Chapter 60
JOEL
Joel had watched the rain roll in, the clouds darkening from heather to lead.
The waiters appeared to be the only other souls to see the storm approach the coast, glancing at the sky as they continued to carry dishes to and from the tent, looking at one another and shrugging their shoulders, as if to say, Nothing we can do about it.
Joel rarely smoked, but he wished he had a cigarette.
Instead, he just stood there with another tumbler of whiskey until he felt the first drops wet his neck.
The interior of the house was chaos. Guests crowded the porch as if it were a train car, not thinking to filter through the rest of the rooms so that others could make their way in from the storm.
Hems and jackets dripped water onto the floor, so the marble was slick.
A young woman had already fallen, though with so many people pressed close, she was quickly swept back up again.
A few of the groomsmen had grabbed champagne bottles from the bar before sprinting through the rain and were passing them around.
Mr. Pruitt was nowhere to be found, likely shepherding the last of the guests from the tent, and Mrs. Pruitt was worrying over a plump vase of flowers, instructing two children not to touch it with a rabid ferocity.
He wiped his glasses dry, but he could not see Shay or Andrew.
“Let’s move farther into the house,” Joel said, motioning for the people closest to the interior door to proceed inward.
They funneled into the living room, nodding at him as he stood to the side, making him feel like the captain of a ship.
There was another great crack, so loud that he brought his hands to his ears, followed by thunder that rumbled through the wooden floors. The lights flickered.
It was odd to be in this room again. He could almost see the Joel of Thursday evening, searching for Carmen in the drunken throng of guests.
At this moment, she was probably pulling into the city on the Amtrak.
There was a world where he was on the train with her, where he had lied more convincingly or told the full truth and realized Shay was not coming back to him, that she had made a decision four years ago and that decision was not a mistake made under duress, not a fleeting folly of youth, but one she would continue to make over and over again.
There was a throbbing in his muscles, not so different from arousal, a torrent of energy that desperately needed release.
He stood near the door, a dimly lit hallway behind him, and thought of Andrew.
His right fist felt like an anchor, his knuckles still bruised from Ken’s cheekbone. He wanted them bloodied.
His tumbler was half rainwater. He took a sip; it was loamy, cold, with a bite of metal. It hurt his teeth.
Guests leaned against bookcases or collapsed onto the ivory couches. Most of the waiters were now inside as well, huddled together in the entryway, soaked just like everyone else and unsure what to do.
Footsteps rang out behind him, and when he turned, he saw fingers gripping a doorframe, a flutter of white fabric. A voice said Shay’s name, but then there was a hand clapping him on the shoulder.
“There you are.” Ken was at his side, wet bangs plastered to his forehead, and then there was another blaze of light, and the room went dark.