“I can’t believe James let her spend $700,000 of Anterdec corporate funds on that wedding,” I say.
Andrew starts choking. His phone buzzes at the same time, and the waiter delivers some sort of bacon-wrapped fig thing in front of him as Andrew fights to check his phone.
Declan’s stomach growls and he drops my hand. “Sorry. Food first. Affection later.” We grin at each other, and Amanda relaxes. This give-and-take between the four of us is casual and comfortable, weirdly familiar and blindingly new. Is this what adult life feels like? Are the four of us about to become a thing, with regular social time spent together and dinners out?
If so, it’s an exciting prospect. Dec and Andrew spar and compete, but underneath it all they’re each other’s best friend. Amanda and I are besties. In this foursome, the getting-to-know-you phase is strongest between me and Andrew, but then again, he’s seen me naked. I’ve seen him drunk.
And we have that whole deadly bee-and-wasp-sting allergy in common.
We have a decent foundation here.
Andrew’s call is short but yields this nugget of information:
“PR says the value of all this free press is probably going to be more than the cost of the wedding. Good Morning America, The Today Show, The View, and Ellen Degeneres all want you on their shows.” He doesn’t even bother looking at Declan, zeroing in on me just as I shove a piece of shrimp in my mouth.
“Hmmmm?” He clearly thinks I’m the softer of the two of us, as if appealing to me to go on those shows will work.
“No.” Declan’s answer is firm.
“I wasn’t telling you.” Andrew ignores Declan, eyes on me, charm turned on to the Nth degree.
“Mmmmm mmmm mmmmm hmmm mfff,” I try.
I fail.
Amanda just shakes her head and leans in to Andrew. “I think they’ve had enough. Do they really need to go on major morning news shows and talk about what happened?”
“It’s them or Marie.”
“They’re trying to book her mother on those shows?” Declan asks, incredulous.
Andrew surveys the table with hawk eyes that make me realize I consistently underestimate him. “No. They think she’s too unstable to book.”
“They’re right,” Declan answers.
I kick him under the table. He reaches down to rub his ankle.
“You know,” he says tersely, “it would really be helpful if you wore a sign of some kind to indicate when it’s acceptable to refer to Marie as crazy, and when it is not. This is getting old.”
“Sorry. Habit.”
“Look,” Andrew says evenly, “it’s basic public relations. Anterdec’s getting great passive positive mentions in the traditional press, social media, and on podcasts.”
“Podcasts?” I squeak.
“Oh, yeah. One of the wedding guests fed audio of Marie’s meltdown as you were leaving, and it’s epic,” Amanda says.
“One of the wedding guests? The initials wouldn’t be JC, would they?”
“Jesus Christ,” Declan mutters.
“Was he on the invitation list?” Andrew asks drolly. “I wouldn’t be surprised.”
“Jessica Coffin,” Amanda says in a voice that makes me love her even more. “The Antichrist herself.”
Declan stares at Andrew, who suddenly isn’t making eye contact with anything not fermented. So many secrets between these two. So many.
Too many.
My Spidey Sense is tingling. The subtext between them runs deep.
Bzzzzz.
My phone. My mom. The message:
We have to talk about this. What are you doing for lunch?
I look around, grab another giant shrimp, and drown my sorrows in shellfish.
“Marie?” Amanda asks, perking up. She turns her head just as Andrew leans toward her, and her dangling earring catches in his hair. Untangling it, she laughs, the sunlight shining on the gemstones.
I laugh and look at Declan.
Who is stone-faced, staring at her ear.
Then he grabs his phone and types quickly in a series of text messages.
“Did Mom text you, too?”
“What?” He seems distracted.
“My mom,” I repeat. “She texted me. Insists we need to talk.”
“She’s right.”
“I know she’s right,” I murmur as Andrew and Amanda start making out across the table. The shrimp cocktail is just close enough to their suckfacefest that I know I’ll be rude if I do a reach-over for another delicious piece, but—
“We do need to talk. Marie needs to apologize to you.”
You know that moment in the movies where the record scratches and everyone freezes, because the director has the creative license to make the world stop for dramatic flair?
Yeah. That’s not what happens.
Andrew and Amanda start laughing until tears fill Amanda’s eyes and she huff-snorts, “Good luck with that.”
“Even I’m not that delusional,” Andrew adds.
There’s that word again.
Delusional.
Declan takes it all well, a triumphant grin covering his face while I tear into a piece of filet mignon the size of a casino chip, covered in a tower of edible colors and woven pieces of white greenleaf lettuce that look like a group of fiber arts majors at the Rhode Island School of Design spent their entire semester-long internship in the kitchen for this single dish.
I cut it mercilessly with a knife, the Godzilla of culinary design.
Mmmm. Perfection in medium rare form. Nom nom nom. Sorry, RISD.
“I don’t actually expect Marie to apologize,” Dec clarifies. “That’s like getting Dad to admit he’s wrong.”