Page 19 of Fake Date with the Mountain Man

When cocktail hour is over, we are all herded through the double doors into the hotel’s ballroom. As people spill into the room, they all wander around the maze of circular tables, but no one seems to sit down right away.

Marlow’s arm is tucked into the crook of my elbow. She seems to sense my confusion and moves her lips close to my ear to say, “We need to find our table. Just look for our names on the place cards.”

Ah, yes…my nemesis, the place card. The very reason that Marlow is standing beside me right now.

Although, I’m having trouble remembering to be annoyed with this whole situation right now. She’s sort of the perfect date: friendly, polite, and drop-fucking-dead beautiful in that dress. There’s no denying that. I see the way that men subtly slide their eyes in her direction as she walks by. And the way women purse their lips as they give her a lethal stare-down, especially if their date is less-than-subtle about checking Marlow out.

“You’re family, so our table is probably near the front,” Marlow says as she gently tugs me forward.

And she’s right. We’re front and center at a table with my dad and Cheryl.

In the center of the table, there’s a glass food jar filled with sand – or maybe it’s more glitter. There’s some string tied around it with sticks poking out in every direction.

“What the fuck is that?” I ask Marlow in a whisper.

Marlow tilts her head down, hiding her smile from the rest of the table.

“It’s a centerpiece.”

“It looks like trash. Why’s it on the table?”

I don’t miss the way Marlow’s cleavage strains against her dress as she laughs.

“It’s decorative,” she whispers.

“Says who? Oscar the Grouch?”

Marlow gives me a playfully scolding look, tilting one of her perfectly sculpted eyebrows up. As much as I’d like to think that Marlow is just like Blair, I know that the woman beside me would never throw a heap of trash on a table and call it décor.

The other seats at our table start to fill up. My dad and Cheryl are the first to arrive. Before Marlow is done laying on the charm for both of them, Cheryl’s sister and her husband join us, along with her daughters and their dates.

I’ve heard Cheryl mention her sister before, but I’ve never met her or her kids. Before introductions are done, the DJ starts yelling indiscernibly into the microphone about something. A second later, the doors part again, the music cranks up ten notches and the wedding party starts dancing their way through the room, up to the long table at the front.

These are the people I recognize. Well, at least some of them.

None of them are remotely fun enough people to make this display anything but awkward and embarrassing to watch.

Both of Blair’s sisters shake their flat asses through the room in their poofy bridesmaid dresses while shouting ‘woooo’ atthe top of their lungs. The guys beside them are Kevin’s frat brothers, I assume. They’re fist-pumping through the tables to a rhythm that apparently only they can hear.

Everyone cringes. People are adjusting the napkins on their lap over and over again just so they don’t have to look up. An elderly woman is cupping her mouth. Somewhere in the distance, a child is screeching.

For the grand finale, the DJ yells something else into the microphone as Kevin and Blair walk into the room, their fingers locked together as they raise their arms in the air together. Blair puts on a fake-as-shit look of surprise. Like she didn’t know we were all sitting here waiting for them to enter the room.

Marlow grabs my hand under the table. When I look over at her, she smiles at me and squeezes my hand.

“You okay?” she mouths.

I nod and try to wipe the disgusted look off my face. I think she’s misinterpreting the reason behind it. And if Marlow is, so are other people. I rearrange my face into the most neutral look I can manage.

The waiters start buzzing around the tables, filling wine glasses and delivering salads. One of Cheryl’s nieces wastes no time launching into a conversation about her new baby.

“We’re so happy…but we haven’t slept in weeks.”

“He’s such a joy…but parenthood is a nightmare.”

“We love him…but he just never stops crying and pooping.”

Somewhere around the time nipple cream is mentioned, I have fully checked out of the conversation. Judging by the way she’s gulping down her glass of wine, Marlow is just as uncomfortable. I reach over under the table and squeeze her knee gently in a show of commiseration. When she looks at me, we exchange the briefest of ‘what the fuck’ expressions before pleasantly smiling at each other as if we’re just two regularpeople who are too enamored with each other to care that this woman is babbling on about her chafed nipples.

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