600 PM Mia #2
Tiki torches blazed in the sand, and beyond them was the clear water of the Caribbean.
Farther down the beach, caterers straightened out place settings on circular white tables, and a musician performed a sound check near the dance floor.
The hotel stood behind them: a series of two-story bungalows with glass balconies and yellow awnings, along with a swimming pool, whose lights had recently turned on.
Surrounding it were other hotel guests not associated with the wedding—a mother cocooning her children in towels; a man tapping on his phone, four empty beer bottles at his feet.
Mia was really sweating now. It was the middle of June, and they were at the tip of the Yucatán Peninsula, and for a second she held the cool glass to her cheek.
Condensation dripped to her chin. Ten feet in front of her, Richie leaned over and whispered something to Adam, and then together they ducked into a photo booth that had been erected next to a long table holding bowls of chips and guacamole.
A lime fell from the rim of Adam’s glass.
The booth’s red curtain was hastily closed.
Mia tugged at her dress and glanced down to see if she had sweated through any of the birds.
She hadn’t—the birds were dry and opaque.
To Sasha’s wedding she had worn a blue bridesmaid’s dress that had felt like a straitjacket.
It clung to her knees and allowed for her legs to move approximately four inches in either direction.
After the ceremony, when they were all taking a million pictures in the Plaza’s Palm Court, she had not walked to where the photographer was directing her so much as she had shuffled.
This elongated what had already been a very long process: the photographer had been determined to shoot every combination of bridesmaids, groomsmen, grandparents, and aunts.
Mia wouldn’t have minded—she gave a lot of leeway to local weddings, and Sasha had been smart enough to provide champagne—had one of those combinations not been her and Marco.
When the photographer suggested it, Mia was sitting in a cushioned chair, helping Richie with his speech.
“You two.” The photographer pointed a finger at Mia, and then at Marco, who was standing on the other side of the room with Theo. “Let’s get you two together.”
Mia had felt herself flush.
“I don’t think that’s necessary,” she said. “In fact, I’m pretty sure it’s not.”
But it was too late. The photographer was already pulling her to her feet, and dragging both her and Marco to a large potted palm tree, where she commanded them both to sit.
“Smile,” the photographer barked. “Pretend like he’s saying something funny.”
Marco looked at Mia; Mia turned to the photographer.
She said, “But he never does.”
The photographer wasn’t listening—there was something wrong with the lighting, and now she was scrambling around, adjusting various light boxes and shades.
Mia was holding a bouquet of peonies—Sasha had decided they were not sentimental—and Marco had a boutonniere, pinned cockeyed to the lapel of his tuxedo.
She remembered how, when she saw it, she’d nearly reached out to straighten it.
But then Marco had cracked his knuckles.
The sound drove nails through Mia’s brain.
“So,” he said.
“Yes. So.”
“How have you been?”
“Great.”
“Good. I’m glad to hear it.”
Mia sat perfectly still. She heard the faint hum of music from the Grand Foyer. A peppy rendition of “Don’t Get Around Much Anymore.”
Marco said, “I’ve been pretty good too.” And then, under his breath: “Thanks for asking.”
They both stared straight forward, waiting for the photographer.
Richie stood up from the chair where Mia had left him, and she saw a napkin with notes she had given him, crumpled up on the floor.
Walking across the room, he began talking with one of Sasha’s friends from the gallery.
Like Marco, he was dressed in a black tuxedo, and she, like Mia, in a constrictive dress.
The back was open, and the woman’s hair was pulled up, revealing the long curve of her neck.
Richie glanced over at Mia and raised both eyebrows; then he leaned over to whisper something into the woman’s ear.
“Okay.” The photographer clicked something, and the room was filled with a burst of light. “We’re good to go.”
“Mia,” Marco said.
Straightening her back, Mia blinked away stars.
“Yes?”
But he wasn’t able to answer her. The photographer raised her camera and told them both to smile.
Finishing her Geoff and Tonic, she saw him again now.
He was standing near the chips and guac with Nina Guzman and Alison Liu, whose left leg was wrapped in a bright-red cast. Nina fed Alison a crostini, and Alison thanked her.
She had decorated her crutches with a pair of gauzy pink scarves.
Light seeped out from beneath the photo booth’s curtains; Mia watched Adam’s feet turn toward each other.
Two women with laelia orchids pinned to their hair gently ushered the guests to their tables.
Mia double-checked her table number. The Caribbean glittered; she felt suddenly and staggeringly alone.
Bodies filed down the beach, their feet shifting awkwardly in the sand, their backs streaked with sweat.
Emily joined Marco, slipping her arm through his, and they merged with the migrating crowd.
Mia didn’t move. Instead she watched as Marco’s hand drifted down toward Emily’s hip, and as she reached up to run two fingers over his cowlick.
You should’ve licked them first, she thought. Every idiot knows that.