And I have to stop thinking like that. Yes, the guy I’ve been sleeping with for the past few days will have dinner with my parents tonight, but he definitely isn’t here in a boyfriend capacity.
“Hello, Dawson’s Creek,” my sister greets him, probably sharing my idea that his clothes look out of character. “Where did you leave your E.T. poster? In your bedroom next to Jurassic Park and Jaws?”
“Oh, come on, Snowflake, you must know my favorite Spielberg movies are the Indiana Jones,” he quips right back, and am I irked he has a nickname for my sister but not for me? Would I like him to call me buttercup, cupcake, sunflower? Honestly, no, yikes. “You’re the most glowing bride as always,” Archie concludes.
His smile is wide and charming, and his manners impeccable, especially as he rounds the table to shake my father’s hand and kiss my mom’s after officially introducing himself. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he was trying to impress my parents. Mom, for one, has melted at the hand-kissing.
He finally sits down at the only free spot left, between Lana and Winter, across the table from me. I’m in the middle between Tucker, who has Logan on his other side, and my dad, who’s also sitting next to my mom.
Once it’s clear we’re not expecting anyone else, the server who has been looming close by since I arrived brings our menus and asks if we’re ready to order drinks. I sure am, and ask for an apple martini. If I have to endure an entire dinner with Archie and my parents seated at the same table, I need something stronger than wine or beer.
Everybody at the table is pretty chatty, allowing me to take a backseat to the conversation and cull my nerves in private, while doling out the odd comment here and there.
After delivering our drinks, the server comes back shortly afterward to take everyone’s orders. I go with the Asian style tuna steak, while I note Archie orders a bone-in filet.
Dad is charged with choosing the wine for the table, not because he has any specific competence on the subject, but by simple merits of seniority.
The server has just left with the table’s orders when Logan’s phone starts ringing. He takes it out of his pocket and checks the screen, his eyes going wide. But he’s quick to hide the surprise as he silences the phone and puts it face down on the table.
But not two minutes later, the phone starts vibrating again.
“Darling,” my mom says. “Don’t worry, if it’s something important you can take the call.”
Logan squirms in his chair. “It’s a call from North Africa,” he says.
Winter, voice cold as ice, asks, “Which country in North Africa?”
Her fiancé holds the phone in one hand while scratching the back of his head with the other as he answers, “Egypt.”
A wave of discomfort ripples through the table.
Ah.
After she came back from Thailand, Winter told me everything about Logan’s ex, Tara Something. She’s a hard-ass archeologist who made a monumental discovery in the Valley of Kings in Egypt and who’s still living in Africa. We spent an entire afternoon Google-stalking her, and I suspect my sister even bought her book, a non-fiction account of her discovery, and read it.
“Maybe I should get this in private,” Logan says. “I wouldn’t want to disturb you all.”
“Oh, it’s no trouble at all,” my mom says, oblivious to the underlying tension between the bride and groom-to-be.
Winter hasn’t spoken since the word “Egypt” crossed Logan’s lips, and she’s now giving him the stare of death, daring him to get up and go talk to his ex in private.
Desperate, Logan stares at his best friend for help. Archie gives him a subtle shake of the head that I interpret in a, “No, dude, you’d better keep your ass glued to that chair if you want to speak with your ex who you haven’t heard from in years.”
Logan must understand the same unspoken message because, with a resigned sigh, he picks up. “Hello.”
“Hey.”
Tara’s is a simple greeting, but the tone is loaded with familiarity and a shared past. Unfortunately for the groom, the voice on the other side is loud enough for everyone at the table to hear and pick up on these details. Also, we’re all keeping a religious silence as we shamelessly eavesdrop on the conversation. And even if we weren’t, I suspect Winter would kill in cold blood anyone who dared utter a sound.
“Err, how have you been?” Logan asks.
“Oh, you know,” Tara says. “Busy. Lots of cataloging going on, and the work on the new museum is crazy. I’ve switched the exposition around a thousand times to find the perfect order of presentation and still can’t decide, even if I know patrons won’t care or notice that much,” she rants on, clearly nervous. “You must have the same troubles in Thailand.”
Logan lets out an awkward chuckle. “Oh, I wish we were already that far along. It’ll be months before we can begin on the exposition.”
“I can’t wait to see it,” Tara says. I look at my sister’s face, and it’s like Winter has turned to stone. “Rumor has it it will be magnificent.”
“I hope so,” Logan says, the portrait of a man who’d gladly crawl out of his skin.
A silence stretches on the line, until Tara speaks again. “I heard congratulations are in order. You’re getting married?”
The question seems to be loaded, in a “Have you truly forgotten about me?” way.
“Yes,” Logan says, staring directly at my sister, “to the most wonderful woman on Earth, day after tomorrow.”
Another protracted pause, and then Tara speaks in a small voice, “Well, as I said, congratulations. I have to go now, they need me at the museum. Goodbye, Logan.”
The ex hangs up before he has time to reply, prompting the entire table to let go of a collective breath of relief.
Logan turns to Winter. “I’m sorry,” he says. “She hasn’t called me in years. I thought something bad might’ve happened.”
My sister swallows and nods. “It’s okay,” she says. “I just feel sorry for her.”
“Why?” Logan asks, looking puzzled.
“Because Tara has realized she was the dumbest cow to dump you for a stupid pharaoh tomb, and now she’s too late.”
They kiss. And it’s not a chaste peck on the lips. It’s a real, deep, long kiss that prompts my dad to cough and hide his face in his napkin.
They’re so in love, it’s disgusting. I can’t help but steal a glance at Archie, and find him observing me. When our eyes meet, he winks, causing my stomach to do a silly little flip.
And I have such a crush, I’m disgusting.
When the betrothed couple finally break their kiss, my sister’s good mood seems completely restored.
Winter places her napkin on her legs, asking, “What are you guys all doing tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow?” I ask, on edge. “Friday is a free day, right?” Archie and I made plans to have lunch in Yountville, and maybe visit a vineyard or brewery together. And I don’t want Winter’s well-meant desire for conviviality to ruin the plan. “We don’t have any mandatory activities.”