Chapter Twenty-Three
After an exhausting morning in the jungle, I was more than ready for a hot shower and a nap in my dark and air-conditioned room. I reached into my backpack for the key card, and as my fingers wrapped around the edge of the plastic, Izzy’s voice floated down the path behind me.
“Elliot! Yoo-hoo!”
I closed my eyes for half a second and then turned around to greet her. “Oh, hey, Izzy. How was the catamaran?”
“So fantastic. We snorkeled at Coral Garden Reef. I never knew your dad and Shira were such expert divers. They basically led the whole group. If you get the opportunity, you should really get out on the water with them.”
“Yeah, maybe,” I said, shrugging.
“So, I’m glad I caught you. I wanted to know what time to be ready later.”
“Ready for what?”
“Sonja’s bachelorette party, of course.”
I yanked the wedding weekend itinerary from the front pocket of my backpack. “Bachelorette party? There’s nothing on the schedule for tonight?” I said, scanning the page again.
“Exactly. She left tonight wiiiiide open for whatever it is you’re planning.”
“Whatever I’m planning? She thinks I’m throwing her a bachelorette party? Has Mom completely lost her mind?”
“Well . . . you are her maid of honor,” she joked.
“Since when?!”
Izzy looked flustered by my confusion. “Since always. Didn’t she ask you?”
“Ask me? When has she ever consulted me on anything?”
“True, but maybe she thought it was just assumed?”
My eyes almost rolled right out of my head. “C’mon, Izzy, this is her fourth wedding. Do we really need to go through the stupid pomp and circumstance of it all again?”
Izzy sighed and crossed her arms over her chest, her boobs now threatening to pop out the top of her bathing suit. “I get it. I do. But it’s different this time.”
“It’s different every time.” I threw my hands in the air. “Ugh! Fine. What did she have in mind? Penis hats and a ‘kiss the bride’ sash?! Or can we just do like some dinner, throw back a handful of tequila shots, and call it a night?”
“How about I get an official head count and arrange the dinner plans—at least take that off your plate—and you just figure out the nighttime fun. You’re a hell of a lot younger than me and probably can find lots more things to do using those apps and whatever,” Izzy offered.
I glanced at the time on my cell and groaned. “I’ll go to the concierge, see what I can figure out.”
“Your mother’ll be thrilled.” Izzy kissed me on the cheek. “I’ll text you the head count as soon as I have it.”
“Great, and I’ll see if the gift shop has anything shaped like male genitalia?” This wasn’t my first rodeo, and probably wouldn’t be the last.
After Izzy left, I swiftly recruited Marin to help me, and by sunset, we’d managed to wrangle a plan that felt festive-ish: predinner at the beachside restaurant with cocktails and embarrassing stories, dinner wherever Izzy managed to find us such a last-minute reservation, followed by a “spontaneous” game of wedding-themed charades in the villa.
Marin even managed to round up some dollar-store accessories at a nearby bodega: plastic tiaras, novelty sunglasses, and one feather boa that had clearly seen better days.
Sonja, though, to her eternal credit, was overwhelmed with appreciation and acted like we’d flown in Beyoncé for her big night.
“Oh, El, this is just what I wanted, something casual and meaningful!” she cooed, teetering slightly in heels I was 80 percent sure she borrowed from the 2006 section of her closet.
“Meaningful was definitely what I was going for,” I said, sipping my cocktail and wondering how the hell I’d become so proficient in acting like the adult in our relationship.
After a few rounds of necessary shots, a surprisingly cutthroat dirty charades game, and a toast that involved tears (hers) and reluctant tenderness (mine), we drifted down to our final party stop, karaoke.
The festivities were already in full swing, evident from the cacophony of voices floating out into the night from the resort’s open-air lounge, fighting to stay on pitch.
“Mom, I can’t believe you’re still going strong. Are you sure you don’t want to just call it a night? Get that very important beauty rest for this weekend?” I murmured to her as we walked arm in arm under string lights.
“I’m getting married in forty-eight hours!” she squealed, her eyes gleaming. “This is one of my last nights as a free woman.”
I barked out a laugh. “A free woman? Four marriages later, I’m pretty sure you haven’t been a free woman since the Clinton administration.”
One sharp glance from Marin was enough to tell me I’d better ease up on my jabs before the night went south. I relented with a smile and said, “Okay, who’s ready for some karaoke?”
“I’m sorry to do this to you, babe, but I’m gonna head back to my villa and FaceTime with the kids before they go to bed. Will you be alright if I duck out?” Marin asked, leaning into me with a quick hug.
“Um, no. You know Mom’s gonna wanna pull me into one of her Mamma Mia! routines,” I whispered.
“Just tell her you’re on strict vocal rest. Doctor’s orders,” she said with a cheeky grin as she headed in the direction of her villa.
After Marin left, the rest of us stepped into the bar just as someone murdered their way through a rendition of “Total Eclipse of the Heart.” Mom spotted Keith, his family and friends, and other wedding attendees at a cluster of tables near the stage.
She gave me a big kiss on the cheek, completely disregarding my dig, and scurried off to surprise him from behind. I watched him brighten when he spotted her, and the delight in her expression as he swept her into his arms for a kiss to much raucous clapping and hollering from the crowd.
The lights in the lounge were low, all palm-frond shadows and lanterns strung like drunken constellations. In Honor of Sonja and Keith, Love Songs Only! a sign declared in bold, glittery lettering, which stood beside a makeshift stage set up next to a festive tiki bar.
I stood near the back, nursing a watered-down margarita, the condensation beading against my palm. Every table was filled. Laughter, clapping, even a few drunk resort guests belting out Elton John like they’d just discovered sassy hips and vibrato.
Lounging with a group of half-familiar faces, head thrown back in laughter, I heard Matty before I’d spotted him. Our conversation high above the treetops still reverberated in my bones, leaving me unsettled and on edge.
“Next up,” the enthusiastic emcee boomed, “Matthew Adler!”
Matty gave a casual salute, and his table mates cheered him on as he started walking toward the stage. Naturally, I assumed he’d pick something ironic. A throwback. Maybe something from Queen or Blink-182 or One Direction.
“Thought I’d go with a classic, because you know, nothing says ‘vacation vibes’ quite like some public humiliation,” he said, earnest and annoyingly charming.
Shuffling a hand through his hair, he grabbed the mic as the DJ cued up the song.
“And I guess when I think of a love song, this is the only one that ever comes to mind.”
Then . . . the first haunting notes of Meat Loaf’s “I’d Do Anything for Love” began to play.
A song we used to sing on every road trip and sometimes off his apartment fire escape at the top of our lungs when we were feeling particularly angsty.
Matty’d shake out his curly hair, taking Meatloaf’s part, of course, and then I’d come in, doing my best to imitate the unforgettable rasp of so many nineties female rock artists, usually to the detriment of my vocal cords.
Seriously? He picked this? I didn’t care how nostalgic it was, didn’t he realize a twelve-minute anthem was a little ridiculous? Karaoke songs should be, like, three to four minutes, tops.
His self-indulgence was nothing short of astounding.
Then he started to sing, quietly, sincerely. It wasn’t a joke. It was a full-on performance. When the chorus hit, he scanned the crowd and found me with the precision of someone who’d never stopped knowing exactly where I was.
And then I couldn’t help but remember the way I used to hang on every word he sang in this song. The lyrics. The promises. Back then, I’d believed he’d move mountains and cross oceans for me, until his betrayal spoke louder than every vow he ever made.
Oh, you’d do anything for love, Matty? Guess fidelity didn’t quite make the cut.
But really, this wasn’t about Meatloaf’s banger. It wasn’t about Matty’s desire to serenade the crowd with a monster ballad. Apparently, this was about me. His ‘Big Gesture.’ A rom-com moment. As if a song could erase all that had shattered us.
Spoiler alert: It could not.
Seething, I focused on the drink in my hand, my fingers gripping the glass so tightly I half expected it to shatter. Then came my cue, the part I always used to jump in for. He looked right at me, eyes twinkling like we were sharing some private joke, and extended the second mic in my direction.
“Come on, Els,” he said, his voice booming over the song that continued to pulse behind him, “you know you want to.”
I slid off my stool and crossed the room . . . right past him without even so much as a second glance.