Page 22 of Weddings, Revenge & Fake Dating

“I think you’re right. This insane plan might work.”

I tap my glass’s rim to his with a clink. We sip while sharing covert grins.

I’m about to ask Nathan about the modeling comment when there’s a high-pitched screech that causes everyone in the crowd to cover their ears. The band’s music stops, and partygoers turn their attention to the stage.

Roman, at the center, taps the microphone. “Hello, and welcome! Sophia and I want to thank everyone who flew in to celebrate the occasion.” He sweeps a palm to indicate the crowd.

Everyone claps. Near the front of the stage, Sophia whoops, one arm raised.

“And I want to thank me, from Roman’s Italian Beef, for sponsoring this lovely pre-wedding party. My large business tax write-off thanks you.”

The crowd erupts into laughter.

Typical. I cringe a little.

“Tonight, I want to share something special my lovely fiancée and I have been working on. It’s a new commercial for Roman’s Italian Beef. We want you to preview it first.”

My heart stops. They worked on a commercial together? Like Roman and I used to? Instantly, I’m numb, my feet pinned in place.

Roman sweeps a hand toward a movie screen behind him. When he steps aside, the guests quiet to a low murmur. The lights on the pool deck switch off.

The Roman’s Italian Beef logo appears on the projection dubbed with the now Midwest-famous jingle. A male’s Chicago-accented voice sings:

There’s no Italian beef

Like Roman’s Italian Beef.

It’s the best hot giardiniera and sweet peppers around.

If you like it wet, dipped, or dry,

You’ll have to come and scarf one down.

Onscreen, a cable-quality commercial begins. Sophia soaks seemingly naked in a clawfoot bathtub filled with steaming au jus broth. She dips a beef sandwich into her brown bath between the little islands of her kneecaps. She lifts the sandwich dripping wet and then, like a food-starved porn star, she shoves it down her throat, all while having a When Harry Met Sally-worthy fake orgasm.

My jaw drops.

With her mouth impossibly full, Sophia exclaims in her saccharine-sweet voice, “I wuv my beef wet!”

In his favorite suit, Roman steps onscreen and says, “Me too, Sophia. Me too.” Then he winks, signaling that yes, that was a sexual innuendo.

Bile rises in my throat as onscreen Sophia rises from the bath. There are several close-up shots where oily au jus drips in slow motion down her beautiful curvy body. The camera pans away. On her glistening skin, pieces of sweet peppers and onions strategically cover her lady bits in the shape of a skimpy, overcooked vegetable bikini.

A heaviness the size of an ocean whirlpool forms in my chest, and my entire soul is sucked into the deadly center as the commercial continues.

“Come on down to Roman’s Italian Beef, and eat it da way Chicago eats beef,” says onscreen Roman.

After he delivers the famous tagline, Roman, my Roman, my bunny, bends over and takes a chomp out of a large green pepper covering Sophia’s plump boob. She’s literally juicy. Meanwhile, my vagina has shriveled up like a dried prune.

When the commercial ends, I fumble backward, bump into Nathan, and drop my champagne glass. It shatters on the concrete at the same time the crowd erupts with applause.

I’m already imagining the nightmare ahead. When this commercial hits local TV stations, it will become the newest sexual kink to travel the nation—Italian beef sandwich porn. The national late-night comedy shows already love making fun of our commercials. This one is sure to be their favorite.

At Roman’s insistence, they replay the commercial. When it begins again, my throat closes in on itself and my breathing turns labored. I frantically search for an exit through the wall of transfixed guests. When I find a sliver of light, I dodge through the opening and sprint.

I think I’ve made a clean getaway, but Nathan catches up to me inside the lobby.

When he registers the pain on my face, he quickly pulls me into an embrace. It’s so enveloping, so melty and comfortable there, I can’t help but release my tears.