Page 2 of Strictly Pretend

But of course it can. Because when I’ve done what I need to do and I’m stepping back into the worst dress in the world, I’m barely paying attention to the fact that the bodice is a little too tight and there’s a label sticking out of my bra, as I yank the zipper up before it gets caught and won’t go any further.

And that’s when I start to cry. Not because my boyfriend’s a dirty rotten cheater, or because the bride’s great uncle has just seen my almost-naked body in all its glory, but because my dress is caught up with my bra and everybody will see the back gaping open when I walk out of this bathroom and back into the partythat’s celebrating my beautiful, radiant friend and her equally gorgeous new husband.

BROOKS

“Single or double?” the bartender asks me, holding the bottle of G. Scott Carter whiskey above my glass.

“Triple,” I tell him, and then I shake my head. “Actually, just give me the bottle.” Because I hate weddings and right now I seem to spend more time at them than anywhere else.

He hands over the half-full bottle. Probably because he has my credit card behind the bar and I’m holding out a fifty as a tip. I pass him the bill and then I gather the bottle and glass in my hands and head out through the open glass doors onto the lawn that overlooks the lake and the Eastham Country Club golf course.

I find a spot on the lawn, far enough away from the party in the ballroom that nobody can see me sitting in the dark, but close enough – unfortunately for me – to hear the dulcet tones of Neil Diamond blasting outSweet Caroline.

Why is that song played at every wedding and sporting event I go to? It’s a mystery.

I pour myself out more than a triple and lift the glass to my lips, enjoying the way the whiskey burns my throat as I swallow it down.

This will all be over tomorrow. Then I’ll drive back to New York City and throw myself into work. This is the tenth wedding I’ve been to in the last two years and every time I get more cynical.

Before the vows even escape the lips of the bride and groom I’m wondering when they’re going to split up, who’ll be responsible, and why anybody would ever put themselves through this.

I should probably stop attending them. But I’ve never been a man who takes the easy road. My brother, Myles, says I delight in making my life as difficult as I can, and he’s probably right.

There’s a grim sense of satisfaction in being my own worst enemy.

I’m about to pour myself a second glass when the doors to the wedding venue open and somebody stumbles through them. For a moment the music gets louder as it escapes through the open doorway into the dark, balmy night.

Whoever is storming out of the building can’t see me. I’m pretty confident of that. Yes, the moon is full, but I’m cloaked by darkness, the whiskey bottle in one hand, my glass in the other.

As they get closer, I realize it’s a woman. She leans down to pull her shoes off and throws them onto the ground.

And then she lets out a scream. It’s not too loud. More of a tester one, to see if it could work.

I have to admit, I’m quite enjoying watching her. She’s dressed in the pink monstrosity of a bridesmaid’s dress. I remember watching Mia’s bridesmaids walk down the aisle. I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to laugh.

Because this isn’t the nineties. Perms aren’t in fashion and neither are bridesmaid’s dresses that look like those crocheted toilet paper roll holders my grandmother used to have.

She can’t see me, this barefoot bridesmaid. But I can see her. The moon is full, and she has deep red hair that clashes with the pink. She picks her shoes up from the ground and strides over to the lake and, oh boy, she’s not going to throw them, is she?

Yes she does. She hurls them into the water with a surprisingly powerful arm, then stands completely still as they hit the surface before sinking under.

“Shit! My shoes!” she squeals out.

I can’t help it, I laugh. Quietly, though, so she can’t hear me. There’s something wrong with the back of her dress. It’s only half done up, the back gaping open, revealing pale skin that almost glistens in the moonlight.

And then she does something even more unexpected. She tips her head back and howls like an animal at the moon.

It’s surprisingly loud. And weirdly impressive. I’ve heard animals howl before. When I was in school, there were a couple of foxes who’d howl at each other all night outside our dorms.

But this woman, her howl is primal. And I can’t pull my eyes away from her.

She keeps going for a whole thirty seconds before she runs out of breath. Her body is silhouetted against the moon, her throat long and slender as she lifts her face to the sky, her arms held out to the side like she’s begging somebody to stop whatever’s making her scream.

But then there’s silence. She almost slumps in front of the lake. Looking alone. Defeated.

I don’t like that. I preferred her primal.

“Want a drink?” I call out to her.

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