On the Rocks (11 page)

“It’s time to play the question game!” the maid of honor sang as the rest of the girls clapped and oohed and aahed. The maid of honor turned to the bride, sitting on her throne at the head of the table, her blinking, battery-operated tiara lights making her look like a malfunctioning Christmas tree ornament. “We emailed Connor a bunch of questions about you, and I have the answers right here!” she said as she waved a sheet of paper in the air. “Every time you answer a question wrong, you have to drink!”

Everyone oohed and aahed and clapped again, like drinking was some kind of exotic punishment that no one had ever heard of. The maid of honor, being the head bridal groupie, was ready to begin. So was I. I had a full beer, I was good for a while.

“What did you do on your first date?” she asked, saying every word slowly, lest one of the monosyllabic words confuse the contestant. Wow. Scandalous stuff.

“We went for pizza and a movie, and then he walked me home to my apartment and kissed me on the sidewalk. I knew right there that we’d be together forever,” the bride gushed, proud of herself for knowing her own personal history so well.

Bullshit.
I thought.
You probably got drunk and don’t even remember going home. Then you sat by the phone for two days wondering if he was going to call you and you know it.

“Okay, that one was too easy!” the maid of honor said as she handed the paper to the girl sitting to her right. “Where’s the strangest place you’ve ever had sex?” girl number two, a non-T-shirt-wearing member of the wedding party, asked.

“The Dumpster behind my parents’ house in Florida,” the bride said without hesitation.

What?
I thought as I choked on my beer, spattering foam onto my dress.
Seriously?

“No,” the girl replied, stifling a giggle.

“The parking lot of the ferry in Hyannis?” the bride guessed again.

“No,” the questioner shrieked, the girls at the table laughing so hard it was a wonder one of them didn’t fall off her chair.

How are you getting these wrong? And why aren’t you hooking up indoors?

“The swing set in my neighbor’s backyard?”

“No!” the girl yelled as the table erupted into laughter. “Drink!”

Oh God. I’m more out of my league than I thought. Apparently people didn’t even have sex inside anymore. When did that happen?

The printout was passed to the next girl, who was drinking a margarita through a straw like it was last call in a women’s prison, but my spy session was interrupted when I heard the screech of metal chair legs on pavement as the chair next to me was pulled out. “Hey,” an amazingly stoned guy said as he sat down and began making conversation with me as if we were old friends. Which was interesting, since I had never seen him before in my life and was pretty sure that he was seeing three of me at once.

“Hey, yourself,” I said as I turned my attention back to the bridal party and tried to hear the next question.

“How are you?” he asked, his eyes darting from side to side as if he was afraid someone was going to jump out from behind the potted plant and murder him. You know, because that happens all the time.

“I think you have me confused with someone else,” I said politely. I know I said I’d be open to meeting new people, but maybe I should’ve stipulated that that didn’t include guys who were very clearly drugged out of their minds.

“Oh, no, I know. I was wondering, do you happen to have any blow?” he asked in a hoarse whisper.

“Huh?”

“Blow. Cocaine. Do you have any?” he repeated.

I wasn’t a drug user, dealer, or connoisseur of any kind, but I knew enough to know that this guy didn’t have a clue what he was doing. I looked down at my white halter sundress and flip-flops and wondered if eyelet was now some kind of signal to the narcotics-using underground that you were a drug mule. If so, someone needed to alert J. Crew immediately, because I really don’t think that was what they were going for when they put out their spring line.

“Dude, don’t worry. I’m not a cop. I swear. It’s my buddy’s bachelor party, and he wants to get high,” he said, as if that explanation somehow made his question more normal.

“I can’t help you,” I said as I stood to leave. He stood and attempted to walk with me, reaching out to grab my forearm before I had a chance to pull away.

“You have two seconds to let go of my arm before I scream,” I hissed. This night was not going the way I wanted it to.

“Sorry, sorry. Seriously, I’m not a cop.”

“That’s great. And I’m seriously not a veterinarian, and now that we’re both aware of what we’re not, this conversation is over. And in case you were wondering, I won’t have any coke, crack, or crystal meth on me when I get back either, so you should find someone else to buy drugs from.”

“Okay, yeah, but seriously, it’s just my buddy, it’s his . . .”

“Yeah, I know. It’s your buddy’s bachelor party, so he wants to do cocaine. I don’t know what getting married has to do with your friend wanting to snort drugs up his nose, but hey, whatever floats your boat. Now move.”

I pushed him out of the way and took a deep breath before diving into the mosh pit that occupied the space between me and the ladies’ room on the other side of the bar. I waited on line in the hallway behind a few of the members of yet another bachelorette party and various other women who, like me, didn’t care that anyone was getting married. The only thing we cared about was that there were only three stalls and thirty women waiting to get into the ladies’ room.

As I washed my hands I looked in the mirror to see exactly how much mascara had melted onto my face since leaving the house, when yet another bride-to-be exited a stall. She smoothed her T-shirt, readjusted her sash, and finger-combed her hair. Whoever had glued on her fake eyelashes didn’t have a steady hand. They were crooked and made her look like a psychotic drag queen. Oddly enough, it was obvious that she thought people were staring at her in awe or envy, but I knew that no one felt like pointing out that it looked like someone had glued shoe tassels to her eyelids. (We nonbrides were entitled to a little fun too.)

As her maid of honor approached her the bride proceeded to scream loudly enough to blow out my eardrum and scare another unsuspecting woman into dropping her purse on the sludge-covered floor.

“I’m getting married!” she yelled as they grasped hands and jumped up and down. I guess she figured she should make that announcement just in case her friend was confused as to why she was wearing a maid of honor T-shirt and a glow-in-the-dark dick necklace.

“I know!” (See, I knew she’d figure it out.) “In just a few weeks you’re going to be Mrs. Joseph DiLuca.”

“I’m so excited! I mean, I really love him, you know?” she said slowly, like she was trying to explain nuclear fission to her friend. “I do, I mean, when you know, you just like,
know.
”

“You guys make the best couple, you really do,” the friend gushed as she dabbed her lips with more gluelike gloss.

“Did you see that cute guy in the corner of the dance floor wearing the jeans and the royal blue shirt?” the bride asked as she gently elbowed her friend in the ribs.

“Yeah. He’s a total smoke show.”

“I’m going to ask him to dance with me. I saw him looking at me before, and it’s my bachelorette party, I’m allowed to have a little fun.”

“Oh totally, the actual wedding ring isn’t on your finger yet! Your bachelorette party is a get-out-of-jail-free weekend, everyone knows that.” The friend smoothed her shirt and winked.

I smoothed my dress and gagged.

“You’re the best friend ever,” the bride said as she hugged her friend to say thank-you for giving her permission to cheat on her fiancé. It was a good thing that they didn’t think that a bachelorette weekend meant you were free from all rules and regulations or they probably would have knocked over liquor stores and wreaked havoc on the great state of Rhode Island like a real live Thelma and Louise. I wondered how their “but everyone knows you can do whatever you want without repercussions as long as you’re wearing a bride sash” defense would go over in court.

It’d probably depend on how many married women were on the jury.

The bride pulled out of her friend’s drunken grasp and began to sing “Going to the Chapel” as she spun and twirled and knocked unsuspecting women into the walls. She spun again, but this time she tripped, flew forward, and smacked her head on the mirror over the sink. She screamed as she grabbed her head on impact. For a second, I was worried she’d cut her head or given herself a mild concussion.

“Oh my God, did I break my tiara?” she asked her friend in horror, as if there was no fate worse than being forced to suffer through the rest of the night without her bridal tiara.

Well, that answered that. This chick’s mental malfunction clearly started long before she head-butted a mirror.

“No, Missy, it’s totally fine, don’t worry.”

“Thank God, my whole night would have been ruined!”

She straightened her headpiece, and then, without batting a tarantula-esque eyelash, proceeded to projectile-vomit all over the floor, her platform espadrilles, and her mint green pedicure.

That Joey DiLuca is one lucky guy,
I thought as I exited the ladies’ room and left the girl who no longer felt so lucky to be wearing that maid of honor T-shirt to clean up after the bride.

I wove in and out of the drunken people grinding each other on the dance floor, the guys looking to prey on any girl who had had one too many John Dalys, and the guys in the bachelor party who for some reason equated their drunkenness with how many buttons on their shirts they should undo, and ran for the street. I was about to hit the sidewalk when I heard Bobby call after me. “Where are you going? You can’t leave yet. You promised to talk to five people!” He caught up to me at the door.

“I did,” I lied. “I talked to lots of people. I just didn’t like any of them, and I didn’t want them to buy me a drink. I’ve had enough.”

“You talked to the two bouncers at the door, the bartender, and the gay guy who told you he liked your earrings. For the record, he wasn’t all that into you.”

“Shows how much you know,” I said smugly. “I also talked quite a bit to a cracked-out dude who thought I was a coke dealer. So there.”

“I’m sorry, what?” Bobby asked, unable to hide his amusement.

“I’ll tell you about it tomorrow. I’m going home. Have fun.”

I hit the sidewalk and walked away quickly, afraid that Bobby would chase after me and try to pressure me into staying. I crawled into bed twenty minutes later without bothering to wash the makeup off my face, trying to not let my first night out ruin my optimism about the dating project and my hope for a summer of personal growth. The bitch of it was, someone, somewhere, who incidentally was about to be cheated on, thought that that girl in the ladies’ room was marriage material, a girl worth spending the rest of his life with. I tried very hard not to focus on the fact that if this night was any indication, the only thing anyone thought I was good for was an eight ball of cocaine.

Chapter 8

Leave It to Me to Stump
Webster’s

T
UESDAY MORNING,
at the beginning of my first official week in Newport, I worked up my courage and walked into the store with the H
ELP
W
ANTED
sign in its window. Grace had gone back to the city for the workweek, and I was feeling at loose ends. It was time to get my life back in gear. I stood outside for a few minutes watching ladies enter and roam around the store, buying candles and straw handbags and other essential summer items. After about ten minutes of standing on the sidewalk, I pushed open the screen door and entered the store. I was immediately overcome by the smells of scented beach candles and potpourri. I wanted this job badly. I felt like somehow it was so much more than a job. It was the fresh start that I desperately needed.

I walked up to the register, sidestepping a wicker basket overflowing with striped throw blankets. I smiled at the woman sitting behind the counter, flipping through papers in a navy blue folder. She was classically pretty, with long blond hair and deep blue eyes. She was wearing khaki shorts that all but hung from her thin frame, a loose white T-shirt, and canvas sandals.

“Hi,” I tried to say, but my voice caught in my chest. I cleared my throat and tried to speak clearly. “My name’s Abby, and I’m here about the H
ELP
W
ANTED
sign,” I said nervously. I hadn’t applied for a job in a very long time. I forgot how much I hated it.

“Oh hi,” the slight woman behind the register said as she extended her hand to greet me. “I’m the owner, Lara Richards. Nice to meet you.”

Lara Richards?
I stared at her a second longer than I should have, trying to figure out if she was the person I thought she was.

“I’m sorry, this is going to sound crazy, but did you go to Milton Academy?” I asked. She was understandably taken aback by a reference to high school. We were in our thirties now. At some point you don’t want to be recognized for who you were fifteen years ago.

“I did. I’m sorry, do we know each other?” she asked curiously.

To say we knew each other would be a stretch. Lara was the most popular girl in our high school. She was the head cheerleader, in the National Honor Society, and drove a super-cool red Saab. She was one of those annoyingly fit, blond, and naturally jovial girls who might as well have jumped off the pages of a Sweet Valley High book. She was three years older than I was in school, so I admired her from afar—and by “admire” I mean I was so insanely jealous of her that I couldn’t even bring myself to be in the same room with her. Which was a good thing for me, because for all of high school she pretended that the underclassmen didn’t exist. So no, the short answer to her question was, she didn’t know me.

“Not really, sorry, I don’t mean to sound creepy. I went to Milton too. I was a few years younger than you were, but I recognized your name. I’m Abby Wilkes.”