A networking event for local artists.
A baby gender reveal party.
Not one, but two, events for the “Hot Thirty Under Thirty” in the area.
Those are the events I’ve worked on in the last two weeks. Two weeks of taking out more trash and moving more tables than I thought possible. I have, however, mastered the art of folding a cloth napkin into a stork. Or some sort of bird the hostess of the baby shower insisted to be at every table setting.
The Thirty Under Thirty events were equally depressing and motivating. I was depressed as hell to know I was nowhere near the level of the people being honored, but it lit a fire under my ass to get there. I have under five years to get it together and make that list. Or at least one of the two.
I think my hard work finally paid off, because yesterday my boss pulled me into her office and told me she needed me to be available for an event tonight. Not only was I not responsible for the setup, but I was instructed to “dress accordingly.” Finally.
Taking a little extra care with my hair, I’m standing in my room before the large mirror on my wall, sectioning off hair as my flat iron warms up. My door slams open and Jessi barges in like a tornado startling me.
“You will not believe who I saw at the gas station,” she shouts dramatically before taking a large drink from her wine glass and sitting on the edge of my bed.
“Well, if you’re being this dramatic, I’m going to guess someone you didn’t want to see.”
“What? Oh, no. I totally had a crap day. Stupid professor. Anyway, I saw Lucas.”
My heart skips a beat and then drops because as much as I regret not calling or texting him after I left Portland, the level of regret I have since not calling him after running into him a few week ago is of epic proportions. I may also be slightly dramatic.
“That’s cool.” My non-chalantness is on point.
Rolling her eyes, Jessi scoffs.
“It is cool. I told you I saw him a few weeks ago. So weird, we’ve lived in the same damn city all this time, and I never saw him and then boom. He’s everywhere.”
“I think that’s what happens when you practically lick his dick in public.”
“Uh, who almost licked his dick?” I ask, looking at her confused as I pull another section of my hair through the flat iron and successfully burn my finger. I know I should probably wear one of those protective gloves but they create so much static, I end up looking like I just rolled out of bed instead of spending thirty minutes on my hair.
“Eh, it was close enough to your mouth, if you wanted to, you could have licked it.”
If I roll my eyes at her any more, all of my mother’s warnings will come to fruition. They’ll stay in the back of my head forever. Ignoring Jessi’s ridiculous notion about dick licking, I attempt to change the topic to something that makes her happy and easily preoccupied.
“Will you look at the outfit I have hanging? I want to make a good impression but not look like I tried too hard.”
“On it,” she says as she hops from the bed and downs the rest of her wine. I watch in the reflection of the mirror as she assesses the simple black dress I’ve pulled and hung on the back of my closet door. The dress has a modest neckline with cap sleeves. The length hits just above my knees and while fitted, it’s still comfortable and allows me to move freely. I may not be on the setup team tonight, but I have to be able to adapt to any situation necessary, and that includes being able to move around freely.
“Are you going to a funeral? What the fuck is this?”
“It’s professional and doesn’t draw attention to me. I need to blend in.”
Adopting my usual response, Jessi rolls her eyes and opens my closet door before she begins rummaging through the hangers. Ignoring her, I finish my hair and apply a little product to help the flyaways when a bright red skirt and black blouse sways in front of me.
“This.”
“No.”
“Yes, Whit. You said this was a bachelorette party, right? The women will be dressed up and on the sexier side. You will look like you’re trying to impersonate the Queen Mum. Besides, you need to feel confident and own this night. It’s a big deal. I know you say you’re okay, but I’m worried. You never know how you’ll react to this.”
“I’m fine, Jess. I swear. I’m not going to breakdown because I’m working on a bachelorette party. I’m surrounded by wedding talk every day, and it hasn’t been an issue. Plus, I’m supposed to blend in, not stand out. A bright red skirt is sure to draw attention.”
“It’s a party, Whitney, not a funeral. Wear something that would have people wondering if you’re the event planner or a guest. This does that. The skirt is long enough you will still be professional, but this top is still sexy and sassy enough to blend in. Pair it with your black kitten heels, and you’ll be perfect.”
I do love the skirt, it’s one of my favorites. The top was an impulse buy, and I haven’t even taken off the tags. It’s black with a high neck, but the overlay and long sleeves are lace, which gives it a bit of an edgier look. Without a second thought, I grab the outfit and get dressed before fastening a pair of diamond studs in my ears.
Turning, I look at myself in the mirror and approve. I look confident and professional but still like me. That’s half the battle, I suppose. Fake it ’til you make it and never let them see you sweat. With a spritz of my favorite perfume, I’m ready to leave and hope I’ve distracted Jessi enough with fashion to not have her bring up our earlier conversation about Lucas before I leave.
“So you didn’t ask about Lucas,” she says to my back as I walk down the hall toward the front door.
Dammit. So close.
“He asked about you.”
That has my attention, and I stop in my tracks, my purse in one hand and my coat in the other. Turning to look at Jessi, I see a devious smirk on her face and wish I had something to throw at her.
“What did he say?”
“Not much, but he asked how you were doing. I told him you were doing amazing, but the single life was not for you.”
“You told him I was single!” I exclaim.
“I did. And he seemed interested by that. I guess you failed to tell him that when you saw him last.”
Sighing, I look to the clock on the microwave and don’t have much time, but I want to know what else was said. I want to know if he seemed interested. I want to know if I should call him, or if that kiss we shared was all we’ll ever have.
“I told you I was going to ask him to coffee, but someone interrupted us. I didn’t have time. But thanks for being my messenger.”
Laughter bellows from her like a freaking hyena, and she’s doubled over in seconds with tears streaming down her face. What in the world?
“I’m kidding. Oh my goodness. The look on your face was priceless.”
“You’re a bitch,” I say with relief lacing every syllable of my proclamation.
“Of course I am. I did see him, but I only said hi. He did ask about you, and I told him I’d tell you he said hi. That’s all. But if your reaction means anything, I think you need to give that man a call.”
“I have to go. You better clean the bathroom after pulling that shit on me. It’s the least you can do,” I say before heading to the door.
Jessi’s outfit suggestion was spot on. The women at the bachelorette party are all dressed in similar outfits or dresses. The bride-to-be, dressed in the traditional white, is currently wearing a penis crown and sipping a cocktail I had our in-house mixologist create for her special occasion. In a hue of the brightest pink, it’s basically a sure-fire hangover, but it’s pretty and packs a punch. Both of which were requirements from the hostess and maid of honor.
As the ladies begin the first set of games, I work with the other staff members to clean up the food from dinner and set out dessert. The bride’s sister and cousin were in charge of games, which was a relief. Other than making a wedding gown out of toilet paper, I was at a loss for games.
Currently, the ladies are sitting in a circle playing a heated game of “How Well Do You Know the Bachelorette?” and I’m hoping the name calling is all in good fun and we aren’t about to have a smackdown. Laughter and hoots and hollers fill the room so I know the bloodshed portion has passed and offer take one of the serving trays to the kitchen.
I’m not sure how long I spend in the kitchen, but by the time I return to the dining room with a platter of mini cheesecakes and eclairs, the lights have dimmed, and the music has changed. Ed Sheeran no longer serenades the group, and instead the deep beats of “Candy Shop” by 50 Cent fill the room. What in the . . .
This is not happening.
I know this was not on the agenda handed to me yesterday. I’d remember if there was an item labeled “Dudes in G-strings.”
Please don’t let it be him. Please. Please. I swear I’ll be a better person. I won’t take grapes from the produce department ever again. Just please, please don’t let it be him.
When the two men currently flanking the bride turn to face me, my hands unclench and I release a long breath. Thank you, Lord. I swear, never again. I will never eat another grape without paying. It isn’t Lucas. It is Tom and Jonah but not Lucas.
Small favors, I suppose. Then why am I disappointed?