The crowd came out onto the patio and she pointed to a semi-stage area for us where we would be under the pergola and yet in full view of the whole crowd as they gathered round to watch. And then our cue, this had been planned in advance. “Young man...” the song began, and then we were The Village People.
Performing the song “YMCA” had an incredible level of irony to it, when you thought about it, for a bachelorette party. But hey, we didn’t choose it. We just showed up, collected our tips, and gave everyone a good time. The average age in the crowd was probably thirty-five. The bride was a pleasant, giggly woman who reminded me of a blonde version of Amy, if Amy had been raised on the Back Bay of Boston. Then again, every client reminded me of Amy. Hell, every woman I walked past on the street reminded me of her. It made life both easy and hard, all at once.
As we danced I heard a voice cut through the music and it threw me off guard. Darla? Was Darla here? I could hear it faint and floating on the wind, but I had to ignore it. Maybe a guest just happened to have her accent. It was eerie. It set me on guard.
I knew that Amy and Darla were out for the evening, Darla had told me so I hadn’t worried that I was abandoning Amy for the night. It had given me a sense of security in keeping my secret for another night, because it was one more evening where maybe I could stall before letting her know.
A woman in a long, flowing burgundy outfit, the skirt jagged on purpose, some sort of a fashion style, came up to me and pressed her body against my leg as I ground my hip into hers. “Do you do extras?” she whispered in my ear, the scent of Shalimar overwhelming.
I looked at her and did exactly what Louise had taught me to do, which was to give her a half-smile, a cocky grin, and say, “Sorry, but I’m taken,” and then to thumb toward Jack. He’d made it clear when he was hired that he would do anything. When I’d first learned that some guys did anything, I’d felt a sense of disgust. How hypocritical is that?
I’d take the hypocritical label over what those guys did, though. Not my thing. And yet, I couldn’t judge any more. Women wanted them, women paid them for more than a look or a quick touch, and everyone walked away with a happy ending.
So to speak.
Amy
I reached down into my front pocket and felt for my phone. I could check it again but...why? There wasn’t going to be a new text. It had only been seven minutes since I’d checked it last. This quiet from Sam was bothering me. I wasn’t deeply worried, but more something rattled around in my mind that told me that things weren’t quite what I thought they were, on the surface at least. Sam wasn’t like that, he didn’t bullshit people. What you saw was what you got, and so, there was something cagey about him lately, as if he were keeping a secret.
As a cool breeze swept in, made my bangs fly into my eyes, I pushed them aside and thought of how Sam did the same with his hand, especially in between songs when he played. Everything these days reminded me of him. Everything should remind me of Sam, because everything was Sam. This busyness on a weekend, when he wasn’t playing, though...that wasn’t Sam.
Where was he? He obviously wasn’t here with me, and I had no reason to doubt him. It’s not like he was out screwing some other girl, right? He wasn’t the type.
Darla walked back out onto the balcony and said, “Hey, come on in. Have a drink.” She peered down. “Whoa—that’s one hell of a bachelorette party, huh?” I followed looking down, and tracking her eyes. A group of people crammed a ground floor patio, a set of four guys acting like they were The Village People. Women pressed their bodies up against headless torsos, the men’s upper bodies obscured by an awning. Whatever was going on down there, it certainly looked like fun. More power to them.
Darla grabbed my elbow and pulled me in. Somehow, she magically conjured an Amaretto Sour and gave it to me with a big grin. “How’d you know?”
“That’s what you were drinking when I met you that first night in the bar.”
I narrowed my eyes. Maybe that’s why she was so popular with people. She paid attention. Maybe I needed to pay more attention to other people, and less attention to myself. Or maybe I just needed to pay attention, period. “Thank you,” I said, meaning it deeply.
“You’re welcome.” We looked around the crowd. There were a number of people who looked just like us, except more sophisticated. That awkwardness that poured into my cells when I was at a big party began to fill me. Darla sensed it. “We don’t have to stay if this isn’t your thing.”
Jane appeared out of nowhere, looking more and more like Wednesday Addams with red hair. “Darla, may I have a word with you?” she said pleasantly, her voice modulated and friendly, her face a mask of neutrality.
“Sure.” Darla shrugged. “Be back,” she said to me, and I nodded.
Drawn by an invisible force to the balcony again, I stood out there. Three or four people smoked cigarettes, in animated conversations it was obvious I wasn’t meant to join. That was okay. The cold iron of the railing was a balm, and I looked down on that giant party again, now watching women about ten years older than me stuffing bills of undetermined amounts into the waistbands of guys with physiques that reminded me of Sam’s and Liam’s.
They were wearing hats, and...was that red hair under one of them? And surfer blonde hair under another? I couldn’t see their faces but something really familiar was making an alarm bell go off in me. I closed my eyes and shook my head quickly. Stop it, Amy, I told myself, this is ridiculous. You’re creating shadows to be afraid of. What kind of demented mind did I have that I would try to make a couple of male strippers into the two guys that I kept fantasizing about, one of whom was my bedmate...and maybe my soulmate.
I tried. I really, deeply tried. I drank the Amaretto Sour. I looked out on the river and watched a small boat go by. I even pretended to care about the rantings of some Libertarian next to me who was talking about convincing fifty thousand people to move to New Hampshire, and take over the state. For the next thirty minutes, I tried. And I failed.
As the party downstairs got louder and louder, I finally heard someone shout, “It’s a Diana sandwich!”
Whoever Diana was, she wasn’t going to be the meat rubbing up against any two pieces of bread I might know. This was silly, I knew it, but it also gave me an excuse to leave. I gently found my way back to the front door and didn’t even bother to try to find Jane, who was pointing to a disturbing bit of watercoloring on her wall that appeared to be different shades of blood. Darla found me just as I was walking down the hallway.
“Where ya goin’?” she asked.
“It’s just too hot in there,” I said.
“But you were out on the balcony.”
“I- I need to go...I’m going to wander and just get some air. I’m not leaving for good.”
“Okay,” she said.
I stumbled down to the stairway, meandering slowly, the drink hitting my head faster than I thought. The stairs and hallway were extremely narrow and not well-lit, unless you were right in front of an apartment door. Dark, stained oak trim and molding made the hall seem tiny, and my body pitched a bit. That was one stiff drink.