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I swallow the emotions because I don’t want to make a scene. I’m feeling sad, angry, defensive — all sorts of feelings I don’t want to have leading up to my wedding. Being engaged is supposed to be fun, and I’m not having any. And neither is he. What do I do? Is him not sticking up for me the final straw? Do we come back from this?
For the moment, I move on. I add, “And anyway, most people host their parties at least two or three days before the wedding to give everyone time to recover. So the tiredness isn’t an issue.”
Myrtle is relentless on the subject. “I don’t know. A Las Vegas wedding? Bachelorette parties at those kinds of places? It all seems like …well, pardon me saying so, but I’m just going to say it. It all seems like someone’s excuse to behave slutty before tying the knot.”
That word “slutty” sticks in my craw. I hate it. “By someone, you mean me?”
Myrtle doesn’t answer, only sips her drink and looks at the ceiling. I wait for Augie to speak up. To tell that old battle-ax to shut her trap once and for all.
But Augie, desperate to change the subject, says blandly, “I’m just grateful I won’t be needing a bachelor party to plan.”
I turn to him, and he actually seems relieved about that fact. He’s so invested in the wedding in some ways. But the fun parts of it? He’s just skipping right over them. I’m still cranked up over the “slutty” comment from his mother, so my tone with Augie is not becoming of a nice Southern girl, as my mother would say.
I cock my head with some sass. “Just because you don’t want me to have any fun doesn’t mean you can’t have a party with your friends.”
Augie chuckles bitterly. “All my friends are your friends. I lost touch with mine when we started dating.”
This is a whole new topic he’s never brought up until now, and it sort of paints him in a different light. I don’t know if I’m supposed to feel bad about this or not, but I feel sad that he doesn’t think he has any friends. Maybe his friends don’t stick around because his mother is insufferable. “Oh. I thought you liked my friends.”
He pauses, then picks up his phone again. “I never said I did or didn’t. It just is what it is.”
I lean back in my chair and look at him, sipping my wine. “This is the first time I’m hearing this. They all like you.”
Augie looks up and squints at me when I pour myself a second glass of wine. “They’re very loud, and all they ever talk about is food like it’s the be-all-end-all.”
Thinking back on some of our parties, that’s kind of true. “Well, you just described me, so, good luck being married to me. And by the way, you design fast food architecture, so cooking and baking are adjacent to your interests.”
Augie lolls his head back, plops his phone down on the table, and presses his thumbs into his closed eyes in frustration. Myrtle makes a comment about husbands over careers, but I mostly tune her out.
My throat scratchy from fighting back a lump of sadness, I say, “You shouldn’t feel obligated to spend your time with people who don’t bring you joy, Augie.”
For a few brief seconds, Augie and I stare at each other.
To my surprise, Augie reaches over and grasps my hand where it rests on the table. “You know what? I’m sorry. Everything is too emotionally charged at the moment. Let’s change the subject.”
And just like that, I recognize my old friend Augie again. The one I can talk to about stuff when his mom’s not breathing down his neck.
Honestly, I don’t know what to say next.
So, thank god, Bishop has sidled up to the table. My stomach cartwheels when the dashing big boss shoots me a look. His mouth isn’t quite set in the usual grim straight line, but it’s also not exactly a smirk. His whole face is somewhere close to smoldering. Like a thousand sexy male models in a thousand bridal magazine advertisements for luxury watches, only turned up to a dangerous level. And the smoldering is aimed right at me. My body reacts in oh so many inappropriate ways. I bet he smells delicious.
Ugh, what’s wrong with me?
Myrtle pipes up. “Thank you, young man; I’d love another.” She lifts her empty bar glass, and I can’t take it anymore.
“Actually, Myrtle, he’s the owner I told you about. He’s the one who offered us the rooms and the ballroom for the wedding. And so much more.” In the second that I pause, I see Bishop’s eyes flick down to my neck; I don’t mind because I’m admiring his scruff, perfectly shaved to accent his strong jaw instead of hide it. Just long enough to tempt a woman to touch it. Nuzzle it. The kind of perfect scruff to make me swoon while making out. Or make me scream while he’s busy between my legs.
I know it’s wrong. I would never cheat on Augie. But the way Bishop looks at me, I can’t not think of sex. And it’s been so long since I’ve been touched…
I mean, the man is objectively attractive, with his fine suits and perfect manners. But he’s also fascinating and mysterious. Bishop’s face tells a story. He has a faint scar on his forehead that gives a slightly asymmetrical look to his eyebrows.
Pretending I’m not thinking these messed up thoughts about my boss, I continue with the introductions. “Myrtle, Augie, this is Bishop Frye. Bishop, meet my fiancé and future mother-in-law.”
The ensuing small talk is too much for me. Augie and Myrtle are lapping up Bishop’s attention. I tune them out and study the way Bishop charms them. It’s very different from how he speaks to me. Professional, but also like he’s switched on. Just doing his job. He’s professional with me too, but he’s also come off as genuine and relaxed in all of our interactions, if not the most smiley guy I’ve ever met.
I study Augie’s mannerisms too, and I see the tell-tale signs of my fiancé’s ego in contrast to Bishop’s.
“You must be very proud of our Cherise,” Bishop says, listing off every one of my food awards. How did he know about those? It’s not the International Taste Performance Award, for heaven’s sake. I’m not José Andrés; I’m just plain ol’ Cherise Williams from Charlotte, North Carolina.
