“Well,” I said. “That doesn’t sound ominous at all.”
“A cynic,” he continued, ignoring this, “would not have looked as relieved as you did when we found Ira. Also, a cynic would have made sure the boss knew whose dog caused the lost child to wander off in the first place. You, instead, covered for me and Ira, the dog.”
“I think you’re confusing a cynic with an asshole,” I told him.
“Maybe. But I saw how you reacted, both times. You’re not that hardened yet, even if you prefer to think otherwise.”
A car drove around us, the bass thumping. I said, “The key word is yet.”
“It is,” he agreed. “Because you still have a choice in the matter.”
“Or it’s only a matter of time,” I countered.
“Okay, now you sound like a cynic.” He tipped his head back, looking up at the stars overhead. “But you’re not fooling me. I know what I saw.”
To this I said nothing. What was the point? It wasn’t like I was proud of my hard little rock of a heart. Everyone’s life shapes them in their own unique way. No one could really understand how the events of the last year, highs and lows, had honed me into what I now was, sharper in places, more calloused in others. And of course I’d been worried about a lost child. I wasn’t a monster. Yet.
We were back at the front doors to the club now, where a large party was exiting the reception, cigars in hand. As we approached, two men, suits rumpled and cheeks rosy, opened a door for us at the same time. In reply, Ambrose spread his arms, clearly loving an entrance. Before he stepped in, though, he turned his head, cupping a hand to his mouth.
“Ira!” he called out. Of course, the dog barked.
“Call me crazy,” my mom said, loosening the strap of one of her shoes. “But I’m thinking they might go the distance.”
“Natalie Barrett.” William gave her a warning look. “Don’t you dare tell me you’ve become an optimist. I don’t think I can take it.”
“Never,” she replied, as he topped off both their glasses, then dropped the bottle with a clank back into the ice bucket. “I just got that sense. They don’t seem like the divorce type.”
“Which is the same as being married happily, yes?”
My mom considered this as she took a sip of her drink. “I don’t think it’s that simple. There’s a whole spectrum between those two, at least in my experience. Like all the variations of gray.”
William didn’t seem to buy it, even before he said, “Gray is gray, as far as I’m concerned.”
“I disagree.” She eased the other strap, wincing as she did so. “I remember being so unhappy at times in my own marriage, for various reasons. And yet the thought of it ending, of choosing to do that . . . I never would have even thought of it. And if I had, I’m sure I would have considered it the much worse option.”
“Worse than being unhappy?”
“Well, yes,” she replied. “Like, in a marriage, it’s not just whether you see the glass as half-full or half-empty. It’s whether you see it those two ways, or any of the other endless fractions that are possible.”
William winced. “This conversation is making my head hurt. I give them six years. And she leaves, for someone else. Three kids.”
My mom leaned her head to the side, considering this. “I don’t know. What do you think, Louna?”
I blinked, not having expected to be asked to weigh in. This was their game, not mine, even though I had seen Charlotte and her groom laughing happily as they climbed into the car to leave together. For them, and her in particular . . . I wished they’d always put each other first. Out loud, though, I said, “I have no idea.”
“Smart girl.” William raised his glass at me. “She who doesn’t gamble can never lose.”
“Or win,” my mom pointed out.
“Details,” he replied, and they both laughed, then clinked glasses.
I felt a yawn coming on and reached up, covering my mouth, wishing we could just go ahead and do our final sweep so we, too, could head home. Before that would happen, though, I had to collect all the vases we’d rented from the tables, and I wasn’t about to do it alone. Ambrose, however, was nowhere in sight.
Just as I thought this, I heard voices from over by the back door where Ira had escaped. When I turned, there Ambrose was with, of all people, Julie the annoying maid of honor. She was holding her shoes in one hand, the thrown bouquet—which, as William predicted, she’d dived for with vigor—in the other. As Ambrose said something to her, she tipped her head back and laughed again, putting a hand on his arm.
There’s something messy about people at the end of weddings. Clothes, once pressed, are rumpled and creased. Hair escapes from chignons and gets wild from dancing. Makeup runs, as do stockings and tights, and women almost always shed their shoes, men their jackets. There’s nothing neat about that feeling when the finiteness of the event hits and you’re suddenly more aware than ever that tomorrow is just another regular day. Maybe this was what made people drag out the night, stretching the time left a little longer. I understood it: I’d done it. But we were working here, not attending. Ambrose could get messy off the clock. I wanted to go home.
“Hey,” I called out, and they both looked over at me. “Let’s grab these vases so we can start getting out of here.”
“Sure thing, boss,” he replied. “Be there in five seconds.”
The boss thing was new, since an incident earlier when I’d told him that no, he couldn’t accept when one of the bridesmaids asked him to dance. I assumed he’d known this already, having extended the same offer to me at his own mother’s wedding. My assumptions were always wrong when it came to Ambrose.
“No dancing?” he said, once I’d told him to decline. Still, I could feel the bridesmaid, ever hopeful, hovering behind me. “Aren’t we here to make sure the party is perfect?”
“You really think that much of your conga skills?”
“Well, no,” he replied, although clearly, he did. “But a good wedding is at least ninety-five percent based on a great dance floor experience. I can help with that.”
In the business less than a week and he was quoting statistics. Made-up ones, but statistics. “We’re not here to enjoy the party. We’re here to make sure everyone else does.”
“What if their enjoyment could be enhanced by us contributing our own?”
“It doesn’t work that way,” I said, as a girl in her late twenties, wearing a pink dress, began crossing the floor in his direction, that telltale look on her face. What was he, a dancing magnet? “Just politely say no, tell them you’re working, and move off the dance floor. If you’re not here, you can’t be asked.”