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Fine, it might be questionable to refer to it as charity. Volunteering to build orphanages or read to seniors would be higher on the charity spectrum, but busy single men need to bring someone to these things and I need dinner so I still feel like the idea has merit. Also, wedding cake. Am I right? I freaking love wedding cake, minus the fact that the pieces are always ridiculously small.
I wonder if they’re serving the cake or sending it home in tiny wedding cake favor boxes. I also wonder if Warren will let me take his. See! That’s a good question! I knew I had good questions, they just occur to me an hour late, much like a good comeback when you’re having a fight with someone.
“Hey.” I turn a little in my chair, touching Warren’s sleeve both to get his attention and because I might as well take the opportunity to cop a little feel. “What are your thoughts about wedding cake?”
“Are you sure you’re not a reporter?”
“You caught me.” I shrug. “I’m writing an exposé for Modern Bride. Now stop avoiding the question. It’s so cliché politician.”
“Cliché politician? Is there a wedding cake crisis in the state of New York that requires me to weigh in?”
I make the universal, and incredibly not sexy, gesture in which a person points at their eyeballs with two fingers and then points them at the other person. “I’ll get to the bottom of this,” I add, like a mysterious weirdo. Then I sip my wine as yet another person comes up to say hello to Warren.
When dinner’s cleared Artie grabs Warren for something or other and I realize how exhausting being Warren Russo must be. Everyone wants a minute of his time.
Warren’s brother, James, entertains me with a story about Hollywood. His date is super touchy-feely with him, but doesn’t say much. She seems like a nice woman, which is a thing you say when you have no idea what someone is actually like.
I’m eyeing the room for a dessert table when I see some woman talking to my fake date. I can’t let someone else hit on him while we’re on a date, right?
Right. It’s basically my duty.
Also, I don’t see a dessert table so I don’t really have anything else to do.
They’re in the midst of a conversation when I reach Warren’s side so I slide in and wait for a lull so I can introduce myself.
“Warren, who is this?” The woman interrupts herself with a questioning glance between us. She’s stunning. And I’m instantly annoyed with her familiarity with Warren, as if I have some kind of claim on him.
Logic. It’s a troublesome thing.
“I’m his girlfriend,” I interject before Warren has a chance. “And you are?”
“I’m his ex-wife,” she replies, a bit of confusion in her voice. Since I don’t think she’s confused about their divorce, I can reasonably conclude she’s confused by the appearance of a woman she’s never seen or heard of claiming to be her ex’s new love.
“Oh, right.” I nod in agreement. I should remember that my pretend boyfriend has an ex-wife. “I forgot about you,” I admit. Out loud. Yeah, I should have kept that tidbit to myself. In my defense, we’ve already established that I’m a real lazy stalker. “Sorry. It’s just that he never talks about you,” I add, as if that makes it better. Warren is going to kill me.
Instead he laughs. An actual out-loud laugh this time, not just a hint of a smile. It nearly distracts me from finishing out my pseudo-apology to his ex.
“Audrey,” I introduce myself, sticking my hand out to shake in an attempt at salvaging my arrival into this conversation.
“Marissa.” She returns the shake, polite and perfunctory. She’s tall and slim and elegant. She’s wearing Carolina Herrera. Current season. And she doesn’t look like the kind of woman who worried about having the right shoes for this event or who debated not wearing earrings at all lest they be dismissed as cheap or tacky.
Diamond studs. Perfectly, ambiguously classy.
“It’s lovely to meet you,” I add, still scrambling to offset my rude arrival.
“You as well.” She’s recovered any surprise she had, and if she has any feelings about me, her expression gives nothing away.
I wish I could do that. I make a mental note to practice a serene facial expression. One that doesn’t look like a resting bitch face, but also doesn’t give away everything I’m thinking. Probably a waste of time, but worth a try.
“You can pick up Bethany anytime after ten tomorrow,” she tells Warren. Bethany, whom I have not forgotten about. She’s Warren’s daughter. A teenager. There’s a few pictures of her on the internet, at campaign events with her father.
Then, with a few more pleasantries, Marissa is off.
“She’s beautiful,” I observe with maybe a hint of wistfulness as she departs. Beautifully elegant is what I mean. I’m way too free-spirited to be elegant.
