“Ma’am?”
“Sorry.” I rub my forehead. “Club soda with lime, please.”
“Coming right up.”
I take a big gulp of my go-to faux gin and tonic and decide to give myself a little more time. The cocktail space is lined with white wrought-iron benches that are mostly being used by the elderly guests. I plop myself down onto one and watch Penelope and Josh take selfies from afar.
My escort cardsaysTable 23in neatly printed serif. That’s got to be one of the furthest tables. The satellite singles. A solid tertiary-level friend. Izumi and I used to beat leastsecondary-level friends. I knew her mainly through Penelope—I didn’t think I’d be a bridesmaid or anything—but a couple years ago, I definitely would have been seated at a table in the low teens.
I walk through the reception hall slowly, smiling and laughing vaguely at the jokes and conversation being made around me so that I don’t stick out too much. The hall itself is gorgeous. Copper fixtures that have turned a matte turquoise over time, mustard subway tile, and craftsman stained glass water lilies. I have to cross the entire room before finding my table: back corner, near the kitchen door. My name is typed on a menu at a seat on the near side. I sit down and stress eat a pumpernickel roll as the rest of the table filters in. It’s all singles.I check the names on either side of me: Steve Miller is on my left, and Calliope Campbell is on my right.
“Hey.” A deep voice interrupts my thoughts, a tall looming guy suddenly blocking the copper chandelier. I squint to get a better look at him and am briefly stunned by his pretty face. He’s wearing an Oxford blue button down and a cream linen suit, topped with short-cropped sandy hair, hazel eyes, and a dimple. Just missing a tie and a golden retriever. All-American. Probably ran track or played lacrosse. Perhaps a distant Romney. Would definitely look good with tortoiseshell glasses.
“Hi,” I say back, suppressing my nerves into half-moon grooves where my nails meet my palms.
On my other side, someone drops their beat-up clutch onto the table with a startling thunk. A heavily tattooed girl with amber skin, dark hair, and cleavage I could only dream of drapes herself over the Chiavari chair.
“Hey,” I greet her too. “I’m Ruby,” I say to both of them.
“Calliope.” The girl reaches out to shake my hand. It may be how stunning she is, or just her general aura, but I’ve never met someone who deserved the name of a Greek muse more.
I repeat her name back, drawing out the syllables slowly to make sure I don’t miss any, “Call-eye-oh-pee.”
“Steve,” the guy says to both of us, his gaze drifting inevitably to Calliope’s cleavage.
“Guess they won’t be expecting us to keep the dance floor alive,” I joke.
Calliope snorts. “Were you surprised by this seating? I was well aware I was an obligatory invite.”
I swallow, hard.
“I’ve had the pleasure of knowing Izumi since grade school because of my sister.”
My brows furrow as I study her face. Once you take away the tattoos, imagine Calliope as a blonde, with fairer skin andmore muted curves, I suddenly see the resemblance. “You mean Penelope?”
“Yep.” Calliope mutters something under her breath that sounds suspiciously like the c-word.
“Penelope is a friend of mine,” I say, animated by this connection. “We met at the Lakeview Writers Group, before she wrote her book.”
“Right,” Calliope says slowly. “I think I’ve heard of you,” she adds. I can hear the hint of pity in her voice. It’s like the fascination people have with watching accidents as they pass on the highway. A brief thrill of,Thank God that isn’t me!
I turn to Steve. “And how do you know Izumi?”
“Who?” he asks.
I can’t tell if he’s being serious. “The bride…?”
“Oh, right. No, I don’t know her. Tim’s my buddy. We’re in school together.”
I have a vague memory of Tim being in grad school, something related to economics, I think. I look at Steve in a new light, imagining him as an Econ PhD. I can see a future with an accomplished academic as a partner. He can give bespectacled Ted Talks in Sweden, and I’ll write from a garden studio in the backyard of our Monterey home. My (long) hair will whip in the ocean breeze, the marine layer burning off while I drink my morning coffee. I’ll wear antique robes and our kids will be non-binary, barefoot, adorable hellions.
“That’s cool,” I gush. “Are you enjoying grad school?”
Steve leans back in his chair, hands fastening to his hips. “It’s not too bad,” he says through a smirk. His dimple lodges itself in my vision. I can picture a tiny version of him hanging off his hip with a matching one. Birds are chirping somewhere. My heart sighs.
White-gloved waiters place beautifully plated strawberry salads in front of us.
Steve peers around the large floral centerpiece as he shovels salad into his mouth.
