Out front with an old friend. Be there in two.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Present
“This is not how I saw this playing out,” Quinn admits, eyebrows knit, shifting uncomfortably from heel to heel.
Mustering up some enthusiasm after my beatdown, Thomas extends his hand for a hearty introduction to Quinn’s friend and asks, “Quinn, are you finally dating someone?”
Quinn and I both yelp, “No!”
“Happy New Year, Cal-lee.” Not taking his eyes off me, Porter dips his head with a provocative smile. “You are one hard woman to get ahold of.” I choke down my awe at how handsome Porter is in a traditional tux, right down to his shined dress shoes. His cuff links, sterling silver mini tigers, catch my eye.
“You certainly know how to keep surprising a girl,” I return with a sly smile.
“I hate to interrupt whatever this is, but Callie and I were in the middle of something,” Thomas cuts in.
“No, we were at the end of it,” I correct Thomas, so there is no mistaking who I am done talking to.
“Can you excuse us for a minute,” I tell more than ask both Porter and Thomas, and grab Quinn by her bare upper arm to pull her over toa potted ficus plant. Behind our backs, I hear Porter introduce himself to Thomas. Thomas then turns to the bartender to order himself another drink after he quickly puts two and two together.
As hard as Thomas tried, when we were dating, there was very little he could do to break through the wall of acquaintanceship to create a real friendship with Charles. Thomas would scenario-play how he could get Charles to bring him into his fold of friends, an amalgamation of Princeton classmates and work colleagues. Securing Yankees tickets, Knicks tickets, Pearl Jam at Madison Square Garden—it didn’t matter. Charles kept Thomas at arm’s length for the single reason we all knew but never said: Thomas was not Porter.
“Quinn, do you want to explain to me exactly what your plan was when you invited Porter to Alice’s wedding after you invited Thomas? In what universe does any of this make sense?”
“Let’s keep in mind it was Alice who invited Thomas to her wedding, not me.”
“Irrelevant,” I counter.
“You have to admit, I just delivered some good writing material for you. Elizabeth and Leslie will love it.”
“True, but also not relevant.”
“Fine. But I want it noted: Don’t blame me that both Thomas and Porter are standing twenty feet away from us.” Quinn quickly turns her head to catch a glimpse of the two, legs spread, hands gripping drinks, standing stiff as statues.
“Ehh,” I eke out. “Then who or what is to blame, because I want names,” I demand, not budging an inch on Quinn’s discombobulation of what could have been a lovely night for me celebrating young love and fresh starts. It seems I’m the only one who understood the assignment: Today was supposed to be all about Alice and Jack.
“Menopause.”
“Menopause, what?”
“Menopause is to blame. Memory loss is a real symptom, Callie. Don’t ask me what I had for breakfast. And check WebMD. Along with allthe other world-rocking shit we deal with on a daily basis, memory?Gone.Also, have you noticed how thin my hair has gotten? This bun is fake!”
“Quinn!”
“Right.” Quinn releases the grip on her bun. “My hair is also not the point right now. What can I say? When you told me you had dinner with Porter and then you let me listen to one of his voicemails, I was left to deal with all the feels from college in the middle of the night, between overheating and having to pee,” Quinn whines like a preteen attempting to circumvent a sound grounding. “Just hearing Porter’s voice, all the memories I repressed with Charles gone and you across the country came flooding back. And you of all people know when I don’t sleep, I make poor choices. So yesterday morning after your run, I snuck your phone off the dresser when you were in the shower, and I called Porter and told him to get on a plane immediately and come to New York to get his girl. I want the two most important women in my life to have happily ever afters. If not me, why not you?”
Beads of sweat are forming at Quinn’s hairline, and the last thing we need is for the mother of the bride to go into a full-on meltdown. Literally. I dab her forehead with my cocktail napkin and take my voice down a few octaves from hysteria to humble. “Quinn. How many times do I have to tell you to stop rewatching the final season ofSex in the City? I am not Carrie Bradshaw, and there is no such thing as a Hollywood ending.”
“I can see that now.” Quinn jerks her thumb in the direction of Thomas and Porter. “I admit this all may have been a little irrational.”
“It didn’t cross your mind that it would make for a terrible party atmosphere to have both my exes here, in the same room, with me?”
“Again, to be fair to me, that’s where the memory loss comes in. I really wanted to get Porter here. I didn’t think about Thomas until I saw him in the church, and by then it was too late. Porter was already in town.”
“So what’s the plan, then, Quinn? What am I supposed to do?”
Quinn shrugs with a Don’t-shoot-the-messenger grimace. “I have no idea. I didn’t think past getting Alice down the aisle and Porter to the reception. The rest is up to you.”
