I shrugged. “I guess,” I said as Dexter leaned into the microphone, closing his eyes.
“They look so happy,” she went on, and I followed her gaze to my mother and Don, who were laughing and doing dips as the song wound down. She sniffled, and I realized she was near tears. How weird that weddings do that to some people. “He’s really happy, isn’t he?”
“Yeah,” I said, “he is.”
She wiped her eyes, then waved her hand at me apologetically, shaking her head. “Oh, dear,” she said. “forgive me. I just—”
“I know,” I said, if only to save her from whatever she was about to say. I’d had all the sentimental stuff I could handle for one day.
Finally the last verse came to an end. Marty/Patty took a deep breath, blinking as the lights came up again. Under closer scrutiny I could see she was actually crying: red eyes, face red, the whole deal. Her mascara, which I could not help but notice was applied a bit too plentifully, was beginning to streak.
“I should . . .” she said shakily, touching her face. “I need to freshen up.”
“Good to see you,” I told her, the same way I’d told everyone who I was forced to talk to all night long, in the same cheery hey wedding-ho! voice.
“You, too,” she said, with less enthusiasm, and then she was gone, bumping against a chair on her way out.
Enough, I thought. I need a break.
I walked past the cake table and out a side door to the parking lot, where a couple of guys in waiter’s jackets were smoking cigarettes and picking at some leftover cheese puffs.
“Hey,” I said to them, “can I bum one?”
“Sure.” The taller guy, whose hair was kind of model-poofy, shook a cigarette out of his pack, handing it to me. He pulled out a lighter and held it for me as I leaned into it, taking a few puffs. He lowered his voice and said, “What’s your name?”
“Chloe,” I said, pulling back from him. “Thanks.” I eased away around the corner, even as he was calling after me, finding a spot by the Dumpsters on the wall. I kicked off my shoes, then looked down at the cigarette in my hand. I’d done so well: eighteen days. It didn’t even taste that good, really. Just a weak crutch on a bad night. So I tossed it down, watching it smolder, and leaned back on my palms, stretching out my back.
Inside, the band stopped playing, to scattered applause. Then the canned hotel music came on, and a few seconds later a door farther down the wall banged open and out came the G Flats, their voices loud.
“This is of the suck,” the guitar player said, pulling a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and shaking one out. “After this, no more weddings. I’m serious.”
“It’s money,” Ringo the drummer said, taking a sip of a bottled water he was holding.
“Not this one,” the keyboard guy muttered. “This is a gimme.”
“No,” Dexter said, running a hand through his hair. “This is the bail money. Or have we all forgotten that? We owed Don, remember?”
There was a grumbling acquiescence, followed by silence. “I hate doing covers,” the guitarist said finally. “I don’t see why we can’t do our own stuff.”
“For this crowd?” Dexter said. “Be serious. I don’t think Uncle Miltie from Saginaw wants to dance to your various versions of ‘The Potato Song.’”
“It’s not called that,” Ted snapped. “And you know it.”
“Settle,” the redheaded drummer said, waving his arm in a peacemaking gesture I recognized. “It’s only a couple more hours, okay? Let’s just make the best of it. At least we get to eat.”
“We get to eat?” the keyboardist said, perking up. “Seriously?”
“That’s what Don said,” the drummer replied. “If there’s enough left over. How much longer of a break do we have?”
Dexter glanced at his watch. “Ten minutes.”
The keyboardist looked at the drummer, then the guitarist. “I say food. Food?”
“Food,” they replied in unison. The keyboardist said, “You in, Dexter?”
“Nah. Just nab me some bread or something.”
“Okay, Gandhi,” Ringo said, and somebody snorted. “We’ll see you in there.”
The guitarist tossed down his cigarette, Ringo threw his water bottle toward the Dumpster—and missed—and then they went inside, the door slamming shut behind them.
I sat there, watching him, knowing for once he couldn’t see me first. He wasn’t smoking, instead just sitting there on the wall, drumming his fingers. I’d always been a sucker for dark-headed boys, and from a distance his suit didn’t look so tacky: he was almost cute. And tall. Tall was good.
I stood up and brushed my hands through my hair. Okay, so maybe he was really annoying. And I hated the way he’d bumped me against the wall. But I was here now, and it seemed only fitting that I take a few steps toward him, show myself, if only to throw him off a bit.