Author's Note: I would first like to say thank you for all the support I've been receiving for this series, you guys rock!
Secondly, I've been working on a first person writing style with more emotional storytelling, so please provide feedback or comments if you like the changes on this third chapter. Also, I would love to work with other authors working on similar stories or projects or a collections of work, so feel free to reach out to me.
Lastly, if this story touched you, please pass it on or recommend it to others, so it can be a blessing to someone else.
Thanks everyone!!
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It being a humid summer night, walking into the reception hallway at the Greek Center with air conditioning blasting cool air is a blessing. The old fashion Italian music playing in the background takes a minute to get use to as I walk into the Grand Ballroom.
I'm taken back by the elegance of the whole room. The rose covered draperies, dark red silk table covers, and the red vases of red roses on top of the tables are a perfect matching theme. I except people will be trying to leave with the vases when they leave for the night, so I make a mental note to do the same. As I take a closer look at the tables, there are white candles in the shape of rose petals floating in black dishes filled with water. I have one word it, fancy.
There are enough dishes of pasta with tiny meatballs in tomato sauce and bowls bread to feed a small army, with enough bottles of wine to knock them out. And yet somehow the guests have yet to stain their formal dresses and three piece suits. I suddenly recall Megan's only instruction to wear something nice with anxiety. I briefly look over my strapless, sleeveless black dress and five inch Stiletto heels, and my thin purse with a long thin chain that's handing on my shoulder. I feel like a stripper walking into a Church by accident.
Thankfully, I see that several of the guests are too busy dancing on the dance floor clapping and dancing in circles or eating their meals. And the groomsmen and bridesmaids at the bridal party head table looks tired and involved in personal conversations. I look at the wedding cake. It's been cut into but it's still mostly one solid white piece, with the frosting base partially picked off at the sides; a testimony of having children at this party I'm sure.
Not ready to look lost and pathetic, I get Megan's attention at the bridal table with a wave and she looks at me with a disbelieving glance. I thought she, being recently titled my girlfriend after my twentieth birthday party, would come to the rescue. But instead she sits there judging me with her eyes. If she wants me to dress up like a pretty doll at parties, then she should have paid for an outfit.
Not wanting to stand there like an idiot, I point to the tables and shrug my shoulders. After getting the attention of most of the bridal party directed at her, Megan points to the table back at the end of the room and she goes back to talking to a groomsmen. Since we haven't talked or seen each other since yesterday afternoon, I assume she's in wedding mode. But as soon she reverts to back to Earth mode, we're going to get into it.
I look behind me and see table twenty with my name tag in front of a vacant chair. I wonder if it's by design or family politics that my table is occupied by women as old as grandmothers and dressed in black like widows. During my walk to my table, I look away from the lustful eyes from married and the judging eyes of their wives.
Miraculously, I make it to my table without getting into a catfight. I exchange glances with Megan, she smiles at me but I turn my back to her; a little bitchy, but necessary. I sit down at the table and I'm ready to play the cards fate is about to deal me.
"Hi, I'm Courtney." I comment with a smile.
The ladies make brief introductions, but as they look over my dress as I cross and expose my bare legs they make private comments to themselves. But their tone, my outfit choice isn't to their liking. Great, I'm too vulnerable to be left alone with men, I might influence young women, but these ladies were the best I could be matched with.
I decide own up to the moment. "I'm the girlfriend of one of the bridesmaids."
The information couldn't be translated in Italian and Greek fast enough across the table.
One of them asks, "Who?"
Despite how I feel about Megan right now, we're still unofficial to the public. But we have our moments. The love notes that she leaves me are beautiful and makes up for not being able to hold hands in the hallways.
"The cute one," I reply back with a grin. As they grumble amongst themselves, I reach for and grab the open bottle champagne in front of me and pour myself a full glass; it's going to be a long night.
After several glasses, the grannies start talking in broken English about the wedding and the happy couple. By the end of it, I now know that the theme of the wedding is red because the happy couple once made a joke while dating that red should be their neutral color and it stuck. Frankly it explains why all the bridesmaids look like Christmas gifts in their light red dresses and white bows around their waist.
I also know that the choir sung both Italian and Greek traditional music. I smile while looking away at the DJ in opposite corner. I wonder when he's going to play some traditional American music, like Skrillex. I look across at the kid's table as I hear them laughing and I have a response ready if those little punks are laughing at my expense. But I relax when I see that the kids are looking at something funny on their cell phones. I probably have more in common with them than I do with the grannies.
I hear a loud, playful laugh behind me. I turn around and I see the bride making her way towards my table, talking to a few people as she does. From what Megan briefly told me, the bride is a language professor with five degrees. But she said nothing about her being 5.6, slim, beautiful, and having nearly flawless tan skin. Where this pool of women that Megan hangs out at and when can I take a swim?
The bride makes her way to our table. I uncross my legs and prepare to stand up to greet her but she bends down and gives me a solid hug, stopping me from standing to my feet or moving.
"Hey you," the bride says nicely.
"Hey," I reply back with a slight chuckle, taken back by her friendliness.
I hug her back, soaking in her sweet smelling perfume; she smells like how angels should smell like. As she stands up straight, I stop myself from staring at her legs that are showing through the slit of her modern wedding dress.
As I look up at her, the job done to style her black hair and her gleaming makeup is amazing. Not to scare her off for looking at her like a stalker, I immediate say, "Congratulations on your marriage."
She gleams with a happy smile. "Aww, thank you sweetie! I'm so glad you came!"
As she rubs my shoulder, I can smell alcohol on her breathe, a lot of it. And her voice, sadly, is like listening to a bad actress with a high pitched voice in some low budget nineties movies. But as she bends downs to help herself to some of the champagne at my table, my eyes are drawn to her cleavage; 38C's at the very least.
After she drinks a glass full, I quickly think of something to say that's respectful. "I want to have an affair with you." I cover my mouth in shock as she looks at me with a double take. I move my hand away. "I mean...ah...shit, sorry. I was suppose to say that this party is a nice affair, but my hormones has done made me stupid."
She laughs and kisses both my cheeks, with her lips slightly pressing against the sides of my lips. "I like you! I got to go, but help yourself to whatever you want, even the drinks, no one is going to rat you out here." She gives me a wink.
"Way ahead of you."
She laughs loudly, giving me another pinch on my cheek. I watch her turn around and walk away; the bride just oozes sex appeal with her hips. As I wipe her cherry lipstick off my face with a napkin, I imagine her singing a blues song with Salma Hayek's sultry voice, resting on top of piano with a tight evening dress on. I cross my legs.
I watch the bride walk to other table, brightening moods with hugs, kisses, and taking pictures. I smile as she either lightly slaps people's hands, their faces, pinches their chins, or all the above. She also takes their drinks away and downs it one gulp; this is a woman I want to hang out with at a club next year.
Greek music starts to play in the background, not that I was sure or cared; I'm still looking at the bride, imagining what heaven takes like. Realizing what I'm thinking, I make mental notes to go to confession next Sunday. In my moment of moral crisis, the best man walks to me and introduces himself. Then he asks me to the dance floor.
Before I can think of a way to politely say no, he whispers, "Megan told me to give you company to ensure you stop hitting on the bride."
I smile while slowly eyeing the bridal table. Megan is taking a slow drink from her glass, watching me, waiting for my response; her masquerade is crumbling. I accept his offer, only because I feel the stares from the grannies are burning a hole in my head after my shameful interaction with the bride. Otherwise I would make Megan stew. I take my purse and put it over my shoulder.
As we dance, I admire his black suit and white tie. He looks very handsome for a middle-aged man, but he looks uncomforting dancing with me, looking away from me as often as possible. And when he shares stories about his wife and children, I think he's making mental reminders that he's married. But I take no offense and I feel comfortable to outwardly laugh at his last joke, until his wife scoops him away with a smile at me but shoot him a look that could kill an adult elephant.
