“Where do you want to sit?” Duncan asked.
She looked at the two long tables and pointed at seats closest to the bar. As they neared, however, it became clear the spots were reserved.
“Let’s try over there,” Duncan said as they walked toward the middle.
At this point, all she wanted to do was relieve her aching feet.
“Are these taken?” Retta asked a woman with light brown skin in her sixties who sat nearby. She wore a mesh shawl and silver earrings too heavy for her earlobes.
“No, all yours,” the woman said.
As Retta settled into the chair, she relaxed a bit. She disappeared sitting at the expansive table. Duncan’s arm was casually draped over the back of her seat, and the cologne he wore, a scent she could only describe as fresh, wafted toward her every time he shifted.
“I’ve never been to anything like this,” Duncan said, picking up the monogrammed napkin from the plate in front of him. “This isn’t even the wedding.”
“The groom’s parents are pretty showy.”
Duncan huffed.
“You look familiar,” the woman with the heavy earrings said to Retta.
She didn’t recognize her at all, but she supposed it was possible. “I’m Irene’s cousin, Retta.”
“Oh, yes. I can see the resemblance.” The older woman offered her hand. “It’s around the eyes. I’m Margaret, Christopher’s godmother.”
Retta smiled while Duncan introduced himself. She was glad she’d lucked out and was seated next to someone who didn’t seem aware of her history with Chris.
“I was skeptical about them pulling off this wedding in two months, but—”Margaret looked around the condo—“it looks incredible. Sometimes you’re so in love, waiting doesn’t make sense.”
Retta was about to reply with one of her canned responses when Duncan said, “But it’s probably best not to rush into things, right? Who’s to say you wouldn’t later discover you’re incompatible?”
The older woman shrugged. “Well, that’s what divorce is for.”
Duncan opened his mouth like he might say something else, but he simply smiled.
“Are you a part of the wedding party, love?” Margaret asked.
“Me? God, no,” Retta said too quickly, before clearing her throat. “I mean, it’s not my thing.”
Margaret nodded, seriously. “Oh, I understand. The first half of the 80s, all my girlfriends got married. It takes a certain personality to handle that much tulle… I’m afraid I didn’t handle it very well.”
Before Retta could ask any follow-up questions, loud applause swept the room.
“Speaking of lovebirds,” the older woman said, pointing toward the entrance of the condo.
Irene and Chris stood in the spacious entryway in matching white outfits, smiling and greeting their guests. Barbie and Ken wished they were so polished. When Retta had been with Chris, she’d often joke about being the dust bunny on his coattails.
She turned away from the scene, trying to look like she’d received the most riveting text message. Opening up to her photos, she studied the ones Duncan had taken of her on the balcony. One was a full body shot and the other one was a close up of her face.
“I think I might have a second career in photography,” Duncan said, peering down at her phone.
She smiled, zooming into the amateur pictures to reveal how unfocused the images actually were.
“Picky, picky,” he said, and another wave of calmness flowed through her.
Duncan was here. She wasn’t doing this evening alone. But even if she was, how many times had she been in the same room as her ex and her cousin? She was here to be seen and prove a point. That didn’t include having an involved conversation with either of them.
“Oh, don’t you two look beautiful,” Margaret said.
