Alyssa was a track star. The pride and joy of our class.
“I’m losing my mind,” I tell her. “Did you see who’s sitting next to me?”
She smirks. “Yes.”
“I’m dying.”
“You look alive and well to me.”
“Well guess what I’m going to do?” I say, flagging down the bartender. “I am going to get stinking drunk.”
It is not difficult to make good on this promise. The tent is flooded with waiters circulating with champagne and, as the night goes on, trays of espresso martinis named—what else?—the Flamingo.
I conveniently skip the entrée to avoid filling my stomach with anything that isn’t booze and, more importantly, to steer clear of Seth. I see him out of the corner of my eye, working the room, hugging nearly everyone he runs into, putting numbers into his phone, dragging people onto the dance floor.
He is so obviously happy that he seems to be singlehandedly lifting the serotonin levels of everyone in the tent.
Except mine.
“Hey!” Dezzie says, marching over to me and Alyssa, who has appointed herself my designated chaperone for the evening.
I’m actually not so drunk that I require adult supervision. My nervous adrenaline overpowers the alcohol. I feel like I’m on illegal stimulants, or at least Schedule II controlled substances.
“Come and dance with me, betches,” Dezzie demands, holding out a hand to each of us.
“I am too preggo to dance,” Alyssa demurs. “My ankles are like watermelons. And I have to call Ryland.”
Alyssa’s husband skipped the reunion to watch their two kids.
Lucky Ryland.
“I cannot dance,” I say. “I simply cannot. For you see”—I point at the dance floor—“Sethis there.”
“They exchanged words, and now she’s a wreck,” Alyssa summarizes on my behalf.
“Awreck,” I emphasize, because I have consumed enough alcohol to lose all sense of proportion.
“Then come dance it out, honey,” Dez says, grabbing my arm.
The DJ is playing hits from when we were teenagers, and it’s a little bit hard to resist dancing to “Baby Got Back,” even though I think it might be canceled. Dez throws her arms up in the air, dancing furiously, and before I know it, I am too. I discover that if I dance hard enough, and close my eyes tight enough, I do not need to worry about Seth Rubenstein.
A slow song comes on, and Rob materializes. “May I steal her?” he asks Dezzie, taking my hand.
Dezzie spins me into her husband’s arms and grabs Alyssa.
“Come on,” she urges her. “You aren’t too pregnant to slow dance with me.”
I put my hands on Rob’s shoulders.
“Having fun?” I ask over the Céline Dion.
“This is a blast,” Rob says. He’s already drunk—he keeps lurching and throwing off my balance—but he’s the infectiously jolly kind of drunk.
“Is it, though?” I ask, over the music.
“Yeah! I love your friends. Did you know Chaz is a professional comedian? He’s gonna get me free tickets for his standup act next time he rolls through the Chi.”
“Lucky you.”
