“Well, yes,” she replied. “Like, in a marriage, it’s not just whether you see the glass as half-full or half-empty. It’s whether you see it those two ways, or any of the other endless fractions that are possible.”
William winced. “This conversation is making my head hurt. I give them six years. And she leaves, for someone else. Three kids.”
My mom leaned her head to the side, considering this. “I don’t know. What do you think, Louna?”
I blinked, not having expected to be asked to weigh in. This was their game, not mine, even though I had seen Charlotte and her groom laughing happily as they climbed into the car to leave together. For them, and her in particular... I wished they’d always put each other first. Out loud, though, I said, “I have no idea.”
“Smart girl.” William raised his glass at me. “She who doesn’t gamble can never lose.”
“Or win,” my mom pointed out.
“Details,” he replied, and they both laughed, then clinked glasses.
I felt a yawn coming on and reached up, covering my mouth, wishing we could just go ahead and do our final sweep so we, too, could head home. Before that would happen, though, I had to collect all the vases we’d rented from the tables, and I wasn’t about to do it alone. Ambrose, however, was nowhere in sight.
Just as I thought this, I heard voices from over by the back door where Ira had escaped. When I turned, there Ambrose was with, of all people, Julie the annoying maid of honor. She was holding her shoes in one hand, the thrown bouquet—which, as William predicted, she’d dived for with vigor—in the other. As Ambrose said something to her, she tipped her head back and laughed again, putting a hand on his arm.
There’s something messy about people at the end of weddings. Clothes, once pressed, are rumpled and creased. Hair escapes from chignons and gets wild from dancing. Makeup runs, as do stockings and tights, and women almost always shed their shoes, men their jackets. There’s nothing neat about that feeling when the finiteness of the event hits and you’re suddenly more aware than ever that tomorrow is just another regular day. Maybe this was what made people drag out the night, stretching the time left a little longer. I understood it: I’d done it. But we were working here, not attending. Ambrose could get messy off the clock. I wanted to go home.
“Hey,” I called out, and they both looked over at me. “Let’s grab these vases so we can start getting out of here.”
“Sure thing, boss,” he replied. “Be there in five seconds.”
The boss thing was new, since an incident earlier when I’d told him that no, hecouldn’taccept when one of the bridesmaids asked him to dance. I assumed he’d known this already, having extended the same offer to me at his own mother’s wedding. My assumptions were always wrong when it came to Ambrose.
“Nodancing?” he said, once I’d told him to decline. Still, I could feel the bridesmaid, ever hopeful, hovering behind me. “Aren’t we here to make sure the party is perfect?”
“You really think that much of your conga skills?”
“Well, no,” he replied, although clearly, he did. “But a good wedding is at least ninety-five percent based on a great dance floor experience. I can help with that.”
In the business less than a week and he was quoting statistics. Made-up ones, but statistics. “We’re not here to enjoy the party. We’re here to make sure everyone else does.”
“What if their enjoyment could be enhanced by us contributing our own?”
“It doesn’t work that way,” I said, as a girl in her late twenties, wearing a pink dress, began crossing the floor in his direction, that telltale look on her face. What was he, a dancing magnet? “Just politely say no, tell them you’re working, and move off the dance floor. If you’re not here, you can’t be asked.”
He pointed at me. “That’s my motto in general when it comes to dancing. You have to put yourself out there!” Ilooked at his finger. He lowered it, slowly. “I mean, unless you’re working. Sorry, boss.”
“I’m not your boss,” I grumbled, starting toward the buffet line. When I looked back, he was shaking his head, smiling, as the girl in pink tried to lead him farther into the shifting crowd. When he backed away, she made a sad face, then mimed wiping a tear. Jesus.
Just recalling this was making me even crankier, so I got to my feet, collecting the vase from the table where I’d been sitting, then the one next to it. I was all set to snap at Ambrose as he finally did come over, but then I saw he was carrying three others, one in each hand and another pressed to his chest. “Where should I pour these out?” he asked.
“Just put them in the crate for now and we’ll do it outside,” I said. I always hated a wedding when we had to collect equipment after the fact, preferring the ones my mom called Zero Footprint, where we just left it all for the venue to deal with. As I picked up another vase, I saw Julie crossing the room, shoes now on, the bouquet dangling down beside her. “What was she saying to you?”
“Who?” I nodded at her. “Jules? Nothing much. Just wondering where an out of towner could grab a martini at this late hour. I told her I knew just the place.”
“You’re going out with her tonight?”
“It’s just a drink. And a ride for me and Ira, which is a good thing. Our dogs are tired.”
Ha-ha, I thought as I walked over to the wooden rack we’d stored under the cake table and slid the vases into them. The flowers, white roses mixed with those peoniesI’d caved on, had held up well, still perky as they bobbed in their water.
“So what happens to these now?” Ambrose asked, as he added his vases to the rack.
“The flowers?” I asked. “Usually we toss them.”
“Really? Seems wasteful.”
