Page 35 of What's in a Kiss?

“Liv,” he says my nickname with such tenderness that it makes me melt inside. “Hear that?” He cocks his head toward the reception.

I make out the rippling synth notes of the Talking Heads’s “Once in a Lifetime,” which Masha and I agreed ages ago is the GOAT dance song at a wedding. Suddenly I want to get back there, bounce around, and belt this song out. Get things back on track.

“Dare me to throw out my back again?” Glasswell says, holding out his hand.

“You do you,” I say, walking past him.

Undeterred, he catches up and puts his hand in mine. “Thing is, I need someone to dip if I’m going to throw it out properly. And I choose you.”

I look at his hand in mine and feel that shiver again. I look into his eyes. Instantly I’m smiling. Without wanting to.

“You’re shaking,” he says. “Time to call it a night?”

If I could speak to someone I trust, maybe I could get a handle on what’s going on.

“That thing you said before,” I say, “about emailing Masha tomorrow—”

“I’m sorry,” he says. “That was cold. I know you want to make things right with her.”

“Rightwith her?” Masha and I made up this morning. Surely Glasswell recalls torturing me when I called to apologize.

“Just... baby steps, you know?” he says. “And maybe not starting on the night of her wedding?”

“Thanks for the tip.”

“Olivia,” he warns, but I’m already gone. I need to find Masha. Now.

••••••

Back under thetent, I can see the wedding for what it is: the huge and impersonal factory-setting wedding I’ve been to several times before. The same DJ, the same catering company, the same florist as all Masha’s cousins have had. Her family should own stock in this racket. I’m pretty sure those disco ball-shaped centerpieces are the ones Masha and I built in her aunt’s garage for Pammy’s wedding last spring.

I remember that day clearly. It was less than a week afterMasha had gotten engaged to Eli, but she hadn’t told her family yet. She’d invited me to help with the centerpieces on the condition that I didn’t breathe a word of her engagement. She left her ring at home, knowing that the second her aunts and cousins saw it, the wedding train would leave the station.

But the wedding Masha is having is precisely the one she wanted to avoid, the kind of wedding she feared would swallow her like a whale. How is this possible?

I watch Masha now with Eli, making the rounds on the dance floor periphery. She was clear in her wedding plans that she wanted to spend the bulk of this time dancing. But there’s no room for getting down, besieged by all her aunts. The smile plastered on her face pains me. All teeth, no eyes. Those cheeks will be sore tomorrow.

“She’s miserable,” I say.

“Are you sure you’re not projecting?” Glasswell counsels at my side. Somehow, this doesn’t annoy me. I don’t mind having him to bounce ideas off. I don’t even mind when he takes me in his arms as the Talking Heads fade into Frank Sinatra.

“This isn’t her,” I say.

“What do you mean?” Glasswell asks, holding me close, Frank singing “I’ve Got You Under My Skin.” A different kind of dizzy sweeps over me.

“I’m so confused,” I say. “How did we get here?”

Masha. Glasswell and me. The Yogi-turned-Rabbi peeling out like a bail-jumping Buddha in the night. I’m starting to worry that no one’s going to explain this to me. That even if they wanted to they couldn’t.

“Sorry to interrupt,” a girl I’ve never seen before appears before me. “Would you mind if I took a selfie with you?”

I step away and gesture that Glasswell’s all hers. The girl laughs and says to Glasswell, “She’s so funny!”

“Olivia doesn’t do selfies,” Glasswell says. “But she’s happy to sign autographs.”

“Cool, yeah,” the girl says.

Glasswell reaches into his breast pocket, turns to me. “Do you want to use the Beast?”

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