“We’re pouring some champs out here!” Nat calls from our front room. “Quick toast to all our hard work before we go.”
I stick one final bobby pin into the loose, wispy side bun I’ve fashioned at the nape of my neck, then grab my purse and head out to our main room, waving a greeting to Gabriel, who’s in the kitchen popping the cork. Nat’s pulling the champagne flutes from the cabinet, and when she sees me, she gasps. “Cass, that dress is perfection.”
For an event like this I’d typically rely on my trusty companion Rent the Runway (a godsend for the twenty-something serial wedding guest), but when Nat determined that she had to have a new dress and convinced me to run into a few stores with her, I ended up spotting this one on a mannequin and it was love at first sight.
If ever a dress was made for me, this would be it: a black halter neck with a low back, a gathered waist, and a pleated chiffon skirt that flutters around my knees in the softest, most feminine way. It’s sophisticated yet understated and somehow both modern and timeless; the kind of dress that never goes out of style. If I’ve ever prided myself on my capsule wardrobe, then this is its capstone. Nat called it my “little black dress” moment a la Breakfast at Tiffany’s, but the silhouette is actually much closer to Marilyn Monroe’s iconic white subway grate dress in The Seven Year Itch, which is fitting, I suppose—the merging of Betty and Cassidy is now complete.
I accept the flute she hands me and clink it against hers. “It really is perfect. As always, I owe all my impeccable fashion moments to you,” I acknowledge, giving her a little bow.
“Well, I’m no Edith Head, but I am damn good.” When I tilt my head questioningly, Nat groans, exasperated. “Edith Head, only the most famous costume designer of all time? Responsible for just about every iconic look in all those Old Hollywood movies you’ve been watching nonstop?” She sighs when I shrug. “You disappoint me.”
I chuckle and reach up to give Gabriel a hug. “Don’t you look dapper,” I tell him, and he does—he’s model-handsome in his dark suit and tie, his longish, unruly hair slicked back into a slightly-more-ruly style. When he’s paired with Nat in her off-the-shoulder emerald-green gown, they look like they’ve stepped out of the pages of a fashion magazine. “You guys are so attractive, it’s ridiculous. I can’t even imagine what your kids will look like.”
“Hopefully just like her,” Gabriel says, eyeing Nat appreciatively.
“You are so well-trained,” Nat teases, slipping an arm around his waist.
“I’m looking forward to finally meeting Jack,” Gabriel says, taking a swig of the champagne. “And selfishly, I’m glad I’ll have someone to hang out with while you guys go off and do your thing.”
“I’m looking forward to you meeting him too,” I say pointedly, stealing a glance at our oven clock. Jack is now officially late. He was supposed to meet us here so we could all ride over to the hotel together, but we’re cutting it close.
I decide to shoot him a text, but when I fish my phone out of my purse I see I’ve already gotten one from him.
Jack: Something came up at work. Need to meet you there
Huh. Well, that sucks. Maybe it’s silly, but I was really looking forward to showing up with someone on my arm for once.
Nat reads my face. “What’s up?”
“It sounds like Jack’s going to have to meet us there.” Disappointment sinks in my stomach like a stone. “Which is fine.”
I pretend not to see Nat slide her eyes to Gabriel, silently communicating in couple code that all is decidedly not fine.
There’s something else about Jack’s text that’s nagging at me. Maybe it’s that he didn’t share any details of what exactly came up. Or that he didn’t offer an apology for his tardiness on what he knows is an important night for me—actually, for us. Or maybe it’s the brusque tone of his text, so unlike his usual affectionate, flirtatious messaging demeanor. Something is off.
This is not what I need right now. This is not the night I want to start second-guessing Jack, picking apart his text messages and analyzing them for coded undertones and hidden meanings. It’s the type of mind games I thought I’d left in my past, the kind that have been totally absent from my relationship with Jack. Until now, at least.
I decide I’m reading too much into it. “No sense creating problems where there aren’t any,” as Gran likes to say. (Of course, my Pop-Pop always used to say, “Early is on time, on time is late, and late doesn’t happen,” but somehow I don’t think texting that to Jack would be helpful right now). I tap out a response (No problem, see you there), then throw my phone back into my purse.
“Okay if I tag along with you guys?” I ask lightly, hating how pathetic I feel in this moment. And just when I thought I was done being a third wheel.
“Of course!” Nat says quickly, tossing back the rest of her champagne. “You know you’re always welcome with us.”
“And I get two gorgeous dates instead of one,” Gabe adds, gamely offering me his other arm, and my heart glows with gratitude for these two despite my disappointment.
It’s stupid to care about something like this, right? Jack’s a busy man with a lot of responsibilities and even more people depending on him. This surely won’t be the last time an inconveniently timed work emergency crops up; I should probably get used to it now.
So I swallow my frustration, paste on a smile, and grab my handbag. “Ready?”
* * *
THE HOTEL BALLROOM looks stunning; I feel like I just stepped into the first-class dining room on the Titanic. Elaborate brass chandeliers dripping with crystals cast intricate light patterns on the walls, while extravagant floral arrangements explode across every surface. Each table is lavishly set with enough silverware to make Jack Dawson’s head spin. Cynthia holds court near the entrance, greeting every VIP and guest who enters, while David, her longtime partner and the Stedman to her Oprah, stays glued to her side.
I end up chatting with a group of my friends from work—Nat and Gabriel, Jordan, Kara, and Daniela, along with their significant others—while we pretend not to rubberneck all the celebrities milling about the room. But despite all the famous eye candy, there’s really only one person I care about seeing tonight, and his continued absence is the one glaring hiccup in an otherwise seamless evening. At this point I’m just hoping he shows up before the speeches start.
Nat catches me checking my phone for the umpteenth time. “He’ll be here,” she murmurs in my ear, and I squeeze her hand.
“I know.”