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“Getting to know one another,” I finish for him. “He’s been helping me with a project as well. I don’t know how I would be doing it without him.”
“That’s…really nice to hear.”
To seal the deal for any questions his parents might have, I thread Foster’s fingers with my own. It’s an innocent gesture but one people easily read into. His mother notices and smiles wider.
“If I can have your attention,” an attendant announces over the microphone, “the bride and groom will be joining us shortly. At this time, we would like to move all guests into the dining hall.”
The people around us begin to migrate to the area at my back where a set of doors opens to a large room draped in ethereal tones of cornflower and candlelight.
“Sounds like we are being beckoned into the next room,” Foster’s father says, taking his wife’s arm in his own. “Shall we?”
At Foster’s side, I walk with him and his parents to the room where the majority of festivities will be taking place for the rest of the evening. Near the entrance on one of four small tables, we find our names and table number, which is different than the one his mother and father have been assigned.
“Evelyn and I are going to take our seats,” Foster says to them as we are about to part ways. “I’m sure we’ll see you later.”
“Of course,” his mother says, filled with easiness just like her son described.
“Enjoy yourselves,” his father says. “It was nice to meet you, Evelyn.”
“You, too.”
With our place cards in hand, Foster and I traverse through the crowd and tables, looking for our seating. He pauses momentarily at the sight of Sasha taking a chair at a table that is thankfully many over from our own.
Her presence in general makes my skin crawl.
Is it wrong to want to strangle her with the pearls around her neck?
Likely.
When we finally find our numbered table, Foster pulls out my linen-covered seat, allowing me to sit first, and then he takes the one next to me.
“Did you read some guidebook on dealing with parents?” he asks, a noticeable glow plastered across his face. “Or about going to weddings in general? Because that shit back there was textbook, all of it.”
“I might have some experience on the subject.”
“Ah, now, it all makes sense.” He presses his tie against his chest. “Was this part of your training to become the daughter your mother always hoped you would be?”
“It could be. Let’s just say, I did pay attention to some of the things I was taught—or maybe it’s survival instincts.”
“It shows.”
Other guests begin to take their seats at our table, two of whom I recognize from the cocktail portion of the evening. We say our hellos briefly as the MC comes over the speakers, announcing the arrival of the bride and groom.
Over the course of the next hour or so, toasts are made, food is served, and the cake is cut. Now, all that remains is an evening of dancing and mingling.
At our table filled with two of Parker’s cousins, a childhood friend, and their dates, conversation has been easy, kept to superficial topics about Parker’s misgivings, school, and the bridesmaids’ dresses. I play my part, offering polite comments at the appropriate pauses and bringing up new subjects when necessary to keep a steady flow of chatting while engaging everyone when possible.
My mother would be so proud that her chirping tidbits on manners are actually serving a purpose. I hate to admit it, but her lessons do have merit in certain situations, such as this one.
A couple from our table excuses themselves and takes to the dance floor as the bride and groom make their rounds, greeting each and every one of their guests. We’re at the far end of the room from the start of their rounds.
“C’mon,” Foster says, resting his napkin on the linen surface and rising from his seat.
“Are you asking me to dance?” I ask, taking his hand.
“Not yet. I could use a drink though. How about you?”
“Definitely.”
