chapter seven
MARTIN NO LONGER has a mustache. I’ve spent the past half hour staring at the bare skin of his upper lip, as well as the sizable mole on his neck. There’s a hair poking out of the center that I’m resisting the urge to pluck.
He’s been droning on and on about his many family members as they enter the private room in the restaurant. He spares no detail with the backstories, like how his great-niece got straight A’s in every course in her latest college semester at Duke despite dealing with asbestos in her dorm room.
I know he’s just being friendly, trying to acquaint our families. But finding out the breadth of his eldest daughter’s latest shingles flare-up isn’t exactly ideal conversation prior to eating a four-course Italian dinner.
“Crystal, can you come here for a second?” Mom interrupts. She tugs at my elbow, gifting Martin a massively fake smile. I’ve inherited her inability to temper her facial expressions, particularly when she is displeased.
“Yeah?” I whisper, leaning in.
Mom’s nervous gaze flutters around the candlelit room, taking in the awkwardness that is our two families, standing divided on either side of the table.
Mom’s side of the family, the McCarthys, are a formal bunch. We’re a small group, with Mom only having her brother and his two kids. We’re not overly boisterous, like the Chens, Dad’s side of the family.
Everyone is trying to remain calm and collected while feeling hella uncomfortable at the sight that is Grandma Flo draping her entire body over Martin on the chaise lounge, posing harder than Tyra Banks for photos. Martin hasn’t stopped showering her with cringeworthy affection all evening.
Martin’s family appears to be your standard white, down-to-earth, Midwestern, American-born-and-bred crowd. He has three kids, plus their grown children, and a bunch of siblings, all enthusiastically talking about their cottages and the upcoming fishing season. They’re also taking advantage of the open bar, cheerfully slapping each other on the back and shouting many decibels too loud for this room.
“Just wanted to save you from the shingles conversation.” Mom winks, pushing her bangs from her eyes. After one conversation, it’s clear Martin is an oversharer. The opposite of Grandpa’s perpetually crusty, reserved nature.
“How are you feeling about it all?” I ask her sympathetically. She, of anyone, probably took this news the hardest. She was really close to Grandpa. Tara claimed Mom was fine, but I don’t trust her, given her paranoia I’ll channel Robert De Niro and ruin the entire dinner.
Mom fiddles with her champagne flute, forcing another grin. “Fine. Why wouldn’t I be? If Grandma is happy, so am I.” Apparently Tara wasn’t exaggerating.
She has a point. Grandma looks so full of life, dressed in a classy gold lace dress and matching shawl. Her short gray hair is neatly styled into old-school waves. She is still tucked under Martin’s arm, mid–Julia Roberts laugh, as he gazes at her like she’s the light of his life.
“You look gorgeous tonight.” Mom takes in my navy cocktail dress. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen you out of your Lulus.” As much as she’d deny it, I know her comment is a slight against my career choice.
“You know I can’t wear anything but Align leggings for the rest of my life,” I say, deciding this isn’t the time or the place to get into it. And besides, these leggings are everything. Lululemon credits me for converting hundreds of women to the glorious, life-changing comfort that is their Align legging. “No Hillary tonight?”
Mom lets out a sorrowful sigh and I immediately regret bringing it up. “The restaurant wouldn’t allow it without proper paperwork to prove she’s a service dog.”
I level a hard stare at her. “Mom, Hillary is not a service dog. You have to stop telling people that.”
Mom clutches her chest, appalled that I went there. “She’s like a therapy dog to me.”
“We talked about this. It’s a real certification, you know. Some people need them for legitimate health reasons. Not just because they’re obsessed with their dog and can’t leave them alone without having a meltdown.”
Mom apparently disagrees, rolling her eyes in defiance. She chugs the rest of her champagne like it’s water as Grandma Flo announces it’s finally time to sit down for dinner.
She made name cards for everyone, as she always does for family dinners. They sit among the brightly colored ranunculus floral arrangements, artfully prepared by Tara and Mom earlier today.
Unfortunately, the families are purposely intermixed, one of us between two or three of them, to help us get to know each other. An introvert’s worst nightmare.
I have the luxury of sitting smack-dab in between Martin himself and a place card that reads Scott in flowing calligraphy. Of all the Ritchie family members I was introduced to tonight, I don’t recall meeting anyone named Scott. As the waiters begin to serve the salad, I notice every seat at the table is filled, except for Scott’s.
Martin leans in to me, crunching his Caesar salad. A bit of crouton flies out of his mouth, landing dangerously close to my wrist, and I immediately set it onto my lap under the protection of the tablecloth. “You’ll be beside my grandson, Scotty.” He gives me a glowing smile, as if I’ve hit the jackpot as far as seating arrangements are concerned. Joy.
I’m momentarily distracted by Dad throwing Martin’s son an animated high-five across the table. Dad is one of those people who can walk into a room full of strangers and exit fifteen minutes later with new, lifelong best friends. He’s a quintessential extrovert, the first to arrive at a social gathering and always the last to leave.
“Looks like Scotty is running a bit late,” I say, eyeing the empty chair beside me.
A green-eyed woman with a stylish bob, whom Martin introduced as Patricia, his daughter-in-law, shifts forward diagonally across from me. “He told me he was coming right after his shift,” she says, glancing at her watch. By the way her nose is wrinkled with annoyance, I’m assuming that’s his mother.
“He’s a firefighter, my grandson,” Martin informs me proudly. “Followed in the family footsteps.”
I scan Martin, trying to imagine him as a firefighter forty years ago, to no avail. “You must be proud of him.”
Grandma Flo pipes up from Martin’s other side. “Oh, Tara, speaking of Scotty. Wait till you see him. The man is a looker.”
Both Tara and I shift uncomfortably in our seats. Since Tara’s failed engagement, Grandma Flo has been obsessed with playing matchmaker for her.
It isn’t that I want my grandmother setting me up with random dudes. But out of principle, I once asked why she hasn’t tried to set me up. She waved it off, calling me one of those “independent types.” She then followed it up by admiring my face, going on about how I’m a perfect mix of my parents, and how rare it is that I’d have my mom’s hazel-gold eyes. Complimenting my “facial beauty” is typical when people try to compensate, falsely assuming I’m in need of a confidence boost where my body is concerned.
For Tara’s sake, I attempt to shift the focus away from her singleness. “If Scott is such a looker, why is he single?” I toss in a grin to ensure everyone knows I’m joking.
“He’s not.” Martin nods back toward Patricia. “He’s dating that professional figure skater. Diana. Isn’t he, Patricia?”
Patricia nods. “They’ve been together about six months now. Though she’s on tour doing Disney on Ice,” she adds, distractedly glancing at her watch once again. “I don’t want you guys to have to wait for him. He’s probably still at work, as usual.”
Martin shrugs. “Duty calls.”
My annoyance with this tardy Scott character only grows upon confirmation that he’s the sole reason no one except Martin has touched their salad yet. It’s already seven thirty. I ate light in anticipation of a massive meal tonight, by seven at the latest. I wondered why they were delaying cocktails and appetizers.
Martin sets his hand over the back of Grandma’s chair before pressing a kiss on her temple. “Scotty won’t mind if we get started. I’ll go ahead and start my speech.” He tosses his cloth napkin onto the table in front of him, standing with his full glass of red wine. Everyone shifts their attention to him.
“Before we eat, I’d be remiss if I didn’t thank my family and Flo’s family for coming this evening, and Tara for giving us an entire wedding,” he adds with a wink, highlighting Tara’s misfortune for the fifth time tonight. Everyone giggles uncomfortably while Tara white-knuckles her salad fork.
“I don’t know if everyone knows this, but Flo and I attended the same elementary school. We were classmates, all the way until the eighth grade. She was by far the prettiest girl in class, with her little pigtails,” he says affectionately. “When I was—”
Martin’s speech is rudely interrupted when the door to our private room busts open.
The Ritchies erupt with enthusiasm, shouting, “Scotty!”
My eyes settle on the hulking figure taking up nearly the entire width of the doorway. The forest-green eyes. The Chris Evans face.
No freakin’ way.
It’s Squat Rack Thief.
Squat Rack Thief is Scott.
I don’t know if I’ve ever wished myself to disappear into oblivion more than I do right now.