Page 146 of Toeing the Line

The door opens a little wider and a face pops out, but it’s backlit and all I can tell is that it’s a woman.

“Zeke?” The voice is more familiar, sharper, shaped like Liza.

“Everything okay?” I ask.

“Is one of the girls out there?” she asks.

There’s nobody around, so I shake my head.

“Need me to find someone?” I ask.

“Damn. No,” she says quickly, leaning out the door a little more. “I’m stuck, and I need some help.”

“Stuck?” I ask, the hair on the back of my neck standing. This smells like trouble.

“I just need a quick hand,” she says, ducking back behind the door, but then she squeals and there’s a thud, as if she’s fallen.

“Liza?” I call, moving down the darkened hallway and toward the door. I knock twice when I reach it.

She doesn’t answer.

Could she be hurt? I make a decision. “Liza? I’m coming in.”

I turn the handle and go inside what appears to be a spacious lounge. There is a long green velvet sofa across from vintage sinks and mirrors. The countertop is littered with makeup bags. But no Liza.

“Liza?” I call, moving into the space and letting the door shut behind me. I move into the anteroom, to where five stalls with floor-to-ceiling doors line the wall to the right.

“My dress is stuck,” she says from behind me in the lounge.

“I’m not sure I can help,” I say, turning back for the room.

“Well, then maybe I can help you,” she purrs.

A chill rushes my spine and even before I see her, I know I’ve made a mistake.

I step back into the lounge. Liza stands blocking the door, wearing nothing but red lace and a wolfish grin.

46

faye

Music fillsthe ballroom as the band plays Van Morrison beneath the mood lighting. Everyone is dancing up a storm thanks to the open bar, and I smile as Edie dances with Uncle George. She’s glowing. She really does make the most beautiful bride, and I have no doubt she and Darwin will make each other ridiculously happy.

I haven’t danced yet. Because I haven’t actually seen Zeke since dinner. It’s funny, my biggest fear about this wedding was that I would sit at a table, alone, while everyone else found someone to dance with. Or that my mother would pimp me out all night.

And yet, here I sit. Alone, watching everyone else dance.

Sure, I could visit with my distant relatives. But honestly? I’m exhausted from trying to explain the reasons I’m still in Portland and why I haven’t moved “back home” yet. Nobody’s buying that my job is keeping me there. And honestly, it’s not. It’s a pretty flimsy excuse for the fact that I’ve had six months to come up with a plan and the only plan I’ve made is to change the birdseed I put in my feeder.

Uncle Jerry catches my eye and starts to make his way across the ballroom toward me. Shit. He always wears too much cologne and it’s not the sort of thing that washes off in the shower. It’s time to put on my big girl panties and go find my date.

I grab my empty glass and lift it to him as if to say I’m getting a fresh drink, and then drop it on a serving tray on my way out the door.

The grand foyer has a chill to it and I rub my hands over my arms. There’s a small crowd of smokers shivering just outside. Zeke isn’t there, nor would I expect him to be. But who’s to say what he’s gotten himself into? My family can be persuasive.

I wander down the hall toward the men’s dressing room, nodding at friends of my parents. I knock on the door, and it opens, revealing a disheveled Eric.

“What’s up, buttercup?” His shirt is unbuttoned and untucked, and I roll my eyes.

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