He laughs. “Okay, you’re sensitive. I get that. Frankly, I like it. Because I gotta tell ya, some women your age are bitter.” Rory frowns. “What I mean is, it’s refreshing you’re so easily upset.” She remains visibly displeased. “Okay, I declare a subject change.” He claps his hands to make the declaration official, drawing attention to their table. Rory shrinks in her chair. “Let’s share divorce horror stories. That’s a safe zone since our exes are unfortunately still alive—ha ha ha—am I right?”
“I’d rather not,” Rory replies with a hint of teacher authority behind her voice.
“I’ll go first. It’s a total cliché. My wife left me for the UPS driver.” Rory and I have the same thought: there’s nothing cliché about that. Hollywood maybe, but not cliché. UPS drivers don’t carry the same sex appeal as, say, personal trainers. “He went the extra mile carrying our new Bowflex into the living room and, next thing I knew, he lived there and I didn’t.” Rory looks longingly through the window to her car in the parking lot, then back at her date. “Your turn,” he says.
“My husband and I weren’t a match anymore.”
“Come on,” he pushes. “Was he an alcoholic? That’s pretty common. I have three aunts and a cousin who hit the bottle hard. I’m talking drunk before church. Not Danielle, of course. Don’t be a bad girl and spread rumors now—ha ha ha.”
“He wasn’t an alcoholic.”
“Abuse?”
“No.”
“Oh God, did he cheat on you?”
“No.”
“Please tell me you didn’t cheat on him. Did you? Because I have to say, after my last experience, that’s the only thing that could stand in the way of me taking this date to the next level.”
Having no intention of taking the date to any additional level, Rory retrieves her purse. “Listen, David, thanks so much for the glass of wine. It was nice to meet you.”
She sticks her arm out for a handshake. He stands too, awkwardly rubbing the condensation from his glass onto his pressed khakis. “Oh, okay,” he says. “You’re heading out? Can I walk you to your car?”
Rory graciously explains it’d be best if he stayed at the table so the bartender doesn’t think they’re skipping out on the tab. The mortician does not appear fazed; this is not the first time drinks didn’t turn into dinner.
Brady hasn’t been on a date in twenty-three years, but he’d never describe a mangled body over cocktails. Rory’s disaster of a night is, selfishly, perfect. Even with a temper, if this is the competition, Brady will do fine.
Eve
Thank God Lindsey’s aunt is a flight attendant who thinks her stash of in-flight cocktails is well hidden in the corner of the guesthouse closet. While the parents in attendance have the luxury of openly enjoying their wine and beer, we take turns ducking out to the privacy of the back deck. It’s clutch to keep your buzz going till you get in the limo or the dance will be cheesy, but for me it’s more than that. I have to keep my buzz going so I can pretend I’m somewhere else. Anywhere else.
Unfortunately, it’s not my turn to be drinking when the Andersons stumble over. They make a perfect couple because they’re both totally clueless no one in the room likes them. Mrs. Anderson has on a blue sequin tank with a way-too-short white skirt that I can see Lindsey’s mother dissing in the kitchen. Between her slutty outfit and the hangover she’s working on, you’d think it was Mrs. Anderson’s prom night. Her husband plays the part of a horny date well. His hand creeps closer and closer to Mrs. Anderson’s ass as they make their unwelcome rounds. It’s fine that parents still do it and all, but they should be considerate of the fact that it grosses everyone else out.
“Did you pick your dress beforehand?” Mrs. Anderson asks while her husband scopes the room for someone less depressing to talk to. I can’t believe so many fools buy cars from a man who obviously goes to a tanning salon.
I assume Mrs. Anderson is referring to before my mom voluntarily plunged to her death. A classy question. Thankfully she blabbers on without waiting for an answer. “Kara and I found hers in February in the middle-of-nowhere Springfield, and you know Kara, she somehow convinced me it wasn’t too early to buy it. I’m just relieved she still likes it. I mean, it’s not as though we could return something we bought four months ago. And Springfield is a million miles from here. That would’ve been my worst nightmare.”
I want Mrs. Anderson to suffer a real nightmare. I’d like to see how nice her Botox looks after finding out something whacked, like her GQ husband has a hidden family in the city. That’d teach her to be more careful with her words.
I consider informing the Andersons that their daughter is puking her brains out in the woods right now, probably getting backsplash on that gorgeous Springfield catch, but instead I walk away. I’m beginning to understand why my dad likes that move—it’s badass to peace out in the middle of a conversation.
I should’ve stuck to my original plan and pretended to have pinkeye, but then it would’ve been Dad and me, alone. At least here I can be drunk. Before I left, he asked if he should come to take pictures. As if. I laughed in his face, but stopped when he looked like he might smack me. Maybe I shouldn’t have backed off; a black eye would go perfect with this night.
Paige offered to come as my bodyguard, but I passed, knowing she meant it literally. Mrs. Anderson would have been escorted out by now. That’s why my mom loved Paige. Tonight she showed up just before I left with a boutonniere for John, which I flaked on getting, and two condoms. I have no plans to put out tonight, but it was the first time I’ve laughed since Good Friday. It was something my mom would do. No awkward conversation necessary, a simple gesture that said it all.
I scan the room. Preprom is nothing more than a parade of mothers showing off how close they are with their daughters. The fussing, the makeup, the pictures, it’s all a performance, and tonight gossiping about my dysfunctional family is the main act. I hear them, the way I do at school: It’s so sad.… I heard Madeline was a big drinker.… I always thought she seemed so happy.… Look at poor Eve.… My God, how selfish do you have to be to kill yourself when you have a child? I want to scream between camera flashes that losing my mother did not make me deaf.
Someone snaps the back of my strapless bra. I spin around to find Katy, who social-climbed all year to get invited to this stupid party, giving me air-kisses like she’s some sort of movie star. “I’m so glad you came tonight,” she gushes. “There’s no good excuse to miss prom.”
“Hmm,” I reply, pretending to think about it. “I think my excuse would’ve been pretty fucking good.” She wipes the fake smile off her face and leaves me alone. It’s the first hint she’s taken all year.
I can’t face another conversation like that, so I wait until no one is looking and truck upstairs to lock myself in the master bathroom. It reeks of hair spray and perfume, but I’d hole up in a Porta Potty right now if that’s what it took to be alone.