Chapter 43
Chapter
It’s a short drive over to the venue where the wedding is being held—a mansion on another vineyard. When we pass through the main house and out to the back, a breathy little “wow” escapes from me before I can worry about sounding like a bumpkin.
Rows of Chiavari chairs are set up underneath strings of lights. The lawn gives way to impressive manicured gardens, complete with topiaries and a fucking hedge maze. My inner child wants to kick off these teetering heels and go running off into it.
I wave Mark Winterson over to take some pictures with me against this backdrop, and he obliges, a hand resting possessively on my lower back. I’m still angry at him, but I lean my head on his shoulder, trying to be convincing for the photo, and his warm palm on my bare skin muddies my thoughts.
As we’re making our way to our seats, Mark Winterson gets caught up talking to someone, and I claim a spot on the groom’s side and send Greg a photo of the whole setup.
Ruby:
look at this shit
there’s a hedge maze!
Greg:
damn, you’ve got me beat
He sends a blurry photo from the outside of a Ramada Inn, freeway off-ramp visible in the distance, and I resist the urge to snort.
That’s right, I remember—he’s also at a wedding right now. Adam from Accounting is tying the knot with his high school sweetheart, and lots of TKCORP people are going. Big weekend for marriage, I guess.
Ruby:
idk yours might be a better time
i heard the accountants like to party
Mark Winterson extracts himself from his conversation, and I stash my phone in my clutch and beam up at him.
I sit spine straight, shoulders back through the ceremony—the generic exchange of vows, the inside-joke-laden readings from their friends. It’s not lost on me that Mark Winterson’s cousin is also taller than him, and maybe that doesn’t help with whatever resentment he’s harboring.
All morning I’ve been turning the components of his password over in my mind, rethinking my approach. I have to take it slow, ideally wait for alcohol to do some of the work for me. I’ve ranked everything in order of how drunk I want him to be:
Ask about his relationship with his dad, in hopes that I can finagle a way of getting him to talk about his dad’s life philosophy and that motto. (He should be buzzed, slightly tipsy.)
Get him to talk about his relationship with Erickson—though finding out about the first deal they ever discussed might be more of a needle in a haystack. (Ideally at least three drinks in, given what I’ve observed of his tolerance.)
Ease more delicately into asking about his dating history, to find out what heartbreak could have been so formative that he’d think of it as the one and only “heartbreak year.” (Preferably when he’s shitfaced.)
“Thanks for coming, again,” Mark Winterson says as we get up after the ceremony. “Might have to leave you alone for a bit to do that room-working. You’ll be all right?”
It stings that he doesn’t want me on his arm for the whole thing, after he made such a stink about my appearance. But I gather myself and make finger guns at him. “Always be closing, right? Gotta chase that senior VP title.”
Then I worry I’m pushing my luck with making fun of him, but he laughs, genuinely. “Yeah, you get it.”
Mark Winterson takes my arm as we cross the lawn to the area where cocktails are being served, and he spots some people he recognizes. “Frank! Linda!”
An older white couple in a tux and gown turn around.
“Mark!” The man shakes a finger at him. “I’ve known this one since he was in diapers.”
“Old family friend,” Mark Winterson clarifies.
He introduces me as his girlfriend, and Frank and Linda’s exaggerated reaction of delight sets my teeth on edge. “Take care of Ruby for me for a second? I’ll be right back,” he says, and slips away.
Wow, he actually parked me with babysitters.
“What’s your background, Ruby?” Frank asks, tipping his glass of rosé up in my direction.
“In…marketing?”
“Oh, I mean—” Linda swats Frank on the chest. “I suppose we’re not supposed to ask where you’re from!”
Here we go, my body knows this drill—patient smile, stomach clench.
I’m so bored of this, my constant free-floating angst about everyone else’s confusion over my racial/ethnic identity.
But it’s part of the texture of my life.
It came up more on the East Coast than here, but still, you’d be surprised, depending on the composition of the room you find yourself in (or tastefully appointed backyard, as the case may be).
It comes with a low-level seasickness, knowing that one of the first things people perceive about you isn’t stable.
And when you realize a surprising amount of people have opinions about what you must actually be, or which side you are more, and the opinions all contradict, you start to feel like you’ll always be almost something, almost but not quite, that there is no option where you can be authentically whatever you are.
And you hear so much about how important authenticity is these days.
It’s what people want, what algorithms want, it’s supposedly what sells.
But I’ve spent most of my life thinking I should fold myself up and make myself neater, less confusing.
That if I tried harder tomorrow, maybe I’d finally find a way.
“My mom’s from the Philippines and my dad was white.” It’s what I’ve said all my life, rote, but my heart snags, realizing the tenses are technically all wrong now.
“Oh, I love half-Asian babies!” Linda exclaims, as though we’re discussing a trendy dog breed.
“Like…in general?” I am notably not a baby.
She nods, and her silver ringlets of hair and heavy gold earrings jiggle as one unit. “Oh yes, one of my sons married an Asian woman, and the baby—so cute, these mixed babies! I love to see what comes up!”
I never know what to say when people come out with comments like this. It’s just something I’m living with whether I like it or not, but, uh, thanks?
At that moment, I see Sandra Winterson swanning by in a lavender gown and wave like I’m seeing an old friend.
“Lovely chatting with you, please excuse me!” I sidestep away from Frank and Linda and hustle across the grass. “Hey! Sandra!”
“Oh gosh, Ruby!” She grabs two champagne flutes from a passing waiter. “I think we should toast to you,” she says, passing me one. “When we were in high school, I never would have guessed you’d end up with my brother.”
My brow wrinkles. “Why’s that?”
“Oh, I don’t mean anything about you!” She waves a dismissive hand.
“I mean, it’s about him. I feel like he’s…
different, lately. Don’t tell him I told you, but I haven’t heard him talk about someone this way since…
” Her smile flickers, and she seems to catch herself and reset.
“Haven’t heard him talk about anyone this way in years. So—cheers!”
Sandra raises the glass and downs most of it (but, like, delicately, somehow). So I drain mine, too, wanting to be polite.
“Can’t stop and chat, unfortunately! Bridesmaid emergency.” She deposits the glass on the tray of a different passing waiter. “But I have a feeling I’ll be seeing more of you soon.”
I squint as she hurries away, trying to make sense of what she said, but then my eyes land on an incredible sight: the Senior VP of Finance putting Mark Winterson in a headlock on the other side of the grass. Getting to witness this has to qualify as a small win.
I hitch my gown up with one hand so I can move quickly, balancing on the balls of my feet so my heels don’t sink into the grass.
“Hey! Knock it off, kids,” I say as I get closer, right as the groom seems poised to give Mark Winterson a noogie. I get a rush of this strange, almost maternal affection toward him—if I ever see a therapist, there will surely be plenty to unpack about this entire experience.
If I even have a job and healthcare then. Or if Mark Winterson hasn’t found me out and sued me into oblivion.
The Senior VP of Finance lets him go and straightens up, flashing me a toothy smile. “And who have we here?”
Mark Winterson grabs my hand and tugs me closer. Territorially, maybe.
“Let me guess,” his cousin says, pointing a finger at me. Oh no, not one of the guys who wants to guess. “Are you Mexican?”
“Zack,” Mark Winterson says.
“I’m just making conversation! What, Mark, are you woke now?” He points at me. “Did you make him woke?”
“Not…that I know of?”
“I love Cancún—beautiful people there. So, am I right?”
“Sorry to disappoint,” I say with an airy wave of my hand.
“Oh, okay, I see.” He laughs. “So mysterious.”
Is this recently married man…trying to hit on me? Or is this just how he socializes?
Mark Winterson looks a bit murderous. Interesting dynamic these two have.
“Mark, lighten up,” Zack says, and glances at me again. “Can you believe this guy studied political economy in undergrad? What even is that?”
I give him a weak laugh, because at least he seems to be done guessing.
Zack gives Mark Winterson a friendly whack on the arm. “Hey, man, no hard feelings, right?”
“Yeah, yeah, it was a long time ago. Glad you guys are happy.”
That piques my curiosity. Mark Winterson does not sound very happy about this long-ago thing.
“Zack!” a man’s voice booms. “Congratulations!”
Another older couple drifts over to us, and from the strong family resemblance and the way Mark Winterson drops my hand suddenly and his jaw tightens, I take it these are his parents.
“Yes, Zack, you and Clarissa look so good together,” his mother says, dabbing at her eyes. Her gray hair is pulled into a slick updo and her makeup is indeed understated. Her clothes are, too, but in a specific way that makes me certain they cost a fortune.
“How’s business, son?” his father asks, thumping Mark Winterson on the back.
“Oh, lots going on. Been burning the midnight oil.”
Mark Winterson seems uncomfortable, and there’s a bit of an awkward silence, so like a fool I blurt something out to fill it. “It’s true, he, like, barely sleeps.”
His parents look at me with mild confusion.
Oh shit, maybe he didn’t tell them we’re dating? As an old hand at hiding things from my mom, I should really know better.
“Or, I mean, so I’ve heard! It’s, uh—legendary, at the office, how hard your son works. You raised a real winner,” I add, looking his dad in the eye. “You must be so proud.”
Mark Winterson beams like this is the nicest thing anyone has ever said about him.
“Good, good,” his dad says, clapping his son on the arm. “I always say, ex nihilo—”
“—nihil fit,” Mark Winterson finishes for him. “Nothing comes from nothing. I know.”
Hellooo, low-hanging fruit! It takes all my strength to stop myself from punching the air. One down, two to go.
“You must be Ruby! Such a pleasure,” his mother says, extending an imperious hand for me to shake. Then she steps back, shoulder to shoulder with her son, and says as though I can’t hear: “Different than the girls you usually bring around, Mark. Maybe you’re maturing.”
She sips her champagne while he laughs nervously.
Extremely strange vibe these people have. Not sure how I feel about being the mature choice.
“Would you excuse me?” I say, fighting the urge to curtsy. “I’m going to find the ladies’ room.”
This wedding is like an endurance exercise, and I could use a break. I head in the direction of the main house and duck behind a topiary animal in a spot of shade—a bear standing on its hind legs.
After taking a few deep, calming breaths, I peer back around it, checking on the Wintersons.
And another man I recognize is wandering down the lawn toward them: Winfield Erickson, the CEO of TKCORP. I’ve seen him only through screens—some of his town hall meetings were posted to YouTube last year, and I watched them from my desk in New York, because Mom was worried about her job.
“You know new leadership can mean layoffs,” Mom said at the time, on the phone from across the country. “That’s when it’s even more important to put your nose to the grindstone, work as hard as you can. They’ll notice it. It will be worth it, when they’re making decisions about who to let go.”
The way she talked, it was like hard work could get her everywhere. Like buckling down and suppressing your desires and complaints for a little while longer would keep you safe—just one more late night, just another big push, try harder, come on, almost there, almost there—
A wave of anger hits me so hard it turns into nausea as I watch the CEO greet the group and clap Mark Winterson on the back. Then the two of them turn and start walking toward the hedge maze, so I hustle across the lawn as quickly as I can in these precarious heels.