45. Actually Read The Great Gatsby?
ACTUALLY READ THE GREAT GATSBY?
PRESENT
Despite how late we got back and despite the fact that Brody slept on my couch, all three of us are caffeinated and almost too-awake before seven, meaning we doomscroll the Brody and Vi stories together: That the potential bride and groom are living in separate hotel rooms. That Brody’s gotten back together with his college girlfriend (I’m guessing this is me, though I’m not named).
That Vi’s three-picture movie deal is in jeopardy, given her status (and this is news to me) as America’s up-and-coming girl next door.
Brody stands and rubs his eyes. “I should talk to Vi.”
Lucas stands and asks, “What can we do?”
Brody pulls us in for a lopsided hug. His voice is gruff. “You’ve already done it.” He takes a step back, and at the door, because Mr. Bro Dude is still in there, he says, “I mean, more Red, of course. But also, yeah, both of you.”
After the door clicks shut, Lucas turns to me. “What do you want to do today?”
“Will you judge me if I say sleep?”
Lucas’s expression is an extreme caricature of disappointment, but he doesn’t otherwise protest. I’m more tired than he is—I blame the lupus, because I always blame the lupus—which means that at some point, Lucas leaves to get his laptop so he can work beside me.
We talk when we’re both awake, and he wakes me when it’s time for us to get ready for the big Gatsby party.
“That’s still happening?”
“Brody texted a reminder just now.”
Lucas goes back to his room because we’ve both got to shower and he’s got a full tux to get into.
I agree to meet him downstairs, and after a scaldingly fast rinse, I get into the striped white-and-blue suit I’d prepared for this event.
I scrape my newly black hair into a small bun at the nape of my neck and decide that my seventies plastic glasses almost pass, given the 1920’s gangster look I’m going for.
Perhaps unfortunately, it’s Khloe who greets me. “Even without the green hair, you like to try to make a statement, don’t you?”
She’s wearing a short, glimmering silver-and-pink flapper dress that looks nothing like the cheap knockoffs I passed over at the thrift stores. From her smoky eye makeup to her sequined headband, bangle bracelets, and dangling earrings, I have to admit she nailed the assignment.
But I don’t feel like playing her catty games today. “The thrifted male outfits were in better condition.”
“Thrifted?” Khloe says the word delicately, as if I’ve said gonorrhea and even repeating the word might be contagious.
Vera comes over in time to announce, “I adore thrifting.”
Khloe raises her perfectly penciled-in eyebrows and tells us there’s no assigned seating tonight, as Brody and Vi so wanted to make sure everyone enjoyed themselves.
I haven’t seen either Brody or Vi and can’t tell, by looking at Khloe, whether her discontented look signifies something is actually wrong .
. . or whether she’s just hungry. Despite the fact that flapper dresses were often loose enough to theoretically dance—or at least move—in, Khloe’s dress is tightly fitted enough to tell there’s no bra underneath.
Because I don’t see Lucas, I let Vera lead me toward the other Techers.
My butt has just barely made contact with my seat before Wendell asks the forbidden question. “So is the wedding still on?”
He’s whispering, but not quietly enough. Underneath the table, his wife tries to nudge him silent.
“Don’t do that.” Wendell turns to her. “Someone has to ask the difficult questions.”
Everyone—Qi, Wendell, Lacey, two other Techers who must have just flown in—looks at me.
“I don’t know.”
“Bullshit.”
Qi’s wife elbows him. Unlike Wendell, Qi mumbles an acknowledgment. “Sorry—baloney . . . stardust.”
I’m still laughing when we hear the feedback of a microphone being connected.
We turn to see Brody and Vi walking to the center of a raised platform, holding hands.
Brody’s never been my type, but even I can admit that with his now four-day growth beautifully trimmed, in his perfectly tailored dark-navy suit molding a body that’s mostly muscle, he’s as conventionally handsome as it gets.
He’s even wearing an ascot, which is as hilarious as it is on point.
He towers a good four inches over Vi, who, with her hair artfully curled, in a dress that’s the golden version of Khloe’s, looks like a graceful ballerina.
They’re the perfect couple. They’re Clark Gable and Jean Harlow. Michael Douglas and Kathleen Turner.
There’s just something ethereal about them, something that screams Old Hollywood.
I look around, almost hoping that the paparazzi are here, that the clumsy waiter with the obviously fake beauty mark is a plant. Because this is the picture they’ve been trying to project. This is the picture that deserves to make the headlines.
Vi speaks first. “We wanted to thank you all for coming for what’s been .
. . an even more exciting week than we could have predicted.
” She says this all with a small, almost wistful smile.
She’s the shy ingénue, succinctly communicating without words that she had no control over any of the past week’s craziness.
Brody, perfectly timed, inserts, “Speak for yourself! I always knew this was going to be a banger.”
They’re still holding hands and feeding off the laughter when Brody says, “Fuck. Am I not supposed to say banger now that I’m running for office?” He looks at Vi, who gives another small shake of her head. “Or was it fuck I wasn’t supposed to say?”
A few of the attendees are openly recording now, though Brody doesn’t seem to mind.
Vi leans into his shoulder, giving it a small squeeze and smiling up at him, which makes her next words more surprising. “Brody and I have decided not to marry.”
There are some audible gasps—even from the front tables where their parents are sitting. I’m pretty sure I see Khloe’s eyes widen, but I can’t be sure I’m not imagining it.
Brody is the one who, even with Vi’s arm now looped around his, gestures for us to simmer down. “This isn’t necessarily sad, guys. As a divorce attorney, I guess I just cost someone a retainer—”
There are groans this time, as well as some scattered good-natured laughter.
Vi raises her voice to be heard over the crowd. “But we’re separating as friends, which is better than Gatsby and Daisy.”
“I mean seriously, have any of you actually read The Great Gatsby? Why didn’t anyone stop us from planning a Gatsby party for a wedding?”
It’s obviously scripted, but Vi’s delivery feels natural. “We’re not still having that fight, are we? I thought the movie was romantic.”
“She thought Leonardo Dicaprio was romantic.” Brody sighs dramatically. “So we’re separating as friends, and I think just as importantly, anyone can have a destination wedding, am I right? Genevieve? Where you at? I think you said you attended twenty-three weddings last year?”
A young woman I can’t quite see corrects Brody. “Twenty-five!”
“So yeah, anyone can have a wedding, anyone can have a destination wedding, but how many destination unweddings have you been to?”
“I don’t think this is going to be a trend, baby.”
Brody gives Vi a quizzical look. “Why?” He gestures to the audience. “I mean, think of it from a broader perspective—this is basically community service. Now that we’re both single, we can both enter the dating pool, instantly increasing the quality of available singles.”
There are some catcalls now. Some mildly inappropriate remarks about who’d like to call dibs. Brody shrugs and points a finger up, making a circling motion. “In summary: Tomorrow morning, there’s no wedding. Instead, we’re having a paintball unwedding.”
“There’s no paintball in Lāna?i,” someone I can’t see shouts.
“Weird that you know that, Greg, but actually, you’re wrong. If you pay a paintball company to fly in their equipment from Maui . . . ”
“I’m gonna wear my wedding gown. It’s beautiful, I’m not sure what else I could possibly use it for, and this way, it’ll be a work of art by the end.”
“And then afterward, when we’d normally sit around listening to classical renditions of Taylor Swift ballads, we’ll change, shower, and the reception will happen exactly as planned.”
There’s a moment of stunned silence before Lucas, standing in one corner as if he’s been there the entire time, starts clapping.
It’s not long before everyone joins in. Some of the Techers start to bang on the table and another one clinks their glasses, both traditional signals that the bride and groom should kiss.
Brody and Vi look toward each other, and there’s a small something that passes between them. He leans in and kisses her on the forehead, she leans forward and places a hand on his chest.
They’re both smiling.