“My brother’s bachelor party.”
“Oh.” His heart fell with a nearly audible thud.
She laughed. “I feel the same way, but he’s my brother. The bus will pick you up around six.” A bus? “Dinner first, then whatever else Austin has planned. The words mini-golf were mentioned, so maybe it won’t be all bad. See you then.” With that, she gave him a quick smile, grabbed her backpack, and left. He heard the garage door open, then close, saw the flash of her headlights cross his living room wall, and let the quiet settle around him.
A night in his lovely home. Alone. And while that had always been something he looked forward to—cherished, even—it felt a little empty. Hollow.
Maybe he should get a dog.
Why had he agreed to this particular circle of hell? Lorenzo asked himself as the bus lurched around a corner. There were so many people on this bus—himself, Winnie, Dante, the elderly Mr. Smith, Grady, who was married to the bookstore sister, Robbie himself, and the bride’s father, Victor Wolfe, an entertainment attorney. Then there were half a dozen man-children who whooped and yelled and chugged. Victor Wolfe had become their god for the night, as he told stories of celebrities behaving badly and was paying for the entire night.
It hadn’t started out awful…dinner at the Chatham Cut, an excellent steakhouse. He sat between Winnie’s grandfather and Rosie’s father. Robert Smith, whom everyone else called Grandpop, was charming, slightly hard of hearing, and wore a well-tailored suit. If Winnie had told either her grandfather or brother, he’d slept with her, they didn’t seem to hold it against him. Victor Wolfe, in his mid-sixties, was urbane and charming, clapping Lorenzo on the back and asking him to pick out the wine. “Make it top-drawer,” he said. “Even if it’s wasted on some of these infants.” Lorenzo did enjoy that part—like himself, Victor believed alcohol should be excellent and consumed responsibly. The sommelier loved their party for that, and also loved the man-children, who drank less responsibly and had no problem saying, “What do you think, Vic? Another bottle?” to which Victor would respond, “Your livers won’t thank you, but go ahead, boys.”
Lorenzo indulged in one glass of Tenuta Casanova di Neri Cerretalto 2016 (blackberry and plum, dried cherry, tobacco, limestone, graphite and soil). He ordered chicken Milanese, since he’d already had red meat that month, and listened to Grandpop debate whether or not he should pop the question to his own significant other.
“While she is quite lovely, I don’t fancy changing domiciles,” he told Lorenzo. “Why, I might get lost in a new place! Or wander into someone else’s yard. I can do that in Wellfleet. They all know me. The other day, in fact, I wandered over to the school during recess! My great-granddaughter was there, and believe it or not, the child didn’t know how to double Dutch. Happily, I still do! Granted, my knee gave out, and I collapsed in a heap, but the little children were very kind, and of course I knew the first responder, and we ended up going out for lunch rather than the hospital.”
Lorenzo was grateful for the old man’s meandering tales. All he had to do was nod and make humming noises. Across the table, he watched as Austin, the head man-child, put his arm around Winnie’s shoulders and brayed with laughter. Winnie, he noted, smiled.
He should not have found that irritating.
When they were done, Lorenzo was instructed to get back into the rented van, the garish, embarrassing kind with neon lights and loud, awful music. Worse, everyone was singing about bringing sexy back. Even Grandpop. Lorenzo felt hives forming on his neck. Would it be too rude to put his hands over his ears? Or to feign illness?
They were dropped off at a mini-golf course, broke into smaller groups and hit the balls through giant rabbit legs and under a windmill. It was fine. Lorenzo employed a little calculus and won within his group (the one that didn’t have Winnie in it). Then it was into the arcade, the likes of which Lorenzo hadn’t been in since he was roughly ten years old. More whooping and loud music and celebrating that Ms. Pac-Man had defeated her foes.
“Last stop is the best stop!” Austin bellowed as they once again got into the party van. “Glitter Grotto, here we come!” Many cheers ensued.
Oh, God. Not a craft place. He’d heard about those wine-and-paint places. Glitter? He’d have to strip down in the garage to ensure none got back into the house.
“Don’t even think about abandoning me, brother,” Dante said. “I need you to fight off the women for me.” Yes. He imagined the Glitter Grotto attracted more women than men. His sisters would probably like a craft night. Maybe he’d get them a gift card.
Unfortunately, the Glitter Grotto was not a craft shop. It was a strip club, he learned as they pulled into the parking lot. A neon sign showed a woman wrapped around a pole.
Lorenzo lurched to a stop. “I’ll call an Uber,” he said to no one in particular, and turned to go.
“You are not leaving me alone with a bunch of nearly naked women,” Dante said with a grin. “You know they’ll come for me.”
“Who could blame them?” said Winnie, looping her arm through Dante’s.
“That’s why you’re my favorite sister-in-law,” Dante said. “Don’t tell the others.”
“Are you kidding?” she said. “I’m texting them right now. Come on, Lorenzo, you can’t bail now. If I can take it, so can you.”
With a sigh, he followed. He could be home, working on the proposal for a self-sealing suture that would protect against leaks or micro-perforations in vascular repair. Instead, he was here, where watered-down cocktails, loud music, and soft pornography abounded.
Lorenzo obviously loved the female form; he was straight, he was a physician, he appreciated the aesthetic beauty of women. He just didn’t want to see them sliding around on a pole of dubious cleanliness, or popping their asses in his face, or doing slow, painful-looking splits in their eight-inch heels.
If he wanted to think about naked women, he’d rather just picture Winnie in that big bed in San Francisco.
But ten minutes later, he was sitting at a bar he’d just swabbed down with an alcohol wipe (he always had two or three in his wallet), nursing a bottle of Sierra Nevada Pale Ale (twist-off cap, so the bartender hadn’t touched it).
“She’s very graceful,” said Grandpop, who was sitting to Lorenzo’s left. “I wonder if she studied ballet. Young lady, are you perhaps a ballerina for your day job?”
“Ahn’t you a dahlin’,” said the woman in a thick Worcester accent. “Nope! I’m just naturally limbah.”
“Well, here is twenty dollars for you, my dear. Congratulations on your many gifts!”
She bent down to kiss him on the cheek, and Lorenzo leaned as far away as humanly possible to avoid contact with her shoulder (or any other part). “Robert, I think I’ll, um, check on Robbie,” Lorenzo said.
