I reach for the cream envelope with the coffee stains and open it with a pop. I am covered in pink glitter. Great. I attemptto pluck the glitter shrapnel off my clean wet hair. It’s useless. Motherfucker. I dust the invite off and skim-read it.
“Saturday the twenty-fourth?” I say, handing the invite to Em to read. That’s in four weeks.
What sort of wedding gift does one buy their dad who explained that the reason he constantly cheated on their mom was because love is unrealistic and who is now throwing what appears to be, based on the thickness of the paper stock for the invite, a very expensive wedding to proclaim that, in fact, love isn’t a sham anymore, anyway? A SodaStream?
“Want to talk about it?”
What’s there to talk about? My chemistry is glitching with Xander. Dad is getting married. The system’s breaking down. The only thing holding my rules together right now is the image of the billboard on the 101 of Mom’s show going number one across fourteen countries.
And so, I settle for saying, “It’s a bit rich expecting us to celebrate when he’s settingKeeleyup to be ex-wife number two.” I practically shrug as I take another long sip. The subtext:There’s nothing to talk about.“I am, however, declaring today a total write-off.” We were planning on venturing to the beach to cool down. My air conditioner coupled with the giant bottle of Tito’s that lives in the freezer permanently is a perfect substitute.
“Happy hour on the hour?” Em says, not missing a beat.
“Exactly,” I say.
And before we know it, we’ve quit the tomato juice, which to be honest was just slowing us down and sitting heavy in our stomachs, in favor of straight vodka shots.
“SWIPE RIGHT!” Em shrieks from on top of the coffee table. I’ve swapped fulfilling my fifteen-year-old Coyote Ugly dreams for the sofa, leaving Em to solo on the karaoke machine she got me for Christmas when we first got our teaching jobs and knew we’d landed the jackpot of getting paid to party all summer long. Is it old? Yes. Do we only have one CD remaining that isn’t scratched? Also yes.
I’m holding my phone out for her approval. On screen is Morgan 2.0. “He’s wearing a fedora! A V-neck T-shirt! It’s a gym selfie! He’s perfect!” A smile spreads across my face while Em attempts to fight the moonlight. And can’t.
My thumb hovers over the image, ready to swipe right when I remember Xander.
Xander, who I promised I would not spend my days “boning it.” Xander, who I’ll be seeing in two hours. Fucking Xander.
I take a screenshot of Morgan 2.0 and open my messages to Xander.
I attach the photo and type out a message:This is who I’m declining for you.
Send.
I throw my phone across the sofa. And right when I think LeAnn Rimes is done, the song starts up again. I look up at Em, who casts out a fishing rod and reels me in. With this much vodka running through my veins—I can’t help but oblige. I take Em’s hand and she helps me up on the table.
She hands me the only working mic, like she’s handing over the reins to the show. Considering she’s the self-proclaimed thespian in this duo, I am honored, and so I prowl around on the coffee table like I’ve just arrived in New York to pursue our dreams of becoming songwriters while working for tips. And I too, cannot fight the moonlight, no matter how hard I try.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see my phone lighting up and I immediately know it’s Xander. He replied. I know it’s going to be a master class in dry humor. Instead of dreading it, I feel every inch of skin prickle with anticipation.
Em must track my smile back to my phone because after she hands me one of the two shots of vodka, she walks over to the discarded phone to see what’s distracted me mid-performance. “You know who you should swipe right on?” I know the answer before she says it. “XANDER!”
She raises her shot glass up at me from across the living room, beaming. I hold mine up, saluting her. And damn it, I find myself smiling back.
“You!” I say/shout/slur in Xander’s general direction, pointing/waving/swaying. Oh, she’s drunk, all right. I’m momentarily distracted by the Uber driver who floors the engine in reverse, grinds the clutch, and kicks up dust as he leaves the parking lot. Was he not happy with me serenading him at the top of my lungs? Blame Em, passing her panache onto me via vodka shots. I blink a few times before my eyes land back on Xander, standing by his car. He’s got that dumbass smirk plastered across his face.
He holds up his phone, arm outstretched, the screen displayed for me to see. Yeah, like I can read that from nine yards away. I begin dragging my feet toward him, slinging my bag over my shoulder and forgetting that there’s a rogue bottle of wine in there (oh yay, wine … tonight is already looking up). That’s how I end up stumbling the last few steps. That’s how I end up officially entering Xander’s personal space. The unexpected close contact makes me breathe in sharply and definitely not gasp in his presence.
“Hutchinson?” he says, smirk ever present.
“Miller?” I say, mimicking his tone, although I’m currently not a good judge of whether I pulled it off. The ever-growing smirk on his face tells me I did not.
“You good?” His smile unable to smile anymore, for he is wearing his biggest smile. And so he raises his eyebrows at me.
“Good?” I say, scoffing. “I’m fuckin’ gre—” I smoosh my words a little too close together to get away with it. “Great. With a T,” I say. Smooth. Nice recovery.
He studies me, so I hold his gaze, which is infinitely easier when your reflexes have slowed significantly over the last few hours.
Then, he tilts his head at his phone, waiting for an explanation. I reach out and grab his phone. He lets me take it, so I bring it right to my face to read whatever is sooooo important to him.
The messages from me.
