Page 4 of The One I Need
He quickly stands up and holds out his hand for me. “How about another drink?”
I don’t call him out for the clear deflection. If I did, I’d be the pot calling the kettle black. No one deflects better than me.
My eyes signal to the two barely touched Jack and Cokes on the table. “We still have drinks.”
He shrugs. “And?”
I like his style. “And nothing. Let’s go.”
* * *
“Who are they?”
I point to the two elderly ladies on the dance floor, who I decided about an hour ago I want to be when I grow up.
“That’s Daisy and Doris Abernathy,” Oliver says. He’s been giving me a rundown of the wedding attendees since I only know a few people here. Most of the guests are from Oliver’s hometown of Rolling Hills, which is where the bride and groom also reside. I’ve never lived in a small town, so it’s fascinating to hear Oliver talk about all these people and their life stories. Especially these two. If I wasn’t looking at them right now with my two eyeballs I’d never believe women like this existed.
“They are Rolling Hills royalty and about to celebrate their ninety-ninth birthdays. They go to The Joint, our local bar, every day, and have exactly two beers out of the mason jars that only they can drink out of. They’ve never been married, have lived together their entire lives, but make sure that everywhere they go, they’re the life of the party.”
Life of the party indeed. These two baddies are in the middle of the dance floor, walkers and all, grinding on two of the Fury football players. They are giving a whole new meaning to making their knees touch their elbows.
“Fucking legends.” I fall back against the seat cushion of one of the patio chairs. About an hour ago, Oliver and I decided it was time for fresh air. That and the bartender cut us off. But that didn’t stop us. I stole two bottles of champagne while the bartender was distracted, and Oliver snagged a tray of shots before we made our getaway.
This patio is absolute perfection. It’s the ideal setup for people watching—one of my favorite pastimes. The renovated barn where the reception is being held is modern rustic in every way. But one wall is entirely glass, letting guests sit outside, away from the crowd, while still getting to take in the festivities. Or in our case, giving me a perfect view inside while Mr. Popularity tells me about the guests.
“You want to be Daisy and Doris?”
I look over to Oliver, who’s seated across from me. His arms are resting on the arms of the chair, an empty bottle of champagne in front of him on the table. His tie is undone, and the top button of his white dress shirt is unbuttoned. Every time I take him in I have to force myself not to lick my lips.
“Hell yeah. Never married? Living their best lives? Sounds fucking awesome.”
“You never want to get married?”
Here we go. The marriage talk. This is one of many reasons why I avoid weddings. It never fails that when you’re a single person attending a wedding, someone asks you when it’s your turn. Or why you don’t want to get married. Or if you’re going to try and catch the bouquet because you’re next.
Fuck that shit.
“I don’t,” I say strongly.
“Can I ask why?”
“You can,” I say as I take a sip of my champagne. “But it can be wrapped up in a few words. Not for me.”
“Really?” he says, sitting forward and resting his elbows on his knees. Which is impressive. I know he’s drunk, but he’s acting very sober. It’s like his super power.
“Really,” I say. “Really, really. Love isn’t real. Marriage is a scam. It was probably invented by men to lock down women or some shit.”
“How can you think it’s a scam?” he says. “It’s sooo beautiful.”
Aw, there’s the drunkenness.
“You want to get married?” I’m starting to think now with all this wedding talk that his proposal earlier might have been for real.
“Yup,” he says with an exaggerated pop at the end. “Married. Kids. The whole shebang.”
I hold up my nearly empty bottle. “Well, good luck to you my friend. Make sure to invite me to that one. I promise I won’t steal your booze.”
“You aren’t going to crash it?”
