beside the white limo in the parking lot beside Sacred’s Grand Ballroom, but tried to act casual when I rejoined my girls. Fee was antsy even then, come to think about it.
I whispered to her, “Can you believe I had to drive with the Sherminator?”
“That was stupid, but whatever.”
“Whatever for you. You weren’t the one left behind.”
“You weren’t left behind, Ror. You’re here. Don’t be all like that tonight,” Fee said.
“Like what?”
“You-ish.”
It was only hours ago, and with all that happened afterward it should feel like a blur, but I remember every detail from the second we walked into the ballroom—the twinkling fairy lights strangling the pillars near the stage, the flames from hundreds of candles dancing on either side of the long aisle where we’d stand to take our vows, the bleached tablecloths and gleaming dinner plates, snowy roses in porcelain vases and clouds of pale gardenias on pedestals around the dance floor. Girls in gowns. Celestial. But even before anything went wrong, I could sense a vein of malice slicing through the whiteness of it all, hiding, like a razor blade in snow.
Right away Sherman noticed that the photographer had just set up in a corner of the room and there was no one yet in line. We could be first. Just the way he likes it. So he dragged me over to the booth, where the guy posed us in front of the romantic waterfall backdrop. Sherman was positioned behind me and I could feel his breath on the top of my head. The photographer told my father to get closer. Which he did. And to wrap his arms around my waist. Which he did. The photographer told me to fold my hands over Sherman’s. Which I did not. The photographer told us to smile. Which Sherman did. Snap. It was over in a second. That picture is all over the Internet now. And my face says it all.
Our portrait taken, Sherman started scouting the room for Warren Hutsall. Despite what he said, I knew my father wasn’t there to bond; he was there to network. He patted my arm and said he’d just be a minute and why didn’t I go find the girls. Standing there, watching him walk away? I wished he were dead. It’s not that I wanted him to die. It’s just, it’d be a comfort to be able to grieve the loss of him officially, and get a few casseroles and some trays of coconut squares outta the deal. The father I knew is dead, for real, and I’m gonna take a pass on a relationship with the man he’s become.
I wish Shelley could take a pass too, instead of trying to reel him back to who he used to be, or whatever she thinks she’s doing when they fight on the phone. When this is all over, I’m gonna find a way to convince my mother that she needs to have a funeral for her marriage, find a job outside the house and put a freaking profile on Tinder.
Brooky had gone off hand in hand with Big Mike to check out a display of photographs taken by the official photographer on orientation night a few weeks earlier. Mr. Ro and Zara were making plates at the appetizer buffet. Fee and Delaney were waiting in the photo line for daddy/daughter, but Tom Sharpe wasn’t with them. I couldn’t see where Jinny’d gone. So I parked myself at one of the cocktail tables near the back of the room, watching, like I do.
Jagger Jonze was in a corner of the room, set apart in his T-shirt and jeans, taller than the other men. Right beside him was Tom Sharpe, his rosacea face blooming from the neck of his white tuxedo, his mouth moving a mile a minute. Figured he was prolly pitching the Reverend on the silver Maybach in the showcase at his dealership, like he’d done with Big Mike the week before.
Jinny slithered up behind me, going, “Are you watching the fashion parade?”
I didn’t like what she implied. “Yeah.”
“Stay here. I’ll get us something from the appi table.”
I figured she’d bring back a plate of cheese and crackers or something, but she came back with these three little ganache ball thingies in a paper napkin. Whatever. Jinny sunk her teeth into one and had an orgasm, but I said no thank you, because I was just so sick of following Jinny Hutsall’s lead. She pushed, “You have to try one, Rory.”