Page 9 of You're So Vine
“Because you’ve been home for two months now, and you’re still living in your old bedroom at Mom and Dad’s,” he says. “You haven’t got a job. And every day you look less and less happy.”
“Why are you saying thisnow?” I demand. “Don’t you have better things to do at your own wedding?”
“I’ve been meaning to for a while,” Nate says. “Life’s been full-on. I’m sorry.”
I wish he was drunk. I’d have an excuse not to listen to him.
“Let’s not do this now.” Without thinking, I add, “It’s been a long night.”
Nate gives me a good hard stare. I block it with my best poker face. All of us Durant siblings have mastered the art, though some are better than others. Nate has a tell: a small twitch of his left eyebrow. He denies it. He’s deluded.
“I love you, you know,” he says. “I want you to be happy.”
Goddammit. Can’t hold the poker face. Shit, now I can feel tears. I am losing it. Best I can hope for is not to bawl out loud like a baby.
Fortunately, Nate spots my dilemma and does give me a hug—our usual rigid fiasco but very welcome. Despite the added fairy lights, it’s still dingy enough for me to cry briefly against his wedding suit. Nate fishes a handkerchief out of his pocket.
“Came with the suit,” he says. “Along with a pair of silk socks.”
“Fancy.” I blow my nose. “Want it back?”
“Amazingly, no.”
Nate squeezes my shoulders.
“Let’s talk next week. I’ll take you out for coffee. Or tequila. Whatever.”
He and Shelby aren’t honeymooning right away. They’re taking a couple weeks off after Christmas when the vineyard is at its quietest.
“Okay.” I give him a quick kiss on the cheek. “Thanks.”
“Do you think you might be able to have alittlefun tonight?” he asks.
I’m about to lie when Jackson slots himself into the convo.
“Shelby’s told me I’ve got to dance at least once,” he says. “I suck at dancing. I’m like a circus bear on a bicycle. Do you want to risk being my partner?”
The band’s playing a peppy number, heavy on banjo and “hey heys”. God knows what kind of moves you’re supposed to make to that.
“What the hell,” I say to Jackson. “Let’s go and cut a rug.”
“You want to lead?” says Jackson. “I mean, one of us should look like they know what they’re doing.”
He’s funny. I’m actually smiling.
“Let’s make it up as we go along,” I say. “Just don’t tread on my feet.”
We’re in the crowd now, the sweaty crowd. Jackson’s dancing is as promised: terrible. Less bear on bicycle and more big, hairy dog on ice. I know I look like shit: tear-stained, red-eyed and now sweaty, but I don’t care. For the first time in weeks, I’m having a good time.
I spot Chiara dancing with Ted. Wonder where Imogen’s got to? Maybe she dissolved at midnight. Or turned into an ornamental pumpkin. I spot my parents, too. Dad still has a dodgy heart, so he’d better not overdo it.
Best of all, I don’t spot Cam. He might not even be here, might have headed home. I’d like to say I don’t care, but that would be a lie. Right now, though, I can choose not to think about him, and focus on Jackson, who appears to be doing some kind of Scottish dance that involves kicking out your legs. It’s ridiculously amusing. Also dangerous for anyone nearby.
The band segues into “Happy” from the Minion movie.
“Beat’s too fast,” puffs Jackson. “Or I’m unfit. My ego locks in answer number one.”
“You can sit it out if you want,” I tell him. “But if you stay, I’m warning you. I’ve got my second wind now. Going to dance all night.”
