Epilogue
Demi
Laughter fills the courtyard, ringing out loudest from Eliza Esteban, my closest friend.
Who is three sheets to the wind—wait, check that…
four sheets? Five? How many sheets can you be, and what does it even mean?
She's white-girl-wasted, which is quite a trick for a badass Latina who can drink pretty much everyone I know, male or female, under the table.
"Oh, dear. Please excuse me, but I need to check on my friend," I tell the Mastersons. "Please enjoy your evening, Robert, Charlotte. Thank you for coming."
Robert's gaze is fixed squarely on my cleavage as he shakes my hand.
Unsurprising, given his reputation. I endure the ogling until I'm able to retrieve my hand from his dry, cold, cadaverous one, turning away and trying to keep my shudder of disgust to myself.
He's a creep at best, but he and Charlotte are huge donors.
As in, their plaque is at the very top of the pile, out in the lobby, in the "Circle of Benevolence" section—reserved for donors of a million dollars or more.
I weave across the courtyard toward the cluster of drooling nepo-babies clustered around my swaying, slurring bombshell of a BFF.
The courtyard in question is designed to feel like something from a city in coastal Spain, with a pergola wreathed in jasmine and jacaranda and laced with fairy lights, covering the space and filling the hot evening air with wafting fragrance and a soft golden glow.
Underfoot, cobblestone—which is lovely to look at but murder on the ankles if you're wearing four-inch spike stilettos.
Bistro tables line the exposed-brick walls, with catering tables laden with Latin-Asian fusion finger food between them.
A string quartet plays pop covers in a back corner.
Black-clad servers circulate throughout the space, wielding round trays with flutes of champagne.
Three months of work went into this event—curating the guest list, finding the right string quartet, securing a caterer, picking the menu, arranging for the step-and-repeat out front and the attendant photographer, locking down enough champagne of good enough quality that no one will complain about it without breaking the bank, hiring valets and ensuring there's a secure parking lot, vetting the right security company to keep looky-loos out and drunk patrons from driving away and/or causing trouble…
the checklist was two pages front and back and I have very small handwriting.
So far, it's gone off without a hitch. Checkbooks are out, and the funds are flowing, the food is good, the champagne cold and plentiful. I just wish my business and hetero life partner would have slowed down on the bubbly just a little.
I sidle up next to Eliza, who's in the middle of her true story about partying on a yacht with George Clooney on Lake Como.
The drooling nepo-babies are lapping it up, as usual.
Mainly because Eliza has her tits all the way out, but at least partly because they hope she can connect them with someone famous. Like George.
I sling an arm around her waist and none-too-subtly direct her away mid-story. "Eliza, I need you over here, yeah?"
"Okay, Demi-baby,” she says, tossing back the last swallow of champagne and deftly; she switches the empty flute for a full one from a passing server. I, in turn, snag the flute before she can take another drink. "Hey, give that back!"
I plaster a fake smile as I lean close to her, whispering sharply. "You're wasted, Eliza. I think you've had enough."
“Oh, don't be a party-pooper," she mutters. "The work is done! Now we enjoy the party."
“Yeah, no. The work isn't done until the guests leave. We party after the event."
Eliza rolls her eyes. "Whatever. Just give me some water, and I'll be fine." Her eyes light up with a dangerous glint. "Or better yet, where's Nathaniel? He'll have a bump for me."
"Eliza," I snap. "Absolutely the fuck not."
She huffs. “You're no fun. All you ever want to do is work."
God, not this again. "Eliza, honey. You know I love you down to my toes, but we don't come from the same world. This is it for me. I don't have a backup plan if Demiza Event Planning doesn't work out. I have to work. I can't just ask my dad for money for a new idea like you can."
Eliza leans heavily against me, an arm slinging over my shoulder.
"Demi, Demi, Demi." She says my name the way it's supposed to be said: deh-MEE.
"You think I'd let you fail? Oh ye of little faith.
" She sweeps a hand around us, nearly decapitating a server with her diamond-dripping hand.
"Look around you, hot stuff. A-listers. Producers from the biggest labels.
Promoters. And I'm pretty sure that's Governor Newsom over there.
We're gonna pull in bank, baby. After this, Demiza is gonna be on the map. No doubt!"
Oh lord, here comes "Street Eliza". Not embarrassing at all. Let's just hope she doesn't—
"?Chinga tu madre, pendejo!" Eliza lurches after someone, cursing in Spanish.
When she busts out the Spanish, you know you're in for a wild ride.
I pull her back. "Let him go, Eliza. Just…let it go. Please."
"He groped me!"
"He bumped into you by accident, and he apologized."
“Well, fine, okay, whatever." She glares after the supposed offender—a server, no less—while muttering under her breath in a mixture of English and Spanish so slurred and rapid even I can barely understand her.
"Yeah, we're gonna go over here." I lead her away from the crowd and inside the restaurant—dark and quiet, except for the kitchen. "Let's just sit down and have some water."
"Water is boring. ?Me gustaría una cerveza, por favor!"
"Yeah, no. No more alcohol for Eliza."
"But—"
“Nope."
I half-guide, half-lead her to a horseshoe-shaped booth. Her gold-sequined minidress hikes up around her ass…and true to form, she's commando under the skirt that barely clears the lower edge of her butt.
That's my girl.
She's a lush, she's spoiled, she's wild, but she's the most loyal friend you could ask for.
She'd give me the dress she's wearing right now if I asked, and she'd prance naked across San Diego just for the hell of it.
She's thrown herself into a fight against men four times her size on my behalf, and singlehandedly funded a lawsuit against a boss who sexually harassed me, wrongfully fired me for reporting it, and then tried to scare and intimidate me into dropping the suit; the proceeds of that lawsuit seeded my half of Demiza Event Planning.
When I was about to capitulate after the rather effective threats and intimidation tactics, it was Eliza who kept me going, refusing to let me cower to the power of a rich old white fuckbucket like Alan Thomas Niederland the Fourth, esquire.
Eliza would take on God for me, and she'd probably win. So yeah, when she decides to cut loose, I step in and take care of it without complaint.
Besides, Eliza at her worst is better than just about everyone else at their best. Just don't get on the wrong side of her, especially if she's had tequila.
"Ooh, mami's got the spins," Eliza mutters. "Wheeee."
"Put one foot on the floor," I tell her.
She does, and throws an arm over her eyes. "I love you, Demi."
"Love you too, Elz."
"I'm a little drunky-fish."
"Oh, I know."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be. This event is a smashing success."
"You should go mingle. Maybe you can snag a fella for some bow-chick-a-bow-bow." She says the last part monotone rather than as a verbal sound effect.
"Snag a fella?"
"Yeah. Y'know. Find a hot body with a big salami."
"Elz. I'm working. I'm not trolling for a hookup."
"I know you can multitask, Demi."
"Of course I can. It's not that."
"Then what?"
"I don't shit where I eat, Elz. This is a work event. Everyone here is a potential client. If I hook up with someone and then they want to hire me, it's awkward."
"But awkward is so much fun!"
"Said no one ever."
"I love awkward situations, though."
I cackle. "Because you have no embarrassment threshold."
"And yours is, like, at the lowest bar possible. You get secondhand embarrassment so bad you've walked out of a movie theater because you can’t handle watching someone else embarrass themselves.”
"I was nowhere near high enough for Paul Blart: Mall Cop."
"Is anyone ever?" She groans. "Whoooo, yeah, here comes the nausea. Gimme a bucket, willya?"
“Oh god. Elz, you lush." I pop into the kitchen and steal a big stainless steel mixing bowl from a wire rack. "Here."
She rolls to her back on the padded booth seat and holds the bowl on her stomach, patting the bowl affectionately. "Juuuust in case." She stabs a wavering finger roughly in the direction of the courtyard. "Go forth and mingle! I shall en-sober-ize myself."
I pat the top of her foot as I shuffle out of the booth. "Just stay here, please. I don't need to hunt you down again."
"One time! That happened ONE TIME!"
"I had to hire a P-I, Elz." I pause for effect. "He found you in Reno.”
"It was a very unique sequence of events. There may have been a lot of cocaine involved."
"You don't say," I deadpan. "You really need to stop with that shit, Elz. It's bad for you."
"It's bad for you," she mocks in a nasally voice. "So are donuts. So is smog. So is everything."
"Yeah, but you can die from that shit."
She flips me off. "Not today, Satan."
"Stay—there."
"Yes, Mother."
As I head for the courtyard, I hear her muttering in Spanish again—something about how if she wanted a nagging wife, she'd become a lesbian. Or something. My Spanish isn't good enough to keep up with her when she mutters like that.
The rest of the evening is fine. We reach our fundraising target and then some. I do a few interviews for the bloggers and influencers I invited as the guests filter away, and then eventually the courtyard is empty.