Page 31 of Man Cuffed
The other women are just as nice, though. When I arrived with Maguire, a hundred female eyes turned in our direction. I expected to feel the white-hot heat of women judging me. But that’s not how things played out. First there was a collective gasp and sigh as they took in the sight of Maguire standing at the edge of the patio. It’s hard not to gasp and sigh at him. His T-shirt barely contains him and he’s wearing tight slacks that cradle his ass.
If I can’t have an acting job, I might settle for being his slacks. I could just hold his muscular buns all day, professionally. And it would still be a good life.
I’d expected those women to give me the collective stink eye, but that’s not what happened. We were both embraced and ushered further onto the patio. Someone whisked the lemon bundt right out Maguire’s hands. Before I knew it, Rosie was hugging me, then she and Maguire slipped into the kitchen, and I found myself plunked onto an outdoor glider, telling them the story of how we met.
Everyone thinks we’re an item. I’m not sure how I feel about that, but I suppose it’s good practice for the wedding. I did plan to help him out there, so why not get a little rehearsal in?
So I weave the tale. I fill them in on my old waitressing job, and the bridezilla who wanted to steal all the turkey legs, and then how I mistook Maguire for a stripper and tried to rip his clothes off.
There are howls and some genuine guffaws. Those are probably due to the mimosas.
The redhead sitting next to me puts her hand on my wrist. “That is such an amazing story. I met my last boyfriend in the dog food aisle at the grocery store, but your story is way better.”
“Well, I mean dog food...is...kinda hot?” I offer.
“It isn’t at all,” she says. Then she leans in and whispers, “But do you see Leslie over there? She met her husband at a funeral.”
“Yikes. I hope it wasn’t anyone important.”
The woman shrugs. “I’m Aubrey, by the way,” she says. “Friend of Rosie and wedding planner extraordinaire.”
“It’s nice to have confidence,” I say.
She smiles. “Oh, no. That’s actually what my business card says.Wedding Planner Extraordinaire. I’m a better planner than I am a marketer.”
She reaches into her Kate Spade bag, rummages around, and hands me a pink card. She’s right. Her card says it all.
“Well, I’m Meg,” I say. “I don’t have a business card, but I’m a waitress extraordinaire. And sometimes an actor. But just a regular actor. Not extraordinaire.”
“You are kidding me!” she says, delighted sounding.
“About which part? The waitress part? I’m totally serious.”
She laughs and I like her. Why is everyone so friendly here? I forget sometimes that Michigan is weird.
“No! The actress part! That’s amazing! Although, I can totally tell now that you mention it. You have the gift of storytelling. Is there...are you…” She seems like she’s struggling to find the words. “I have a crazy question. Do you ever do freelance work?”
“Freelance? What, like stripping? It hasn’t come to that.”Yet.
“No!” Aubrey gasps. “Although I’m sure you could rock that. But I meant freelance acting. I’m in a serious bind with a client. He wants a flash mob to ask his girlfriend to marry him. And I told him I’d do it, because I hate to turn down work. But then I realized I have no idea how to pull it off. Directing people isn’t the same as arranging flowers and…” She heaves a sigh. “Do you have actor friends? Could you help me pull this off?”
“Probably. Where is it supposed to take place?”
“At the farmers’ market. She has a stall selling flowers. And he’s the cheesemonger. That’s where they met. Now he wants to propose while she’s serenaded about... I don’t know what. Love and birds and cheeses or something? He wants a big production. It should just unfold like…” Aubrey does jazz hands to indicate a big deal. But then her hands drop to her lap. “I don’t know if I can pull this off. What if it turns out like a middle-school musical?”
Everyone within earshot looks suddenly uncomfortable. “There’s nothing more cringeworthy than a middle-school musical,” one woman says. “All those squeaky boy voices right as they’re dropping.”
“All those training bras,” someone else says with a sigh.
“I can help you,” I say with more vehemence than necessary. Because I have middle-school flashbacks, too. That shit is terrifying.
“Can you really?” Aubrey squeaks. “That’s amazing. And he’s paying five thousand dollars so…”
“Five—!” I yelp. “There must be a lot of money in mongering cheese!”
“That’s what I thought, too.” Aubrey shrugs. “I should peddle cheese if this wedding thing doesn’t work out.”
“Same,” I agree. “If both the acting and the ass-holding fail.”
