Jack with a Twist (19 page)

In the opposite corner of the dining room, Jack’s mother, Joan, is holding court at a table with her friends.

“I Want Your Sex” comes over the sound speakers just as Vanessa and I get to our table, and guests immediately start jumping up on chairs.

“We didn’t even get a bite to eat yet!” I protest to Vanessa as we sit down in our seats.

“If you can’t beat ’em,” Vanessa says and hops up on her chair.

“I’m on a wedding diet anyway,” Lisa says, and jumps up on her chair.

I begin eating my tomatoes and mozzarella—it is simply too early to start dancing on chairs. And, I’m going to have to put something in my stomach if I’m going to continue drinking like I have been tonight.

“Brooke!” I hear a voice with a thick Polish accent call out to me, “Get up on your chair!”

I turn around and see my grandmother and my Aunt Devorah up on their chairs. All of the waiters and guests around them are going crazy as they shake their artificial hips in time to George Michael. This is probably the first time, in the history of Mangia e Bevi, that orthopedic shoes have rocked the chairs.

I grab my camera, only to have a waiter take it from my hands.

“Please allow me,” he says. “Which one is your grandmother?” I point at my grandma and then drag my chair over to where she and Aunt Devorah are dancing on their chairs. I jump up onto my chair and they put their arms around me. We all laugh and dance and somewhere in the middle of all of this, I see the camera flash go off.

“Y
ou said we were going halfsies,” Vanessa whines as I eat my chicken marsala. Little does she know, somewhere in the middle of lip-synching “You’re the One That I Want” with her, I decided that I was too hungry to share.

“We’re still going halfsies,” I say, “I’m just eating more than my half of the chicken marsala.”

“Well, stop eating,” she says, “I’d like to try some. The veggie lasagna’s great.” And with that, she takes the plate I’m eating from and swaps it with her own.

“If it’s so great,” I say, “then, why are you trying to swap with me?”

“Because you need the pasta to absorb all of the alcohol that you’re drinking,” she says and she’s got a point. I grab a piece of Italian bread from the center of the table.

“At your own bachelorette party,” Lisa says, over the loud music playing in the background, “you’re supposed to drink too much!”

“Not as much as you drank at yours, though,” Patricia says. “I practically had to carry you home from the Culture Club.”

I catch Lisa and Elizabeth smirking at each other. Then Lisa winks at me and I try not to laugh.

“You did not,” Lisa says, pouring herself another glass of wine for emphasis.

“Yeah,” Elizabeth joins in. “I was the one who had to carry her home.”

“I got too drunk at my bachelorette party, too,” Vanessa says, fingering her ring finger with her thumb.

“Which is exactly what you’re supposed to do,” Lisa says. “Right?”

“Right,” Vanessa says, and then audibly sighs. “Would you please excuse me from the table for a minute?”

I know where this is going. I’ve run this drill once or twice before. Vanessa never cries, but when she does, it’s always a doozy. After eight years of friendship, I know that when Vanessa excuses herself from the table randomly—especially when there’s some very delicious chicken marsala in front of her, no less—she’s upset about something and is running off to be miserable in private.

Vanessa’s been putting on a brave face today, all day, but there’s just no way that she can actually be okay with her divorce being final. I knew it. So, that leads me to the undeniable conclusion that she is now running off to the bathroom to cry about the fact that her marriage is officially over in the eyes of the State of New York. Hopefully, she isn’t too upset to remember not to use the first bathroom on the right. I jump up from my seat to run after her.

Only it’s not that easy to run through a crowd when you’re the guest of honor at a party.

“This is so much fun, Brooke!”

“Vanessa and your mom did such a great job, Brooke!”

“Excuse me, miss, can we have another bottle of wine? Oh, wait, that’s you, Brooke!”

I reach over to the bar to grab a bottle of wine for the table who mistook me for a waitress and my mother is back on the microphone.

“And now, ladies,” she says, “get ready, because it is time for
des-sert!
”

And with that, the waiters all begin to wheel out the huge four-foot-high cake. The top of the cake suddenly explodes and a male stripper pops out. Even though I knew it was coming, I’m still somehow totally surprised.

“Brooke Miller, where are you?” he says. I just stand steady, barely moving an inch, like a deer in the woods, hoping that if I don’t move, he won’t be able to see me.

“She’s right here!” one of my so-called friends screams out.

“Then, let’s dance!” he says and jumps over to me and grabs my hands to dance. My only saving grace here is that I know that Vanessa and my mom gave him very specific instructions to keep it PG-13. As we dance together, he begins peeling layer after layer of clothing off himself and I can’t help but think that the stripper at the bachelor party vs. the stripper at the bachelorette party serve two entirely different purposes.

The stripper at the bachelor party is like the groom’s last hurrah, his last night of something crazy. All of the men at the bachelor party are totally turned on by the strippers, and it makes most of the men wish they were still single. The stripper at the bachelorette party is the exact opposite—most of the women are totally overwhelmed by the stripper and his sweaty body and it has the effect of driving the bride-to-be directly into her groom-to-be’s arms.

Which is what I’m thinking at this very minute. All I can really think about is how long I’ll have to dance with this sweaty half-naked man before I can run to the bathroom to check on Vanessa.

The elder stateswomen of my family do not seem to be having the same thought process as me. I guess when you’ve been through natural childbirth a few times, you’re not going to let a little thing like sweat keep you from dancing with a half naked man. They have circled us, and after the first song is over, I leave the male stripper dancing with my mother, grandmother and Aunt Devorah as I rush toward the bathrooms.

The bathrooms at Mangia e Bevi are tiny—they’re clearly only meant for one occupant at a time—and Vanessa’s in the second one on the left, which, conveniently enough, doesn’t have a lock. I fling the door open and jump up onto the sink. I have to tuck my legs as close as I can to the base of the sink just so that we can both fit inside. Vanessa’s seated on top of the toilet with her head in her hands and her elbows on her knees. I’m thankful that the toilets at Mangia e Bevi have lids that you can close before sitting down for Vanessa’s sake, but I really wish I’d used some paper towels to dry off the sink before I sat down on it.

“Go back to your party!” Vanessa says, picking her head up from her hands, “I don’t want to ruin your bachelorette party!”

“You’re not ruining anything,” I say. “This party wouldn’t even have happened if it wasn’t for you.”

“Yes,” Vanessa says, “but now I’m ruining it. Please just go back to the party. I promise, I feel better already.”

“You’re my best friend,” I say. “If you want to cry—even in the middle of my bachelorette party—we’ll cry. But, you haven’t ruined a thing.”

“I’ve ruined everything,” she says, head in her hands.

“No, you haven’t,” I say, grabbing her shoulder, hoping she’ll look up at me.

“My marriage is over, Brooke,” she says, “and it’s all my fault. It’s all over. It’s gone. So, don’t tell me I haven’t ruined anything. I
did
ruin everything.”

“No, you didn’t, Vanessa,” I say, grabbing one of her hands and holding onto it. “You did what you thought the best possible thing was at the time. There’s nothing wrong with that. You did what you thought was right.”

“Except that now I’m divorced,” she says, shoulders quietly shaking, “And Marcus will never speak to me again.”

“Isn’t that what you wanted?” I ask and Vanessa immediately begins to cry even harder. “I’m sorry! Was that the wrong thing to say? I thought that this was what you wanted? Are you reconsidering?”

“Yes,” she says, looking up at me. “No. Maybe. I don’t know. What if I am?”

“Then you should talk to Marcus,” I say, grabbing some toilet paper off the roll and handing it to her to blot her eyes. “Maybe he feels the same way.”

“He doesn’t,” she says, as she quietly blows her nose. “When we were at our lawyers’ offices today, he asked me if I was sure. He asked me if I was a hundred percent sure, and I said ‘yes.’”

“So?” I say. “You’re allowed to change your mind, aren’t you?”

“Not with Marcus. When I said that I was sure, he said that we were done, final, finished, and that I could never come back. That he would never speak to me again.”

“Come here,” I say, jumping down from the sink. I pull Vanessa up from the toilet seat and give her a big hug. “It’s okay,” I say, stroking her hair.

Vanessa takes a deep breath in and out and I keep holding her tight. I’ve been with her through other nights crying over Marcus, and I know that after the deep breaths, she’ll start to feel better. We hold each other tight and I stroke her hair.

“I love you, Vanessa,” I say, and, as I say it, I feel her hug me back.

“I love you, too,” she says, and I feel someone’s eyes on us. I look up and see that someone’s opened the door to the bathroom by accident.

My future mother-in-law.

“Hi, girls,” Jack’s mother, Joan, says.

“Hi,” we say in unison, our faces still pressed cheek to cheek, arms still intertwined. I have a feeling that I should let Vanessa go, that my future mother-in-law is probably wondering exactly what it is that I’m doing with my maid of honor cooped up in the bathroom with her, embracing her, on the night of my bachelorette party, but the bathroom is so cramped that there’s actually no way for me to break away from the hug.

“This probably looks odd,” I say.

“It actually reminds me of my own bachelorette party,” she says, and I have no idea if she’s joking or serious. Since there’s no room for Vanessa and I to turn and face each other and make the requisite “I’m confused, are you?” face, we sort of hop out of the bathroom together and drop our arms. Joan walks into the bathroom without another word.

“Let’s do more shots,” Vanessa says, grabbing my hand.

Vanessa and I walk out to the bar and plant ourselves down on two stools. I melt into my bar stool, feeling like I’ll never get back up. Vanessa is already halfway slouched over the bar, and dangling her feet from the bar stool like a little girl whose chair is too high for her. The bartender pulls out two oversized shot glasses without our even having to say a thing, and fills them with shots of Southern Comfort.

“Do I look so bad that he actually knew that I wanted hard alcohol?” Vanessa asks, holding her head up with her arm.

“No,” I say, “you look gorgeous. He’s probably just getting you drunk so that he can take advantage of you later. Now drink!”

“Three, two, one,” Vanessa calls out and we down our shots. We both bring our shot glasses back down onto the bar with a slam.

“Ready for another?” the bartender asks, waving the bottle around in front of our faces.

“Yes, please,” Vanessa says, sticking her glass out. I hold onto my glass as I try to figure out if I’m too drunk to have another shot.

“He’s cute,” Vanessa whispers, pointing to the bartender.

The bartender overhears her and winks at her. I can’t help but laugh. Thinking other guys are cute—the first step in the healing process of a breakup. Vanessa just may be all right, after all.

“Well, I am fixin’ to get me a drink!” Miranda says as she sidles up to the bar.

“Just as long as she’s not fixin’ to steal my man from me,” I say to Vanessa. Vanessa laughs quietly into her shot glass.

“Brooke, you’re so funny,” Miranda says, turning around to me. I’m surprised that she’s answered me, since I thought I’d whispered that to Vanessa, but whenever you’re drinking, you tend to think you’re whispering when you’re actually screaming, so I let it slide. “As if Jack isn’t head-over-heels crazy for you, bless his heart! You are one lucky gal.”

“I’m very lucky,” I say, and I wonder if I’m beginning to slur my words.

“And I just think it’s so cute how y’all are flirting with each other by serving each other legal documents,” she says, picking up her drink from the bar and taking a sip. “It is just too sweet.”

“Well,” I say, downing another shot of Southern Comfort, “it was funny at the beginning.” Miranda smiles at me and takes a sip of her drink. Then, lowering my voice to a whisper: “Truth be told, it’s kind of getting a little annoying now.”

After I’ve said it, I suddenly realize how drunk I’m getting. Why on earth was I confiding in the one person here who I dislike and distrust the most? I motion for the bartender and order myself a glass of ice water. Vanessa frowns at me and orders herself another shot.

“I’m sorry to hear you say that, Brooke,” Miranda says, “I had no idea. I never would have suggested to Jack that he serve you with Interrogatories at your bridal shower if I’d known that you didn’t think it was funny anymore.”

Stop the presses. Stop. The. Presses.

Miranda
told Jack to serve me with Interrogatories at my bridal shower? That was all her idea? I’m not sure which I’m more upset about—the fact that Miranda suggested it, or that Jack actually followed through with the idea that she suggested.

I grab at the cocktail napkin that’s underneath my ice water and tear it into two pieces. And then into four.

“That was your idea?” I ask, trying to articulate my words, an act that is becoming increasingly more difficult with each passing second.

“Yes,” Miranda says, laughing, “we didn’t even really have anything to ask you—I mean, it’s a simple business transaction, right? But Jack and I thought it would be funny, so we served you. He didn’t think you’d actually take them seriously. We were shocked when we got your responses.”

Jack and I.
She just said
Jack and I.
As if they’re a team or something. Or friends.

Or more. I tear the napkin into eight pieces.

“Jack and I?” I say, eyes narrowing. Her face begins to blur as I squint my eyes until I can’t really see her at all.

“Yeah,” she says. “I’m his junior associate, right? Now that you’re gone, I’m the junior associate working on all of his cases with him.”

I tear the napkin pieces again and again, until they can’t be torn in half anymore.

“Oh, I’m sure you’re working it,” Vanessa says, laughing from the bottom of her throat. She leans into me and puts her chin on my shoulder so that we are both staring directly at Miranda.

“What?” Miranda says. “Am I missing something here? Is there some joke I’m not in on?”

“Oh, so now you think I’m a joke?” I ask and I can feel Vanessa nodding, her chin bumping into my shoulder.

“What are y’all talking about?” Miranda asks, laughing nervously.

“Are you sleeping with him?” I say, eyes narrowing into tiny slits.

“With who?” Miranda asks.

“Wow,” Vanessa says quietly, falling back onto her own bar stool. “She’s sleeping with so many of them she can’t even keep track.”

“Jack!” I yell at Miranda. “Whaddya mean
who?
Don’t play coy
now.
It’s a bit too late for that, don’t you think?”