What else? What else? Am I forgetting something?
I don’t think so.
That’s when my gaze lands on the nightstand on the faraway side of the bed, and the red box laying on top of it half-open.
Condoms!
Damn, I can’t believe I almost left without bringing a pack. I dash to the bedside table and grab the box, shaking it. Two measly plastic squares fall out. Not going to cut it for a week. Good thing this is only the first box out of the family pack I picked up last night. But where did I stash the rest? Let’s see, I bought them at the CVS around the corner… I came home… dropped my keys in the hall…
I turn to check the small cabinet behind the door, and… Bingo.
I put all the remaining boxes in my bag—one might say I’m being optimistic, but a good chunk of the guests will be single gals, so—and I’m ready to go. I unhook my black leather jacket from the rack behind the door and exit the house.
The bike is parked askew in front of the garage on my half of the driveway of the single-story duplex where I live. Guess last night I was in too much of a hurry to bother to park it inside, or straight. I don’t own a car, so the garage is exclusive to the bike, whenever I take the trouble to store it indoors.
Almost never in the warm months. My neighborhood is located near the UCB campus, in Berkley, and if the area isn’t one hundred percent no-need-to-lock-your-doors safe, it gets pretty close.
I drop my leather duffle bag on the rear of the saddle and secure it in place with twin nylon straps. Then, I don my biker jacket and pick up my helmet, freeing it from where I’ve impaled it on one of the handles.
As I secure the clip beneath my chin, I can’t help thinking I’ve forgotten something else. Something important. What is with me today? Are a few beers really enough to make me woolly-headed for half a day?
I rack my brain another time, but nothing comes up. And anyway, if I really forgot something, I can always buy a replacement. Napa is not the desert; the worst I risk is being ripped off by the local tourist pricing.
Half an hour later, I’m about to cross the bay over Alfred Zampa Memorial Bridge when a giant billboard catches my attention. In the ad, a beautiful blonde is flipping her bare ring finger with an annoyed expression while the caption reads: She’s tired of waiting. In the lower right corner, a picture of a diamond engagement ring looms over the address and phone number of a local jewelry shop.
Something about the sign nags at me, but it’s gone past in a heartbeat.
I’m already halfway over the bridge when it hits me: the rings!
In a panic, I let go of one of the bike handles to pat the inside pocket of my jacket. The box isn’t there. Only one other place it could be: back at the house.
Shit!
Shit! Shit! Shit!
I’m going to be so late. Even if I use the bike to dribble through most of the traffic, the round trip will still take me at least another hour. No chances of making it in time now.
Logan will kill me, but not before Tucker—my other best friend and also the wedding planner—has emasculated me.
I open the gas and speed up as I finish crossing the bridge, then take the first available exit, turn my bike around, and merge again onto I-80 in the opposite direction.
When I finally ride up my driveway, I’ve barely killed the engine before I’m vaulting off the saddle, removing my helmet, and racing for the door.
Inside, the apartment is a mess, as per last night’s activities and my hasty packing spree of this morning. Where the heck did I put the rings? I moved them around to be sure not to lose them, and now I can’t remember where I decided they’d be safe.
Nightstands’ drawers.
I open one, then the other.
Nothing.
I check my desk next. No red velvet boxes in sight on the desktop. And after a thorough search of all the drawers, I come up just as empty-handed.
A man on a mission, I proceed to systematically go through each drawer, cabinet, and container inside the entire apartment—bathroom and kitchen included—but I can’t find the damned box anywhere.
I’m a dead man.
If they were regular wedding rings, I could just re-buy them. With a rush order, a week would be enough for them to arrive on time. But my best friend, being the sentimental archeologist asshole he is, chose a pair of antique, engraved gold bands that are impossible to replace. Just my luck.
At this point I’m sweating, half from the panic, half from the heat inside the house—I turned off the air conditioning before leaving. Also, a skipped lunch and almost sleepless night are catching up with me, and I still have another forty-minute drive north to make.
Sweat drips down my forehead and pools under my armpits; this leather jacket is suffocating. I tear it off and, on impulse, I open the fridge to stick my head inside. This feels A-mazing.
As I pull my head out, five long minutes later, something red catches my gaze. There, innocently lying on the middle shelf, is the ring box. How and why it ended up in the fridge, I’ll never know, and I couldn’t care less. I take it out, kiss it, and stash it in the leather jacket inside pocket where it should’ve been from the start.
Domestic treasure hunt over, I check the time.
Ten to four.
So, I’ve found the rings, but I’m still neck-deep in trouble.
Even if I leave now, the meeting will be over by the time I arrive. No point in rushing. I might as well take another shower and eat before I go.
I fish my phone out of my pocket and compose a quick text to Tucker.
Sorry, man. Something came up and I’m not gonna make it in time
But I’ll get there by tonight, I promise
Tucker’s reply comes in the form of emojis. The first, a rolling-eyes yellow face, the second, a red pouting face with swearing symbols over the mouth. Guess I deserved that.
A second message chimes in.
Drive slow on the freeway
And a third.
And remember the rings
I type back.
Yes, Mom
My phone pings again.
Anyway, if you get here at a decent hour, we’ll be in the Magnolia meeting room
I don’t reply.
They booked a meeting room to have an informal meet-up between the groomsmen and bridesmaids? Are they nuts?
And how long does Tucker plan to have the session last?
Thank goodness I accidentally got myself out of it.
This is going to be a long week.
Three
Archie
By the time I get to the hotel—more of a resort equipped with a pool and a spa and a vineyard in the backyard—in St. Helena, it’s already a quarter to six. I ask the clerk at the front desk where to find the Magnolia meeting room, in case my friends really have gone insane and are still discussing dances, frills, and color schemes.
The man points me in the right direction and, after meandering along a few corridors, I find the designated room. A brass plaque outside the door identifies it as Magnolia.
I poke my head in and sigh in relief at finding the space empty. I’m about to leave to go check in when a phone starts ringing inside.