Page 71 of How to Ruin Your Ex's Wedding
Geeks One and Two look at me, then each other, then start to laugh. “Of course you did,” Geek One says.
“I did,” I say.
“Yup,” Geek Number Two chimes in.
“I took her virginity, mother fuckers,” I add, immediately regretting it, but caring more about my pride than Tabatha’s feelings at this point.
Because, first and foremost, apparently, I’m an asshole.
“Yeah, right,” Geek Number One comes back with. Then he elbows the other geek next to him. “This guy says he took the queen’s virginity.”
The other geek gives me a onceover and responds with, “Yeah, right.”
Bunch of articulate motherfuckers.
“I’m Pax Baldwin, her high school sweetheart, first husband, star ofKeeping Tabs. Ring a bell?” I ask.
Both shake their heads.
I pour myself some more wine and drink it.
“Why would Hunter want her ex to be here?”
“Uh, because Gregor is my best friend and that was the only way to get him here.”
“Yeah, right.” Geek Number Two rolls his eyes.
Fuck these guys.
“Gregor,” I call down the table. Conversation stops. Gregor looks at me, eyebrow raised. “Who am I?” I ask him.
“Pax,” he says.
“Right,” I say. “But who am I to you?”
Gregor smiles, pushes back his chair, and stands. Then he starts to sing, in true Gregor style, a little ditty by Joe Cocker made famous by a TV show calledThe Wonder Years. Asking about what we’d do if he sang out of tune. And I know he’s singing to me. I think the rest of these blowhards might think he’s including them as well. But no way, mo-fos, this here ismybest friend. And he’s singing to me. So, what do I do? I get up and sing with him.
Now, we’ve never made this a duet before. Really, we’ve never made anything Gregor does a group effort, so it’s not just this song. I’m not entirely sure, once I get up there, that he’s okay sharing the spotlight. Mostly because I don’t quite have the rhythm he does, nor can I really carry a tune. And public venues don’t typically give me the same leeway they do G. I know this all makes it seem like I can’t do shit. But I can.
First, I take pictures in the middle of fucking wars. Like, with gunfire and bombs and shit. I mean, yeah, I can’t golf or bowl, I can’t carry a tune, and I’m not the best solo dancer. But I jump out of planes, rappel buildings, run from explosions, and dodge rapid gunfire, all in the name of realistic photojournalism. And I’m a total badass when I want to be. So, the fact that these douchebags don’t believe me when I tell them who I am, is on them. Not me.
But with this song, I have to admit, it probably would have been better had I just let Gregor do his thing. Now it’s too late. I’m up here with him, the song is coming to an end, and I’m not real sure what to do.
“We’re taking requests,” I yell out, belatedly realizing all eyes in the main dining room are on us. Gregor can get away with this stuff. One, he’s a really big guy so no one ever has the balls to stop him. And two, even more importantly, people expect it from him. He dances on the sidelines during games, he breaks into song whenever he wants, and he’s a celebrity. Sports celebrities always get to do what they want.
“No, we’re not taking requests,” Gregor responds as he sits back down.
I take my seat. Geek’s One and Two are suitably impressed with my status in Gregor’s life so I feel as though I’ve redeemed myself in their eyes, even if they don’t still believe that I slept with Tabby first.
* * *
We move into the back room for scotch and cigars about an hour later. Hunter and his friends take forever to finish a meal. I finally get to sit next to Gregor again and only have to deal with a geek on my other side. Hunter has brought in a number of leather couches and chairs for us to sit in. The lighting is dim, but not so much that it’s hard to see, and ceiling fans spin on low. Enough to circulate the air around the smoke, but not so much that you can’t light a cigar properly.
Hunter has girls that wander around with trays filled with cigars, different brands of scotch, and expensive-looking glasses. Another has whiskey ice rocks for those who prefer a chill to their heat. The girls are dressed like vintage “bunnies” in nightclubs. Short shorts, heels, fitted jackets, pillbox hats, and trays more like low-side boxes with straps around their necks to help them hold it.
“Won’t Tabatha mind about the girls?” one of the geeks asks Hunter.
“No,” he says. “She’s not the type to get jealous. Very even-keeled, that one.”
