Things I can’t Explain (27 page)

“So let's find Marshall and Janet and split this burg,” I say, peering about as everyone lines up to give Genelle and Wendell their best wishes. Unfortunately, Mom and Dad are well down the line and I don't think I can legitimately pull them out at this point.

“So you're going to come clean and tell them the truth?” Nick asks. How did he know what I was thinking? Has he added mind reading to his abilities? I kind of don't like the way it cramps my wiggle room.

“Yes,” I say curtly, hating that I sound defensive. I feel especially bad when I look over at Marshall and Janet and see how content they seem. Do I really want to interrupt their happiness with something as awful as the truth?

But I swallow my pride and take us meandering to the other side of the receiving line, figuring there's no need to give the bride and groom our best wishes, because, frankly, they aren't going to get any better wish than the wish we just gave them. So we'll wait, ready to pounce on Mom and Dad as they exit, freshly renewed by Genelle's wedding effect. After all, Mom and Dad might be one of the few couples here actually feeling the glow of Genelle's bliss.

We walk around the tables as the guests mingle and look at the swag. There's tons of signage about their website but I suppose every bride and groom has a web link, Tumblr, and Instagram these days. The Fleckersteins have all that and then some.

Her book is everywhere. I understand how writers have to shamelessly self-promote at every opportunity, but it's hard to tell whether Genelle is using her book to promote her wedding or her wedding to promote her book.

Picking up one of the autographed copies that sit on every table and bar, I survey the bright red book jacket of
A Mean Girl's Guide to Change, Love, and Enlightenment
. In the jealous blur of our coffee shop encounter I really hadn't looked at the cover. Upon closer inspection I see it depicts Genelle in all her Photoshopped glory, looming like a giantess. She's holding a miniature guy in her hand. He clings (for dear life) to her fingers while offering a bouquet of flowers in supplication. Genelle has that self-satisfied look of a girl in control, which I'm guessing is what passes for enlightenment in her universe.

They also have plenty of custom-made wedding day plunder scattered throughout the reception area, including a monogrammed canvas bag with Genelle's book cover on the back side as well as a monogrammed four-tiered wedding cake that matches the monogrammed napkin rings. Even the bride's own miniature English bulldog wears a monogrammed bow tie. The Fleckersteins are registered at Neiman Marcus, Christofle, and Tiffany. I called to see if they had a Tiffany butt plug, but no such luck.

The waiters hand out monogrammed water bottles with Genelle and Wendell's names on the label. Don't ask why but I worry mine might be poisoned. I'm hoping we can get this over with pronto and split. The thought of watching Wendell feed Genelle a hunk of wedding cake makes me nauseous—it's an image I hope to avoid at all costs. But overall, for the moment, I'm feeling really good about coming to this shindig and how it's played out.

Nick and I help ourselves to hors d'oeuvres and pluck crystal champagne flutes off a passing tray. We meander, sipping bubbly and making small talk with perfect strangers until I spot my parents breaking free of the receiving line. Dad is wearing the suit he used to wear to client meetings back when he still had clients. Mom's wearing an off-the-rack beige satin ensemble with rhinestone buttons; the skirt hovers indecisively at the mid-calf mark. She looks a decade or two behind the times, but still pretty. With her newly earned riches I thought Janet would have bought something more extravagant, but then again that might have contrasted poorly with Marshall. Besides, moms can get away with that kind of look and Janet has always been frugal.

I'm determined to get my confession out of the way before the endive and goat cheese salad is served. Dad sees Nick and me coming and smiles—but only at me.

“Hey, Sport!” he says and gives me a hug. His expression turns frosty as he nods to my date. “Hello, Nick,” he says, as if his name rhymes with “dirt.”

Mom gives me a hug. I'm pleased when she hugs Nick, too. I think it's her way of telling him she's rooting for us.

“Look, guys,” I say. “There're a few things I'd like to clear up.”

“So would I,” Dad grumbles, shooting a stern look at Nick, which is completely uncalled for. Nick doesn't even know the whole backstory about my parents observing his “cheater's” kiss with Roxie, so he's not sure what to make of Dad's misplaced disdain, but he keeps his cool mainly because I think he genuinely likes my parents. But it's all the more reason I need to get this over with before the layers of misunderstanding pile even higher.

“Well, when you guys surprised me at, um … work … that day…” I begin, “I was there because—”

“There you are!” we hear, and all four of us snap around to find the source of that overly enthusiastic, utterly affected, upper-crust, mid-Atlantic inflection—Dartmoor Millburn. He insinuates himself into the very midst of our little group, effectively sandbagging my mea culpa before I can say a word to stop him. Who else could make an appearance at a more inconvenient time?

“Well, hello, Clarissa,” he warbles and gives me an up-and-down look, ogling me the same way he did that first day when I stepped off the elevator. I guess my dress is making an impression and I wonder where the previously mentioned Aubrey is—Dartmoor seems solo.

Nick takes notice and reaches out to shake Dartsy's hand.

“Hi, my name is Nick. I didn't catch yours?
”

“Dartmoor Millburn,” he says frostily. Why, I'm not sure. Is his dignity bruised because he's been improperly introduced? Or is it that I'm with a real man as opposed to a man-child like Norm? But it actually seems like it might be something else. There's no way he could be jealous or anything, right?

Nick shakes Dartmoor's hand, but simultaneously slips his other arm around my waist, pulling me closer. The gesture feels so natural and comfortable; anyone watching would think we've had years of practice.

“Oh, right. Nick,” Dartmoor says and smiles devilishly. “I do recall hearing about you and Clarissa.” A momentary expression of concern crosses Nick's normally tranquil face and I can imagine he's wondering what he's gotten himself into here. I realize that from Nick's point of view, how would anyone I know besides my parents even realize he exists?

But Dartmoor has already shifted focus to my parents. I cringe. No good can come of this. None whatsoever.

“And you must be Clarissa's parents,” Dartmoor oozes. “A pleasure to meet you both. I'm Clarissa's boss.”

Mom smiles and Dad stands up a little straighter.

“It's great to meet you, Mr. Millburn,” says Dad. “Tell me, how long have you been at the
Daily Post
?”

“Beg your pardon?” Dartmoor blinks in confusion. “I've never been employed by the
Daily Post
.” At least four entire sets of explanations instantaneously flood my mind, sadly none of them the truth. That's how typical it is for me to lie to my parents, but I hold my tongue.

Dad is outright alarmed and Dartmoor takes note. Before I can venture an explanation, Dartmoor cuts me off.

“Clarissa, dear, haven't you told your parents about your new job?”

A look of embarrassment must have crossed my face because Dartmoor's smile broadens. It doesn't matter because this time, I'm determined to face reality. But before I can say another word Dartmoor beats me to the punch again.

“Oh, you haven't even told them about the last job,” he adds gleefully.

Marshall and Janet look at me with strange bewilderment.

Even though this is the least favorable set of circumstances in which to do so, I have an obligation to Nick, myself, and my parents to put all the cards on the table. If there's hope for Nick and me, I've got to come clean, even if it's in the presence of Dartbug.

“Mom, Dad, I've been trying to tell you, that when you surprised me at—” But before I can finish, a uniformed server walks into the midst of our little drama and interrupts my moment of truth by clanging a triangle-shaped bell.

“The newlyweds Mr. and Mrs. Fleckerstein require your presence at the first dance immediately,” she demands. I want to scream but I keep my cool.

“Well, I'd love to help you sort this out,” Dartmoor adds, gleefully looking my way, “but duty calls.” Thankfully, Dartsy dashes away.

“I'm sorry about all the confusion,” I say, trying to get Mom and Dad's attention, but they're already distracted. Dad seems ready to listen to me but Mom interrupts.

“Marshall, we have to go,” she says, pulling Dad toward the dance floor.

“But Mom, I have something to tell you. It's important,” I say, feeling like a little girl again, grabbing her arm to slow her down. “Besides, aren't they supposed to wait until after dinner to dance?” I ask.

“Actually, Clarissa, this is the way it's being done more and more these days. It gives the bride and groom a chance to shine,” Mom says, as if she reads bride and wedding blogs all the time.

“Janet, shouldn't we wait to hear Clarissa out?” Dad chimes in.

“If Clarissa has waited this long to tell us what's really going on it can wait a few more moments,” Mom replies sternly. “I'd really like to support Genelle on her special day of bliss.”

I'm a bit taken aback by how abrupt she is, but I take a deep breath and release Mom's arm from my clammy grip and watch them walk away.

“You tried,” Nick says sympathetically. “By the way, you didn't tell me your boss had the hots for you.”

“No way,” I respond indignantly, but knowing I thought so, too.

I'm too disturbed to say anything more so we gravitate like everyone else to the dance floor as the band strikes up a florid rendition of “If I Were a Carpenter.” The band is decent, but the song is cringe-worthy. Especially because Genelle and Wendie have a fully choreographed first dance that includes Wendell on his knees and Genelle prancing circles around him. I scan the audience, certain that someone is recording this for YouTube in the hopes it will go viral as a promotion for her book.

I find Mom and Dad as soon as the song comes to a close, but they are already dancing together to the next song and Mom won't even catch my eye.

“I give up,” I say. “I'll tell them another time—let's get out of here.”

But Nick is looking at me as if he has no intention of leaving.

“Okay, why are you looking at me like that?” I ask, a little worried.

“Well, as I recall, there was an agreement that left kissing, touching, and dancing open to negotiation, right?” He grabs my hand and walks me to the dance floor and in that moment all my complications and explanations slowly drift away.

I knew we were pushing our luck, but how could I say no?

 

CHAPTER
29

We easily find a spot on the sparsely populated dance floor near Dr. Hart, my hometown dentist, and his wife, Paula. The band kicks up an old-school song that I've always considered an anthem of romance, “Collide,” by Howie Day.

As we begin to dance, three giggly preteen girls take to the parquet wooden floor making duck faces and heart gestures, miming the words of the song.

Nick pulls me into his arms and I am not surprised at how easily I fit. He's a nothing-fancy dancer, but swaying with Nick is like a deep, extended hug and I let him guide me as we cuddle and sweep across the dance floor to the lyrics. His hands drift down to my hips, wrapping his fingers around my lower back, and my heart pounds. He invites me to twirl. So he does have a few
DWTS
tricks up his sleeve. I make a 360 and return finding myself deeper in his embrace.

I can't help thinking,
This is a
Dawson's Creek
moment
. I was pretty young when
Dawson's Creek
was on originally, but over time like a lot of people my age, I caught up with the teen soap and sometimes kicked back on weekends to watch it on Netflix.

Dawson's Creek
was the place where I learned about booty calls, lingering looks, and lip-biting as a form of seduction. Teenagers—those unusually beautiful ones in Capeside, Massachusetts, who had that weird Hollywood growth defect that made them look like they were in their early thirties—didn't fall in love, they “collided” like billiard balls bouncing off each other. Before Katie became Tom-Kat and then Suri-Kat, when Abercrombie zip-up hoodies were all I ever wanted to wear, there was “Collide,” the song Nick and I were dancing to.

“Collide” has always meant a lot to me, but the lyrics are enigmatic—is it about a relationship beginning or ending? Will they stay together or just collide? To me, the song was about inexplicably loving someone, even when you're unsure if you complement each other—one's quiet and one's making a first impression, one's open and one's closed. Dancing with Nick, I couldn't help feeling like Howie wrote his song about us.