Keep Calm and Carry a Big Drink (20 page)

I start to go, but Seema grabs my arm and asks nervously, “You would tell me the truth if she was in labor, right?”

“And maid of honor … go!” whispers the wedding planner, throwing her arms down.

“Of course I would,” I lie.

“Because if she needs to be at a hospital…”

“Seema,” I say, putting up the palm of my hand to stop her, “we don’t get a lot of perfect moments in life. Go enjoy this one.”

I then take my all-white peony bouquet from the planner and make my grand appearance in the doorway.

All eyes are on me. Ick. I hate this part. Remembering what the wedding planner instructed, I step forward with my right foot, then bring my left foot together. Right foot out, left foot together. As I take my first steps down the aisle, I slip into a bit of a daydream. One might think I would fantasize about Jay standing at the altar, excited to marry me in front of our dearest friends and family.

But, no. Actually my dream is to be allowed to run up the aisle and get my part of the procession over with. There is something sort of ridiculous about taking two and a half minutes to walk less than fifty feet. Right foot forward, left foot to close, and right foot forward, left foot to close.

My mind is racing. All I can think is
Today everything changes.
By tonight, I’ll be the last of my single friends. The three of us will never have an impromptu slumber party ever again. We won’t spend an hour getting ready for a fraternity party, me sneaking the Spice Girls onto the iPod, Seema changing it to AC/DC (the old stuff, with Bon Scott). We’ll never talk about first dates again, or what we want in a boyfriend, or what we want to do when we grow up.

We are grown-up. For better or worse.

As I pass row five, I make eye contact with Jeff, who blows me a kiss. I smile at him and give a little wave as I walk past. Then I look over at Jay, standing with the other groomsman, looking polished, yet approachable. He smiles and gives me a wink. I smile and blush.

I take my place at the front of the altar, and the double doors close.

Silence. Ladies and gentleman—the show is about to begin.

A few seconds later, we hear the familiar first few bars of “The Bridal Chorus” from Wagner’s opera
Lohengrin
. In my mind, I sing along,
Here’s comes the bride, here comes the bride, here comes the bri-ide, here comes the bride.
(Okay, so I don’t know the words. Wagner’s German anyway.)

The golden doors open, and Seema stands there, looking resplendent. Her father links his arm into hers, then slowly walks her down the aisle. She is all smiles, glowing as she takes it all in. She makes eye contact with guests, greets them with smiles and winks, and, in the most gracious way, works the room.

When Seema finally makes her way to Scott, I see him mouth the words,
You look beautiful.
And I realize his eyes are wet.

Then I realize, so are mine.

Their ceremony is actually quite short, less than fifteen minutes. At one point Nic looks pained, but I think that may have had less to do with Braxton Hicks and more with the wincing we all tried to stifle at Scott’s aunt Debbie’s rendition of “You Light Up My Life.”

When the first few bars of “Wedding March” by Felix Mendelssohn begins, Scott takes Seema’s hand, and the two walk down the aisle as man and wife. Again.

I follow a few moments later with Scott’s best man. Then Jay puts out his arm for Nic to take, and the two of them walk down the aisle.

And let the party begin!

T
WENTY
-
NINE

Nic managed to get through another set of photo ops without anyone’s suspecting a thing. Now, while Jay, Seema, and Scott pose for photos with immediate family, Nic, Jason, and I are able to hang out during the last part of the cocktail hour, which is being held in the funky gold lobby just outside the ballroom. The gold perfectly accents Seema’s bridal palette of dark red, which includes dark red tablecloths, maroon cocktail napkins, and deep red roses in red vases. The bartenders and servers even serve a signature drink that looks like a bloodred martini. Dracula would be impressed.

Nic, Jason, and I stand at a small cocktail table covered in a dark red silk tablecloth with a ruby-jeweled overlay. Jason and I try the red martinis while Nic nurses her club soda. I take my first sip, then nearly do a spit-take, “Ewww … What do you think is in this?”

Jason sniffs his drink, takes a cautious sip, then tries to suppress his gag reflex. “I don’t know. Blood sausage maybe?”

Nic turns to him. “Is that a thing?’”

“In LA, you never know,” he says, sniffing his cocktail again. “Maybe it’s an acquired taste.”

“It’s weird,” I say, but try another taste. I shake my head quickly. “No. It’s even worse the second time. Which is strange, because Seema hasn’t had a misstep at either of her weddings.”

“You mean other than putting her groom on a horse?” Nic reminds me.

“Could happen to anyone,” I joke.

Jeff walks up to our table, looking handsome and flawlessly put together in a Prada tuxedo. He is peeved. “Do you know what’s wrong with men?”

“They fall all over themselves to court you until they’ve slept with you, then quit calling?” I guess.

“They love sports,” Nic guesses.

“Hey now,” Jason, the basketball coach, jokingly warns her.

I excitedly put up my hand. “Oh! Oh! I know. They text instead of calling.” Then I rethink it and come up with an even better answer. “Wait, no! They’re slobs!”

“They don’t know how to dress!” Nic speculates.

“Oh—they’re sluts!” I continue.

“They actually say what they mean instead of what you want to hear!” Jason answers.

Nic turns to Jason. “Yeah. We hate that.”

“You do,” Jason assures her. “You say you don’t, but you do.”

Jeff rolls his eyes. “Okay, the question was mostly rhetorical. Although, Mel, I like your answer about them being slobs. No, it turns out Christophe has a boyfriend.”

Oops. “Well,” I try to reason, “does it matter? You were only seeing him for the weekend.”

“Whom he brought to the wedding,” Jeff elaborates.

Nic and I both cringe.

“
And
who just asked me if I wanted to have a threeway.”

That pretty much gets a “Eeewww” from everyone at the table.

Jeff turns to Jason. “Why are men such pigs?”

Before Jason can answer, Nic blurts out, “Oh, I love this game! Shorter chromosome!”

“Rhetorical!” Jeff interrupts.

I raise my hand. “But I have a good one.”

“No,” Jeff says firmly. “I was just saying men are pigs”—he points toward Christophe and his (rather large) boyfriend—“and that one’s got to be at least a three-hundred-pounder hog.” He takes a sip of my drink and makes a face. “Ugh. Saffron?! Honestly, when did people start believing they could put whatever they want into a martini glass and it was art? The only thing worse than signature drinks at weddings is people writing their own vows. I need a beer. What can I get everyone?”

“Anything to wash the taste out,” I say.

“Story of my twenties.” He pats Nic on the belly. “Mama, are you good? Should I track down some mini lamb chops from a passing waiter?”

“I’m fine. And always,” Nic answers.

“Then I will be right back.”

Nic turns to Jason. “I do not hate it when you say what you really mean.”

He tilts his head, accepting her challenge. “I want to watch golf and baseball all day tomorrow.”

Nic shakes her head. “That is so not happening. But I’m glad you were honest about it.”

“And I never, ever, want to watch another romantic comedy that stars Meg Ryan, Channing Tatum, Robert Pattinson, or any leading lady whose first name is Jennifer.”

Nic rolls her eyes. “Fine.”

“Plus I don’t really care if the baby’s new sheets have the elephant print or the ducks.”

Nic’s jaw drops. “How can you like the ducks? Seriously—dude!”

A waiter walks up to us, carrying a silver tray of lamb chops. “Would anyone care for a lamb chop?”

Nic turns to me. “He’s fast.”

I sigh. “I know. I should have married him when I had the chance.” I watch Nic’s jaw clench, and her hand slowly close into a fist. I roll my eyes. “Oh, for God’s sakes! Just go to the damn hospital!”

Nic’s jaw is still clenched. “And miss filet mignon with peppercorn sauce and twice-baked au gratin potatoes? No, I don’t think so.”

Jason turns to her. “Wait. Are you in labor?”

“No. I’m having Braxton Hicks.”

“Which are now about ten minutes apart,” I tell Jason.

“That’s not true,” Nic tells Jason.

I hand Jason my iPhone with the stopwatch function. “I’ve been recording her for over an hour.”

He reads my recorded times and looks up at Nic with concern. “Don’t you think…”

She puts up her index finger as if to signal,
Hold that thought.
“Holy. Fucking. Shit,” she says, leaning onto the table and holding her breath.

Jason calmly suggests, “Honey, we need to get you to the hospital.”

“I’m not missing this wedding. I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine. You’re having our baby. And I would prefer that you do it in a hospital. With a doctor, and sterile equipment, and drugs.”

Nic shakes her head. “We’re not doing drugs.”

I can tell from the look on Jason’s face, they’ve been having this argument for a while. “Baby, would you do a root canal without drugs?”

“If I was pregnant, yes.”

“No!” I blurt out.

“A little more support…”

“Remember that time in Santa Barbara when you needed a Vicodin?”

“I was twenty,” Nic counters.

“It was an ingrown toenail,” I remind her.

Nic takes a deep breath and says through gritted teeth. “It was a painful toenail. And … again … I was twenty!”

Jason calmly helps his wife stand up and looks deep into her eyes. “Honey, if I’m wrong and it’s not labor, I will spend the rest of my life apologizing. But, please, just for my sake, can we go to the hospital, just to make sure you’re okay?”

Nic considers his request, then shakes her head. “I’m sure I’ll be fine.”

“Just … for me then? Please?”

Nic sighs as she stares at her husband. “How can I resist that face?” She turns to me. “Text me later?”

I smile and give her a hug. “Of course.”

“You don’t think Seema will be mad that I’m leaving?”

“I think she’d be more mad if your water broke all over the plush hotel carpet.”

The next time I saw Nic, she was introducing me to her new baby boy.

T
HIRTY

The wedding reception continued the magic until midnight. The food was amazing, the drinks top-notch, and the best part? I did not once have to dance Gangnam style, point to my ring finger to Beyoncé, or try to get through the Electric Slide.

At one point, Jay requested “Wonderful Tonight,” which became our last slow dance of the night. But even that could not compete with the joy of watching Seema dance the samba with Jeff. Halfway through the song, she pulled off her strappy heels and tossed them to me, then danced with abandon.

I think at least once in every wedding, the bride should dance with abandon. There are so many wonderful yet solemn moments: the first dance, the father-daughter dance, sometimes a mother-son dance. Sometimes you need a little Santana and that Matchbox Twenty guy, whose name escapes me, to really let loose.

Seema and I madly texted Nic back and forth all night, but unfortunately she was still in early labor, so we had no news.

Those of us who know how to close a party (and Seema knows how to close a party) had a final toast of champagne about midnight, then retired to our rooms to launch a few intimate soirées of our own.

Which Jay and I did for quite a romantic while.

The room is now silent, millions of floors away from the Sturm und Drang of the city below. I rest in Jay’s arms and stare out the window overlooking the glittering lights of Los Angeles.

Jay whispers in my ear, “Penny for your thoughts?”

I could have gone romantic. Or sexy. Maybe even playful. Instead, I went with the truth. “I’m just wondering where the expression
hit that
came from.”

Jay doesn’t answer, so I sit up and turn around to face him. “You know, like, when guys point to a girl and ask their buddy, ‘Did you hit that?’ ‘Would you hit that?’ ‘Are you gonna hit that?’ Who was the first douche bag to come up with that? It’s such a violent way to express what can be a very tender and spiritual act.”

Jay sits up. He looks sleepily at me in the dark. “Is that really what you’re thinking about right now?”

“Yes,” I say to him with some urgency. “Now the expression
bagging a bridesmaid
—that kind of makes sense. One could argue that if you seduce the woman between two sheets, it’s sort of a makeshift bag. And while the idiom
tapping that ass
is crude, it could be construed as being akin to tapping a maple tree for syrup, or a keg for beer: one is extracting a kind of nectar, if you will. Graphic, but descriptive.”

“Is my jaw dropped?” Jay asks quietly, then says almost to himself, “I feel like my jaw should be dropped.”

“
Bone
obviously refers to the—”

Jay interrupts me by gently putting his hands up to my cheeks and giving me a kiss. It is a nice kiss, soft and romantic. I allow my thoughts to take five while I breathe in the scent of his cologne and enjoy the warmth of his body.

When we stop kissing, Jay answers, “
Hit that
is probably just a mindlessly insulting continuation of the expression
hitting on
. As in to
hit on
a young lady. Nothing violent or insulting intended. Now let’s get some sleep.”

“Okay,” I say, smiling. We both lie back down. I nestle into the spot between his chest and his arm and close my eyes to settle in for the night.

About thirty seconds later, I pop my eyes back open. “You’re probably right,” I blurt out. Then I push myself to continue the conversation. “Well, I mean, about it not being intended to be violent. But I think it
is
intended to be insulting. I mean, really:
hit on, bag, bone, tap, nail.
They’re all expressions men use to let us know the act meant nothing to them. We’re just antlers on the wall, a tapped-out tree, a dead cat.”