Chapter Twenty-Four
By the time his final note rang out, the crowd was on their feet, clapping, whooping, and cheering.
All except me. I was over by the bar waving my arms, trying like hell to flag down the bartender for the drink I so desperately needed.
Of course, though, he was buried under a sea of people using Matty’s twelve-minute number as some sort of karaoke drink intermission.
I pushed up on my toes and waved a twenty-dollar bill in the air, hoping that might do the trick. No such luck. Instead, the bartender nodded vaguely in my direction while serving the next ten people in line.
“Hey,” Matty called, weaving through the crowd of drunk people in Hawaiian shirts and cargo shorts. “You left me hanging up there. Not to mention I can’t believe you passed up the part where you always steal the show.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t really feel like dueting with you anymore,” I mumbled and turned back to the bar.
He sidled up to me. “But we always sounded better together.”
I pounded my fists on the counter, practically flinging a pina colada into some poor stranger’s lap, and spun around to face him.
“You know what that performance was? Weaponized sentimentality. The kind of throwback that leaves actual bruises. God, that song. That song. Do you even know what it means?”
He smirked, a boyishly charming-type grin.
“Nobody knows what it means. That’s what makes it so iconic.
What’s the thing Meatloaf won’t do? Your guess is as good as mine,” he answered, missing my point entirely.
“Look, El, I was aiming for . . . I don’t know .
. . poetic? Poignant? One of those big gestures where everyone claps and cheers us on as we reunite. ”
“Matty,” I huffed.
“I’m hoping, perhaps in vain, you’ll give me . . . give us . . . another chance. That you might be able to forgive me.” His eyes were locked on mine, catching the glowing light of the tiki torches swaying in the shadows.
“Another chance?! Do you have sunstroke or depleted electrolytes or something, because those are the only actual reasons you’d think it’s even fair to ask that!”
“Ellie Belly!” Mom appeared out of nowhere, clearly tipsy from too many Bahama Mamas as her drink sloshed out of her glass. “Ellie Belly, me and Izzy need you to be our third Dynamo for ‘Super Trouper!’”
“Mom, I really don’t feel like—”
“You know, your energy is really throwing off my chi! C’mon, we’ve done this number at every single one of my bachelorette parties.
Okay, maybe not the first one, before I married your father.
Well, actually . . .” She paused, squinting and pointing at her stomach.
“Come to think of it, you were there.” She reached out to try to pry me from my seat.
I folded my arms over my chest. “Seriously, Mom, I’m not in the mood. See if Aunt Kitty will play your Julie Walters.”
She waved her hand dismissively, sending more of her drink flying out of her cup. “She can’t, her gout is flaring. Besides, I want you. So get in the mood because the DJ already has it all cued up.”
Izzy shot me a look like I was stomping all over their vibe.
And maybe I was. But her timing was, as usual, completely (and expertly) inconvenient.
Then, the bright notes of ABBA spilled from the speakers.
Mom grabbed my hand and yanked me up to the stage, where she and Izzy snapped into their poses.
“Ellie.” Mom nudged my elbow with a wide grin. “Put your mic up in the air!”
Begrudgingly, I lifted the microphone to half-heartedly get into position as Mom whispered, “Don’t forget, you’ve got harmony with Iz. I’ll take the lead.”
How could I forget I was her backup singer .
. . her backup everything, for as long as I could remember?
The one who made sure she got up and out the door when another breakup left her too numb to move.
The one who bought groceries because she was out most nights, forgetting I needed to eat dinner too.
The one who stayed up waiting, just to lock the door behind her.
And as we bounced around the stage, stumbling through the loose (and I do mean loose) choreography, I was momentarily blinded by the white glare of the spotlight.
Then during the bridge when Izzy swung me around in an off-balance twirl, suddenly the crowd came into sharp focus, and I could see all their faces staring up at me.
Dad. Shira. Allegra. Cannon. Keith. Matty.
Though he wasn’t there, Leo’s face suddenly flashed in my mind too, along with our Valentine’s Day date at Mamma Mia!
: The Immersive Experience, waving napkins overhead and belting out “Dancing Queen.” And I suddenly realized I wished he really was somewhere in this audience, his encouraging smile and gentle eyes cheering me on.
Then there was a rush of sound and another flash, the bright spotlight catching me in the eyes.
When I blinked, the world shifted, and suddenly, I was no longer singing karaoke in Belize.
I was at the Moulin Rouge in Paris with Leo, the same stage lights bright and warm, sipping champagne as we watched a flurry of can-can girls high-kicking and spinning in unison.
We stumbled out at the end of the night into the snow-kissed streets of Montmartre, and we kissed under the glow of a wrought-iron streetlamp, fat flakes falling like powdered sugar through a sifter.
It was a new memory, no doubt, but as real and vivid as any I’d ever had.
My brain was scrambling, trying to make sense of it all.
My feelings about being up here with Mom at yet another one of her bachelorette parties, the sight of my family in the audience, Matty’s impromptu performance, and, most of all, Leo.
This vision of us together in Paris, happy. In love. Leo, who had appeared back in my life like magic.
My brain was spinning so fast I couldn’t land on a single thought, let alone a lyric, and so I stopped singing. Mom, of course, noticed and gave me a little nudge, not playful, not even in rhythm. More like a reminder. Come on. Smile. Be part of the fun.
“Elliot,” Mom whispered. “Hey. What’s going on?”
“Nothing.”
“Then, ‘Sing out, Louise!’” she joked, quoting the famous line from Gypsy.
“Super Trouper” was coming to an end, and Mom and Izzy landed impressive splits on the ground, throwing jazz hands in the air as the crowd, now on its feet, called for an encore.
Mom turned to me. “What do you say? Should we do ‘Waterloo’ next?”
“I think I’ve had enough for tonight.”
I handed her my mic and started to hurry off the stage when Mom caught my arm and said, “C’mon, just one more song. Pleeease, it’s my bachelorette party!”
“Really, I’m tired. It was a long day of zip-lining, and it’s like a thousand degrees out here. I just want to take a cold shower and get a good night’s sleep. You guys stay and keep the party going.”
Her forehead creased with confusion. “But you and Keith got along today. He told me all about it. Said you had a wonderful time.”
“Yeah, he seems like a really decent guy.”
She put her hands on her hips. “Then why are you being like this?”
“Like what?”
“Like how you always are. Why can’t you celebrate with me? Be happy for me for once?”
“It’s not always about you, Mom. I have a lot going on right now with my own life.
Did it seriously not register that Matty’s here?
Matty, who I’ve spent the last five years actively avoiding?
And you just . . . what? Pretend that’s not a big deal?
On top of everything else this weekend? Do you have any idea how hard this all is for me? ”
She actually had the nerve to roll her eyes as she huffed, “Is that what this is about?” Sipping the drink in her hand through a bendy straw with an indifferent sluuuurp, she licked her lips and shrugged. “Why should Matty even matter? You’re with Leo now.”
“Of course that’s how you would keep score.
I’m with Leo, so I should be able to just move on, replace one guy with the next, right?
” I pinched the bridge of my nose between my thumb and index fingers, hard.
“Look, let’s not do this tonight, okay? I’m just asking to be dismissed from my maid of honor–ly duties for the rest of the evening so I can take a breather.
Please.” My exasperation fell out in a whoosh, and Mom looked offended but resigned.
Her shoulders dropped, voice lowering. “Fine. Go.”
The music from the speakers was already shifting into the opening chords of “Waterloo.” Mom hopped back onstage, lifted the mic with a forced grin pasted on her face, and started to sway with Izzy like nothing had happened between us.
I stepped down carefully, feeling the lights and heat and noise dim behind me as I moved farther and farther away, through the lounge and past clusters of people buzzing with energy.
I was halfway down the path toward my villa when I heard my name.
Once. Then again. I didn’t turn, but the footsteps behind me picked up, and within moments, Matty closed the gap between us. I whipped around to face him.
“Jesus, what?! What is it you want from me?!”
He stepped forward and shrugged, his arms cast open, not demanding, just waiting.
I looked away, afraid that if I met his eyes, I’d fall apart.
“Nothing. I just . . . You seemed like . . . you know, you might have needed a friend. I know you. I know how upset you can get when you’ve had it out with your mom.”
It was true. He had been there for every fight, every argument, every clash, every standoff for most of the first two decades of my life.
It was Matty and Izzy’s apartment I’d run to when Mom’s latest crash-and-burn relationship had sent my world spinning again.
I could always count on Matty to cheer me up.
Or at the very least, to suggest a plan so absurd it would distract me from whatever she’d done that had me fuming.
“Tell me what I can do to help turn this night around?” he asked.
“I can walk you to your villa, of course. Just make sure you get back okay. Or we can go to the Salty Pineapple and throw back shots until we forget our names, birthdays, and basic motor skills. Orrrrr, we can pull a Bonnie and Clyde and leave this whole place in a cloud of dust as we watch it disappear in the rearview of our Ford V8. I realize I’ll have to somehow get ahold of a Ford V8, but I’ll do it for you . . . anything for you. You know that.”
And deep down, I did know that. That the Matty who’d been my childhood savior was still somewhere deep inside him, ready to jump to my rescue without a second’s hesitation.
“Didn’t Clyde have a mustache? I feel like he had a mustache,” I managed to joke as I sniffled and wiped my nose with my sleeve.
“I can grow a mustache.”
I actually snorted out a laugh. “No, you can’t! Don’t you remember when you tried back in high school and you looked like . . . well, a little like . . . Frida Kahlo. A handsome Frida Kahlo, but yeah, I’m sticking with my answer.”
“Frida Kahlo?! You’ve got to give me one of the Mario brothers, at the very least.”
“Okay, fine. I’ll give you Luigi, before he hit puberty.”
“Hey!” He poked me playfully. Instinctually, I folded, the ticklish sensation causing me to wriggle against him. When he stopped and my laughing slowed, we were only inches away, face-to-face, his quick breath warming my cheek.
“You know, El, I’ve never stopped . . .” he whispered, but the rest of his sentence got lost in the galloping of my pulse in my ears.
And then—
A voice shouted in the distance. Followed by laughter. Music. Someone calling for a group photo. The world came rushing back in, loud and bright and real.
Maybe Matty had never stopped feeling love between us, but I had.
I had to.
But this feeling of not hating him as much as I did even an hour ago, that was something new.
“I should get back to my villa.” He took a step forward to escort me, but I held up my hand. “Don’t. I mean, thank you, but it’s okay, you don’t have to. I can walk myself. Good night, Matty.”
I turned before he could answer, before I could let him back in.
The night air brushed my skin with calm, but my mind couldn’t quiet.
Tonight I’d already given Matty more than I meant to: not forgiveness, of course, but the smallest crack in the wall I’d built, and even that felt a little too risky.