Page 14 of Work: Strictly Professional

“I knew you didn’t like him in the beginning,” she says eventually. “But I thought you got over that. You always seem to get along when you see him. And you had fun together at Gould and Stuart’s wedding, didn’t you? You laughed every time he threatened to drink a beer out of his shoe.”

We were all blind drunk at Gould and Stuart’s wedding. I can’t remember laughing at that, but if I did, I’m sure it was more an attack of nerves than anything else. Gould might have, but I can’t imagine Stuart would have found that kind of behavior remotely amusing.

The problem with Josh is that he’s okay in small doses. He’s pretty good in a crowd. He’s lovely at large. One-on-one with the person he’s supposed to love is where he falls apart, and when you think about it, one-on-one with the person you love is what really matters.

“I don’t mind the way he treats me, Bridge. I mind the way he treats you.”

She doesn’t talk for a while, nodding her head intermittently at her own thoughts. I’m worried. This isn’t normal for her. She’s usually more of a fly-off-the-handle fighter and not one to mince words.

I go back to making a feeble attempt at an apology. She ignores it, cutting me off as I speak.

“So you don’t think he’s ever going to commit?”

This is a man who took three years to give her a key to his place and then asked for it back two weeks later because he said, and I quote, “I feel funny knowing you have it.”

I know now’s the time for me to start lying my ass off and walk this whole thing back. I know it, but I can’t do it. I’ve held it infor too long, and at the very least, Bridget deserves to know how I feel.

“No, babe. I really, really don’t.”

The shadows in her eyes start to ripple and she presses her knuckles to her lips. I can’t get a clear read on whether she’s upset with me or by what I’ve said, and I don’t have time to. She’s up before I can say another word, grabbing her phone and keys and heading out the door without changing out of her slippers. As soon as the door closes, I start panicking and replaying the scene.

Fucking fuck!

What the fuck did I just do?

Bridget is obviously right. Obviously, I should quit this job. I didn’t even fucking well apply for the damn thing. Why the hell am I having a huge fight with my best friend for suggesting I quit it?

My phone rings, and I rush to answer, hoping it’s Bridget.

“Wynston!” says a loud jock voice. “Hey, bud, it’s Miller here. I’ve got Ryan on speaker.”

Double fuck!

I forgot I’d scheduled a call with them. I’ve been trying to get a hold of them all week, and neither has been easy to pin down, claiming slammed work schedules. I thought booking something on Sunday morning would be foolproof.

“It’s just Wyn,” I say with a big smile. I’ve read that smiling when you talk makes for much less violent communication, and I think I could use that right now. I’ve had just about all the violent communication I can handle for one day.

It turns out that whether you smile or don’t doesn’t make a scrap of difference when both grooms have their heads up their asses.

“To recap,” I say brightly, after going around and around in circles until my head feels set to explode. “You’re not really‘feeling it’ about either of the venues I’ve found that are able to move things around to accommodate you at this very late stage?” There’s a murmur of agreement from Miller, so I continue, “Neither of you wants to serve steak because you eat it a lot at home, and you don’t think anyone makes it better than Ryan?” There’s another murmur from Miller. “You’re both wary of serving chicken even though you aren’t sure why, but you do want chicken nuggets and ketchup for Jamie, as that’s his favorite food and Ryan promised him he could have them at your wedding if he’s good on the plane.” I flick through my notes. “Barbara Anne loves seafood, but she doesn’t eat fish that’s been grilled whole as she doesn’t like her food looking at her. Miller’s friend Trip loves Cheetos, but you don’t want those served at the wedding no matter what, and cabbage gives Ryan’s grandpa gas, so you also don’t want that either. And Emily, Ryan’s best man, is vegan, so you want a vegan option for her and her partner, Kat, whoisn’tvegan but likes eating vegan when they’re out so Emily doesn’t feel left out. But Kat hates legumes, so the vegan option shouldn’t include legumes of any sort. Have I got that right?” My voice lilts up at the end of the sentence, so I take care to bring it down an octave before I continue.

If you’re struggling to keep up, allow me to summarize—the wedding is in less than three weeks, the venue is TBD, and the menu is fucked.

“Shall we move on to music?” I suggest.

“Yeah,” says Miller. Even though I’ve never met the man and can’t see his face as the video keeps dropping off, I have a feeling I’m losing his attention. “We like weird stuff. Leonard Cohen and folksy or bluesy stuff, nothing too mainstream, so we’ll have to get back to you with a song list.”

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

With all due respect to Mr. Cohen, whom I agree was a phenomenal artist, music that sounds like the lead singer is suffering from a bad bout of depression is the last thing we need. It’s a wedding! We want happy. We want uplifting. We wantget off your chair and onto the dancefloor. We wantlet’s celebrate this special day until the sun comes up in the morning.

Not only that, if I had the money, I’d put a million dollars on Ryan and Millernotgetting that list to me until well after the honeymoon.

“Okay,” I say, “we’ll have to come back to that too. Let’s move on to flowers. What are your thoughts?” I’m met with silence so stony that, for a second, I think the line has gone dead. “I’m not looking for much,” I trill. “Just a couple of suggestions. Even just colors or textures that you like would be great.”

More silence.

God. I’m going to have to resign, aren’t I?

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