They probably still are, I think.I’m just not a part of it.
I clear my throat and bravely lift my gaze to hers again. “I’m an assistant at Gentle Giant now. It’s a pretty prestigious recording studio.”
Chrissy hums around a sip of wine. “I think Gin mentioned you were doing some studio thing.”
My nerves stand alert, a fast-piling stack of follow-up questions clogging my throat.What else has Gin said? Did you know I would be here? Has she mentioned my dad?I swallow twice and try a more relevant question. “Speaking of Gin, any chance you’ve seen her?”
“I was about to askyouthe same thing,” Chrissy says with an eye roll. “Like, hello? Virginia? You’re literally the bride. Show up to your own party.”
Before I can provide any context, a dark-haired waiter interrupts with a tray of champagne flutes. Chrissy plucks up a glass, officially double fisting, but not without giving the waiter an appraising up-down. “Thanks, cutie.” She winks. “Love the tux.”
The waiter pauses, considering Chrissy for another moment, then offers me the tray.
“No thanks,” I say. “But any chance you’ve seen the bride?”
Oblivious, Chrissy adds, “She’s the one in white.”
The waiter tilts his head toward the hostesses’ stand. “Bathroom up front,” he says in a low, casual grumble, like he’s not saving the day with this intel.
I’m gay Nancy Drew again, sparking to life at a much-needed clue. “I thought there was just the one bathroom in the back.”
“There are two more single stalls,” the waiter explains, still speaking directly to Chrissy.
I toss back a “Thank you!” as I speed off toward the front of the restaurant. “Chrissy, I’ll catch you later, okay?”
“Sure thing!” she calls after me. “Let’s grab a drink and catch up soon!”
But I know we never will. I’m sure she knows it, too. We’ll see each other at the bridal shower and again at the wedding, where we’ll likely have nearly identical conversations to this one, insisting that wehaveto hang out sometime, both of us knowing we don’t really mean it.
I weave between clusters of well-dressed well-wishers, half in suits and cocktail dresses, half in tan tunics and jewel-toned saris. Rishi’s dad emigrated from India, but his mom grew up here in the northern suburbs of Chicago in a less traditional Indian household; together, their friends and family make this mid-tier Italian restaurant look like the photo shoots Dunlap College used to do. We all know the type: They pick out one student per skin tone and pose them together so the brochure looks diverse. Plus they’ve got me in the mix, a visibly identifiable lesbian with a shag haircut and canary yellow pantsuit. All thisanda gay person? Your liberal arts college marketing department could never.
The hostess points me down a short hallway, and as the waiter promised, there are two more bathrooms. I grab the handle of theladies’ door with the confidence of someone about to complete an escape room, but it barely gives.
A deep voice—decidedly not Gin’s—barks from behind the door. “Locked means occupied!”
Shit.“Right, of course, sorry!”
I take a step back, then swivel around when a soft, familiar voice squeaks, “Alice? Is that you?”
I press my ear to the gents’ door. “Gin?”
There’s a full ten seconds of metallic clicks and switches as she futzes with the lock before pulling the door open an inch, just enough to catch a flash of her red hair and a hint of panic in her mossy hazel eyes.
“You okay in there?”
“Sorta.” Gin’s eyes bounce left to right. “Do you have your purse on you?”
“Have I ever carried a purse?”
She sighs. “Right…just get in here. I need help.”
There’s no time for questions; Gin grabs my wrist and yanks me inside with a swift tug, and once I can see more than an inch of her, I have my explanation as to why she’s been MIA. The big red stain dribbling down her white slip dress has her looking more like a wounded World War II soldier than a bride.
“You’re telling me we’ve been looking for you for almost an hour because you locked yourself in the bathroom over astain?”
“It’s not just a stain,” Gin argues. “It’s a huge stain on a white dress on a day where people are going to be taking a trillion pictures of me. I can’t walk around my engagement party looking like I’ve been shot.”
A giggle slips past my lips, which I instantly regret. “Sorry,sorry,” I mumble. “You just…you do kind of look like you’ve been shot.”
