“Not anymore,” Chip said through his teeth, lifting the glass in his other hand. “This is water.”
“Since when?”
“Since my wife sat me down and told me if I didn’t get my shit together, she would be more than happy to ruin my life.”
“Damn right,” Maggie said drily.
Carver glanced between them in surprise. “When was this?”
“Last year,” Chip said, sipping his water.
“Okay, so you can’t get drunk at weddings anymore, what does that have to do with me?”
Conway leaned over and broke in: “Carv, why don’t you have a canape instead? The ones with salmon are really good.”
Carver’s claustrophobia was returning. He was haunted by the sound of Scott somewhere behind him playing an instrumental version of I Got You Babe while he looked out at his wife, a person to whom this song was so unrelatable as to be rendered incomprehensible.
“My tolerance is stronger than you guys think,” he said. As soon as this was out he realized it was the wrong thing to say, and Chip gave him one of those annoying ‘I’m-convinced-you-have-a-problem-because-I-have-a-problem’ looks. “Okay, I don’t need to be handled,” he spluttered.
“We’re nothandlingyou,” Conway said with an amused eyeroll. A waiter came by with canapes, and she halted him with a Nora-like hand gesture so she could pile several onto a napkin and offer them to Carver.
Carver accepted the napkin and put one in his mouth. He wasn’t hungry at all, and chewing was laborious, but it did taste good.
Conway correctly read his face and said, “Right?”
He swallowed. “Youarehandling me.”
“Stop fucking needing to be handled, then,” Chip muttered. “Jesus.”
“Weddings can be stressful,” Conway said. “For a… multitude of reasons.”
Carver wondered what she was implying. She worked for a marketing firm in White Plains, and like their parents she was a whiz with weaselly language.
“Still not a good enough reason to make someone else’s wedding about you,” Chip said.
“I’m not making anything about me,” Carver snapped. “And I’m notstressed, why would I be?”
Chip peered over his sunglasses to give him a look of disbelief, then leaned behind him and mouthed something to Conway. Carver tried to karate chop him in the nuts, but he dodged this.
“It’s getting a little warm out here,” Maggie said, taking off her gauzy royal blue shawl and laying it across her freckled forearm. Her impressive breasts were on grand display in the gown she was wearing. “What time is it, hon?”
“Time to get a watch,” Chip said, and she elbowed him. “It’s like, 4:40.”
“Ugh,” Maggie said.
Lillian came over to them, her hair bouncing. Chip greeted her warmly, and Carver had the strong urge to tell him that Lillian thought he was a yokel and laughed when he got hit in the face.
She sidled up next to Carver and squeezed his bicep. “Marcus just texted me, you’re going to have to hop on a quick call in a bit.”
“When’s a bit?” Carver said.
“He said in the next two hours, but they opened a bottle of scotch, so probably longer.”
He nodded and tried to force himself to care, but his mind slid right back off the issue like it was coated in Teflon. “Right. Okay.”
Lillian squeezed his bicep again. “Flex?” Carver flexed. “Nice.”
“You never ask me to flex anymore,” Chip said to Maggie.
