Holly repeats a practiced “Welcome,” as I usher guests toward the colossal champagne tower and the impressive circular bar at the center of the ballroom, where a small battalion of bartenders is delivering from an extensive menu of signature cocktails, beer, wine, and more champagne.
The buffet is just as opulent, with carving stations for prime rib, tenderloin, and country ham, beside a massive shrimp topiary. The catering staff went all in on the Southern food theme, with a shrimp ’n’ grits bar, a biscuits ’n’ white gravy bar, a mac ’n’ cheese bar, heaps of fried chicken, and an iced raw bar that features dainty oyster shooters—pulled off the shell and served with cocktail sauce inside shot glasses, and paired (of course!) with those delicious buttery saltines.
Beyond the buffet, a Big Band is playing a high-energy, brass-heavy rendition of Earth, Wind & Fire’s “September” on a stage overlooking the dance floor. Holly has instructed the staff that,exactlyas the prop clock on the stage strikes midnight, they will break into Kool & The Gang’s “Celebration.” Confetti cannons will explode over the dancing crowd, and servers will carry out silver trays of Chick-fil-A mini sliders and glazed Krispy Kreme doughnuts dotted with vanilla ice cream—because this is what rich people like to snack on when they are “cutting loose.”
“Excuse me,” a honeyed voice in a Mississippi accent saysbehind me, “I was told you could get me some Domino’s pizza, KFC, and the always delicious Taco Bell.”
I snort with laughter, then turn to find a grinning Tripp Reynolds Bedford III—ever the Bubba in his Ricky Bobby fire suit, complete with Wonder Bread racing helmet, which he’s cradling in one arm.
“Would you like some Powerade Mystic Mountain Blueberry with that, sir?” I deadpan, making him smile wider.
“Dear sweet baby Jesus,” he mutters in a low whistle, running his hungry eyes down my costume and over my waistcoat, pausing at the name tag pinned on my chest. It readsMaría. Common. Forgettable. Invisible. His gaze drifts to the red silk scarf tied around my neck, then to my lips, painted the same color. We look into each other’s eyes, willing the senseless spectacle around us to disappear, willing Tripp and María to fade until it’s just us: Eli and Luisa.
“Hi,” Eli says simply, dropping the Ricky Bobby act.
“Hi.” I lean into this new unspoken language between us. It’s become our own form of code-switching, a language born over morning pancakes at the kitchen table with Pearl, randomI miss youtexts, spontaneousI just wanted to hear your voicecalls, whispered secrets spoken in the dark, after sex, and so many plans for the future—our future.
“There you are,” Virginia cries out, materializing by his side and snaking her arm around his. “You just disappeared on me.”
I almost don’t recognize her. Surprisingly, she’s gone all out on a matching Cal Naughton Jr. fire suit, dressed as Ricky’s best friend and racing partner. She’s even wearing Naughton’s thick mustache.
Two fratty guys dressed as the Dixon Brothers fromThe Walking Deadwander by with zombie dates. They give Tripp and Virginia a once-over and then call out, in unison, “Shake and Bake, baby.” Without missing a beat, Virginia and Tripp fist-bump. “Shake and Bake!” they call back.
Once again, I’m so conflicted about this woman. She seems goofy and kinda cool. It would have been easy to dismiss her if she’d chosen to dress as Ricky’s smokin’ hot wife. But no, she hadto be the wacky, fun teammate. Which begs the question:What message is she trying to send?
“What are you supposed to be?” she asks me, grabbing a mini crab cake from a passing waiter with her free hand, while inspecting my costume. “I like it.”
I’m rocking the Southern Gothic look, if I do say so myself—mid-calf boots, leather leggings, tight waistcoat over a lace shirt, stand-up collar coat, and wide-brim hat.
“Oh, wait,” she adds, eyes suddenly bright and wide. “I’ve got it! You’re Goth—”
“SouthernGothic,” I correct, brimming with fake politeness. “It’s a subtle commentary on the grotesque. Alienation and aberration.”
Tripp coughs out a laugh.
“Exposes the dark underbelly of the haut monde,” she adds, with perfect French enunciation. “Great for this setting.” Unable to produce a response, I stare, agog. Is she not-so-subtly critiquing her own world? “I took a class in college.” She shrugs. “Comp-lit major.”
As much as I loathe being the jealous type, I can’t help but feel a little defensive and territorial around her. She’s got beautyandbrains, as it turns out. How annoying is that?
I don’t realize that I’m staring until she asks, “Don’t we know each other?” She’s tilting her head to the side as if something about me doesn’t add up.
“It’s Luisa, right?” she exclaims in recognition. “Why are you dressed like the staff?”
“She works here,” Tripp says, gesturing to my name tag dismissively. “She justlookslike Luisa.”
“I guess we all look the same to you,” I mutter derisively, trying hard to throw her off my scent.
“That’s not… no… what I meant—” Virginia stammers, flustered. “Sorry, I thought—”
I tug at my silk scarf, rattled.
“Should we go find the judge?” Tripp jerks at her jacket, cutting her off. “I think he wanted to introduce me to some folks from out of town.” His eyes cut to the ballroom, inconspicuouslybacking away from her touch. “I’m thirsty,” he blurts out. “Let’s go get a drink, Magic Man,” he tells her, not waiting for an answer.
Tripp drags her to the bar before she can protest, ask any more questions, or offer commentary. But he does manage to turn back and give me a quick wink.
Reassured, I go in search of Holly. Justine directs me to a side room—nicknamed the nightclub—where a second, louder and more rowdy band plays for the younger crowd. It’s packed with people, but I find Holly talking to the sound and light tech about an issue with the midnight confetti cannon explosion and something about a guy planning to ride in on a motorcycle.
To her credit, Holly has carved every minuscule detail of tonight’s schedule with surgical precision, all while putting out concurrent fires, juggling an unending stream of ludicrous requests, and directing a staff of several dozen. Tablet in hand, she’s in her element, and I’m enormously impressed.
