Page 50 of Best Woman
Something vibrates inside my bag. It’s a call from Daytona—a regular phone call, not FaceTime, which is unusual.
“Hello, Daytona.”
“Hello, doll. Having a good time?”
“Not particularly.” Brunch is winding down, but someone’s put on a playlist of early-nineties pop music, leading to some very uncoordinated mimosa-fueled dancing. No one wants the party to end, but I’m ready to go home. “But I did what I came to do.”
“Got the girl?”
“No,” I say. Speak of the devil: Kim dances with Rachel, sexy as hell in jeans and a blazer, cool and composed and closed off to me forever. “I saw my brother get married. I made a toast. I ate kugel. My job here is done.”
“Good girl,” she says. “I’m proud of you. Although I’d be prouder if you were too busy dancing to answer the phone.”
I laugh, leaning back in my chair. Brody and Brian leave the table for parts unknown. “Give me time, I’ll find some lonely busboy or sweet-talk one of the bridesmaids into giving me a spin. Eventually. Or I’ll leave alone and die an old spinster.”
“Must you be so melodramatic? Sylvia fucking Plath over here. Need to find a nice oven to stick your head in?”
“As if,” I say, faux aggrieved. “My suicide would be much sadder and more glamorous. Pills, perhaps. Or drowning. I could fill my pockets with stones and walk into the sea like in The Awakening .”
“Yeah, I skipped that day in English.”
“But you got the reference, so I think you’re lying.”
“I can just picture you there, all sad and morose with your half-eaten crème br?lée.”
I look down at my plate. “How did you know it was half eaten?”
“You’re probably biting your nails again, ruining that manicure your mother paid for, the way you do when you’re really going through it.”
I had, in fact, been chewing on my thumbnail quite aggressively.
“You’re probably wishing you’d gone with a nude color instead of black,” she says, knowingly. I look around wildly. “And you’re wondering who added Celine to the queue.”
“ There were nights when the wind was so cold ” crackles over the speakers.
I stand, swinging right, then left, searching past the tables, dancing bridesmaids, and towers of smoked fish.
Daytona continues speaking into my ear, providing commentary on unfortunate dress and hair choices as I bob and weave through the dancers.
I reach the edge of the floor, where Rachel now dances with Aiden, both moving slowly, completely incongruous with the music.
“Oh, honey, how many times do I have to tell you? The shoes stay on until you get home.”
The voice isn’t just in my ear. It’s here. Daytona is here, standing just behind the newlyweds. She wears a short red dress with a dangerously high slit, her hair swept to one side so she can hold her phone to her ear. She is incandescent and improbable, and I want to cry just looking at her.
“I must admit,” she says, still talking into the phone, “not everyone here is a total lost cause. Your brother is kind of cute, and you already know how I feel about your dad.”
“If you fuck my dad I will never forgive you.”
Her grin is wicked, per usual. “Yes, you will.”
My answering smile feels just a bit manic. “Yes, I will.”
“But wait,” she says, hamming up a look of shocked surprise. “Who is that on the edge of the dance floor? A striking woman in red, mysterious as the night itself, too lovely for words.”
“And yet you’re still talking.”
“Could this beautiful stranger be the woman you’ve been waiting for? Not for sex, of course—she has a previous engagement with a certain older gentleman.”
“I’m going to hang up.”
“You’re sad and brokenhearted. This woman is clearly out of your league on every level, and she doesn’t even like women.
But you think, what the hell.” Daytona hangs up her phone, dropping it onto a nearby table along with her bag.
She struts her way toward where I stand alone, but not for long. “Maybe there won’t be sex,” she allows.
“I surely fucking hope not,” I say, grabbing her hand and squeezing it. Her nails dig into my palm and the pain grounds me in this moment.
“Maybe there won’t be perfect mothers or gorgeous lesbians.” She starts to lead me into the fray, heels clacking even over the voices singing along with Celine Dion.
“There will always be gorgeous lesbians,” I counter.
She leans against me, pressing a lip to my cheek. I can smell the sweet tuberose of her perfume, wrapping around me in a cloud of comfort. This is home, I think. Daytona’s hand in mine, the people around me, this stupid city with its strip malls and golf courses. It’s not perfect, but it’s mine.
My sister wraps her arms around my waist, starting to move as that wicked smile blooms once more on her face. “But by god,” she tells me, leading me into a twirl, “there will be dancing.”
And she’s right.