“Ithinkthey’re the people who own that pomegranate juice company,” Ben says, sotto voce, when the couple we’ve beenchatting with drift away. “I didn’t know pomegranate juice tycoons existed, did you?”
“The world is full of surprises,” I say.
“Well, the hospital is naming a building after them.” He slips a hand into his pocket and looks around. “So I guess pomegranates can get youdonate enough for your own building–type money.”
Ben all-caps texted me this morningHELP I NEED A PLUS-ONE TO A DONOR EVENT TONIGHT AND AMY CAN’T MAKE IT, and because I’m an incredible friend, and also like free wine, I agreed to come. I think these things make him kind of nervous, and he feels better if I’m there to talk to. My hair usually gets some looks from the fairly old, fairly conservative attendees, but Ben will have to deal with that.
“By the way, I’m supposed to ask what you’re wearing to your dad’s wedding,” he says.
“A dress, probably.”
“Whatcolordress?” he huffs, as if this is the question he asked the first time. Which it isn’t.
“I don’t know. It’s, like, six weeks away. Why—are you afraid I’m going to embarrass you by showing up in cutoffs and a tube top?”
“Why would that embarrassme?”
“Aren’t you my date, sort of?” I point out.
“Oh, then I’d disavow you in a heartbeat,” he says, grinning. “Everyone would be like ‘Who’s the lady with her whole tramp stamp showing?’ and I would nothesitatebefore claiming not to know you.”
“Fuckyou, it’s not a tramp stamp, it’s in the middle of my back,” I say, and Ben immediately straightens and sips his wine as two (classy-looking) people walk past. I turn my head away from them and pretend I didn’t just swear at him about a tramp stamp.
“Why do I take you anywhere?” he mutters.
“Because I’m charming and cute,” I say, and he rolls his eyes.
“Anyway. My mom has informed me that, as your sort-of date, my pocket square needs to match your outfit, so I need to know what color your outfit is.”
“We’re supposed tomatch? It’s my dad’s wedding, not prom.”
“Have you not been tooneformal event?”
“I’ve been to more formal events than you,” I say, which may or may not be true; I have no idea. “Sorry I haven’t memorized every rule about who wears what.”
Ben sighs as if the weight of the world has settled on his shoulders and not the simple need to wait a few weeks to buy a pocket square. “Just tell me when you decide so my mom doesn’t get on my case about the pictures,” he says.
“Is there anything else I’m supposed to know about bringing a date?” I ask, because I guess, technically, I’m bringing a date to my dad’s wedding, even if it’s just Ben. I can bring a date and still hang out with other people, right? Like, on the dance floor, or possibly off the dance floor?
Is it poor wedding form to bring a date even if you’re…involved…with another wedding guest? If we’re involved? If we’ve figured it out by then?
“Why areyouaskingme?” Ben asks, as if personally affronted.
“You knew about the pocket square thing!”
“I only knew that because my mom asked, so trust me, that’s all I know. Do I escort you? Are you in the wedding party?”
These are all excellent questions that I will definitely ask someone, any day now. “I don’t think so,” I tell him because, like, someone would have alerted me if I were a groomsman, right? Groomswoman? Groomsgal? Terrible, all of it. “But I think you get to sit in the front row during the ceremony.”
“Sweet, those are the best seats.”
“You took the day off, right?”
“Yes. Like three months ago already.” Ben, as a surgical resident, has tried to explain his schedule to me multiple times. I’ve never managed to remember it.
“Thanks for coming,” I say, because I really am glad he’ll be there.
Ben snorts, then puts an empty wineglass on the bar we’re standing next to. We’re off to one side of this fancy event space, and I think some of the others have started to leave. “Are you kidding? I love weddings, and I’m glad your dad’s happy, and I’m gonna have a great time watching you and your stepbrother avoid eye contact and pretend you’re normal and not fucking,” he says. “Or I’ll have a really awkward time watching you eye-fuck on the dance floor during your parents’ first dance.”
