-warm voice asks. I turn to him and smile.
“Yeah, getting a little tired, though.”
He gives Ellis a look, one that seems relaxed if you don’t notice the hard glint in his eye. Then he runs a hand down my arm and holds my hand. “Me, too. Let’s get you in bed.”
“Night, guys,” Ellis says, waving and stepping back, immediately absorbed by the dance floor crowd. As we leave, I look back and can feel Daniel watching me do it. I’m going to have the worst headache tomorrow.