Page 25 of Fathers of the Bride
The women glared at each other for a moment and then suddenly burst into laughter. I wondered if I should take Terry’s comment about them being insane a tad more seriously.
8
Andrew Lane
“This is going to be a disaster,”I told Raj as we drove to Malibu.
“Oh, I hope so,” he gushed.
“You did not just say you hoped my daughter’s wedding was a disaster.”
“Bae, this is just the first meet and greet, not the wedding. Besides, you know how well videos of wedding disasters trend. It could be very, very good for me.”
“Ah—”
“And by me, I mean us. You know that.”
He’d tried that line on me before. Unfortunately, it sometimes worked. Six months before, I’d picked up a nasty rash on my upper back which my boyfriend promptly Instagrammed. Horrible, I thought. But he was offered a nice deal recommending an acne cure-all. Meanwhile, I went to the doctor and got a prescription for cortisone cream.
“Well, let’s not encourage a disaster… if itisa disaster, it should be organic. You should have nothing to do with it.”
“What do we know about these people?” Raj asked, changing the subject. If nothing else, Roger Blinkenship always came prepared.
“Ugh! I Facebook stalked them,” I exclaimed. I’d also Googled them. And Twittered them. And Tik Toked them. They were exactly what I was expecting. The Collins and the Lincolns were two attractive late-middle-aged couples who were as bland as the photographs included with the silver-plated department store frames. They looked more like stock art than stock art. Not to mention after looking through their various feeds I began to wonder who might be taking all the pictures. The lighting was impeccable.
Both couples were in their mid-fifties. The boys favored golf attire and topsiders, as though they were ready to jump off a sailboat straight into a round of golf. They looked weirdly alike: medium-length salt-and-pepper hair, well-balanced features, strong chins. I’d have written that off as coincidence if their wives hadn’t borne a striking resemblance as well. Carefully highlighted blonde hair cut shoulder length, a taste for caftans and jumpsuits, and a thinness that can only be achieved with years of near starvation.
What became apparent as I’d stared at their Instagram photos was that these two couples had divorced and then married someone who looked exactly like their former spouse, and now, well, now the two couples did everything together. Including living next door to each other.
Disturbing. Very disturbing.
“What did you say?” I asked. Raj had said something. Well, he’d said a lot of things while I was considering the Lincoln-Collins brood. But I had the sudden feeling he’d said something important.
“I asked you if I should get ab implants?”
Oh God.
“No. You should not get ab implants.”
“I could increase my followers by forty percent if I had a six pack.”
“There’s nothing wrong with your stomach.”
“It’s all right. You can say it. I’m not a thirst trap.” He was certainly attractive enough if not exactly unique. I’d tried to tell him that his averageness was his appeal. It hadn’t worked.
“Thirst traps burn out quickly,” I pointed out. “You’re shooting for longevity.” Although, honestly, longevity on the Internet seemed to be two or three years. Raj had already exceeded his shelf life.
“I think we’re here,” I said, as we reached the stretch of Malibu south of the colony where the houses start to occupy every inch of available space between PCH and the beach.
The Lincoln-Collinses lived in side-by-side modernist boxes. Exactly the kind of architecture Miles loathed. I assumed he was already there despising every inch of the place.
“Where do we park?” I asked. I’d put on my blinker even though I wasn’t certain—
“In the driveway,” Raj said, giving me a look that said he was afraid I’d developed early Alzheimer’s.
“But then we’ll have to back into traffic,” I said.
“Don’t worry, you’ll be drunk by then.”
