Page 29 of When Javi Dumped Mari

With a decisive nod, Mari says, “We’ll be right back,” and leads Sienna to the lounge area inside.

Seconds before they disappear from view, Sienna tucks herself against Mari as if she’s being consoled by a close friend rather than a stranger and potential client—though I’m guessing the latter’s no longer true.

What the hell? Is this one of those fever dreams again?

I’m frozen in place, unsure what to do. Stay here and guard the portrait? The digital camera? Yeah, that seems like the responsible thing to do. I peek at the crowd to gauge how many people witnessed the spectacle, and that’s when I notice one of the celebrants—the white one—marching toward me.

By the time he reaches me, he’s pasted on a smile and shaken out his hands. “Listen to me carefully,” he says, his voice low and strained. “Do not do anything that would suggest something’s wrong. Nod if you understand.”

I nod.

“Who are you?” he asks.

“I’m Javier. You don’t know me. I’m here with my friend Marisol. She’s considering using the artist for her own wedding.”

“Nice to meet you, Javier. I’m Ian.”

“Good to meet you. Congrats on your wedding, by the way.”

“Thanks. What happened to Sienna?”

“She got overwhelmed all of a sudden, I think. Upset about something.”

“Oh dear, that’s Sienna for you,” he says, shaking his head.

“Listen, my very new and very anxious husband did not want Sienna to do this live portrait thing because she’s…

not exactly reliable, and if he has any inkling that something’s gone awry, I will never hear the end of it.

So can you pretend that all is well until Sienna returns?

Consider it your wedding present to us. And if anyone asks, you’re her assistant. ”

“Uh, sure, I can do that,” I say, stunned into agreeing to whatever he asks.

“Great. And be sure to grab a beer at the bar. On us, of course.”

“Yep, that’s very nice of you,” I say on autopilot. “Take care.”

Ian strides away, returning to his groom, who’s dancing with an older Black woman. Given how the pair are gazing at each other, I assume she’s his mother, but who the hell knows? What a strange day.

I pick up the paintbrush and wave it around, hovering near the painting but being careful not to touch it.

“It’s magnificent,” a man behind me says. “Bethany, come here, honey,” he bellows to someone else. “Check this out!”

I give the guy a tense smile and notice out of the corner of my eye that his attempt to get his companion’s attention has drawn several more people over.

Shit. If I touch this canvas, I risk ruining the couple’s wedding portrait.

What the hell am I supposed to do? And where the hell are Sienna and Mari?

“So what happens now?” the guy asks, unknowingly mimicking one of the thoughts in my scrambled head.

Excellent question, sir. I have no fucking clue . To him, I say, “Well, I, um, I’m not the lead artist. I’m her assistant.”

“Which means what? Are you working on the background, then?”

“Exactly that,” I say.

“Oh, show us how it’s done!” the guy’s companion exclaims. “We’re so invested.” She indicates a section of the portrait. “Look, Bill, I think that’s us!”

Thanks to an art history course in high school, I vaguely remember a style of painting that was just dots. Pointism? No, pointillism! How much damage can I really do if I just add a speck? I can’t imagine it would make that much of a difference.

Slowly and very carefully, I use the paintbrush to add a single dot to the canvas. “There you have it, friends. That’s the process.”

I twist around to see everyone’s reactions.

A dozen people are staring back at me, most of their faces scrunched in confusion.

My good friend Bill is wrinkling his nose.

My gaze floats over the guests and lands on Mari, who’s standing at the edge of the dance floor, a hand over her mouth and her shoulders shaking in barely concealed amusement.

Before I can figure out how to drag her into my nightmare, Sienna appears at my side and gently removes the paintbrush from my hand.

“Thank you,” she says. “I’ve got it from here. And sorry about”—she waves the brush—“whatever that was.”

“No problem,” I say, knowing Mari will give me the backstory later. “Feeling better?”

“Yeah,” she says.

“Good. I’ll let you get back to it.”

I escape and find Mari at the bar, where she’s ordering a glass of white wine and a virgin mojito. She hands the mojito to me. “That was quite the performance. You earned this.”

“Well, now that I’m part of the wedding staff, I feel entitled to some hors d’oeuvres too. Shall we?”

“We shall,” she says, waggling her eyebrows.

After ransacking the hors d’oeuvres display, we find an open cocktail table and dig in.

“Mmm, I love arancini balls!” Mari exclaims.

“That’s great, but maybe you shouldn’t shout that in public.”

She throws a hand over her mouth and laughs, then turns to her chicken lollipop. “This is nice,” she says between bites. “This reception, I mean. It’s modest yet elegant and not fussy at all.”

“Is that what you’re going for?”

Her smile slips. “Not sure that’s an option anymore. My father wants to make a statement. Wants it to be memorable. And even though it’s turning into more than I envisioned, I don’t want to totally disregard his wishes. My father gets to do this only once. What’s the harm in letting him have this?”

“It’s your wedding, though,” I urge. “Yours and Alex’s, rather.”

“Of course it is. And that hasn’t changed. It’s just that I’ve had to compromise here and there. That isn’t necessarily a bad thing.”

I tilt my head and peer at her. “Mari, you do know you don’t owe your father anything, right? He did nothing more for you than what fathers are supposed to do. There’s no debt you need to repay.”

“Sure, there’s no debt, but that doesn’t mean I can’t acknowledge that he did something many men wouldn’t have done. Seriously, what father would want to be saddled with a moody teenage daughter when her mother dashes off to another country?”

In other words, she does feel indebted to him even though she claims she doesn’t.

I bet Luiz not only knows this but also uses it to his advantage.

“Unless what you’ve been telling me all these years isn’t true, your mother didn’t dash off anywhere, and she would have taken you with her if you had wanted to go.

” I squeeze her hand. “Besides, you’re a goddamned treasure.

Your father’s lucky to have you in his life. ”

Her eyes well up. “There you go being good for my ego again.”

“Eat some more balls,” I say, bumping her shoulder with mine. “It’ll make you feel better.”

She snorts, and then she throws her head back in laughter, wiping her eyes with a tissue.

An elderly couple shuffles over, the gentleman of the pair holding a plate of his own food. “This looks like the fun table!”

“May we join you?” the woman asks.

“Of course,” I say, shifting closer to Mari to make room for them.

“I’m Tom,” the man says. “And this is my wife, Barbara.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Mari says. “I’m Marisol, and this is my friend Javier.”

Tom turns to face the people dancing in the center of the courtyard. “It’s a lovely wedding, isn’t it?”

“It is,” I say, nodding. “Mari was just saying it’s modest yet elegant.”

“That’s how ours was,” Barbara says, tearing off a piece of chicken from the leg and popping it into her mouth. Damn, she’s really going to town on that thing.

Tom chuckles. “But it was different back then. We didn’t do all of the stuff people do nowadays: releasing butterflies, wedding painters, photo booths. Goodness, whatever happened to just saying ‘I do’ to the person you want to spend the rest of your life with?”

“Simpler times,” I say.

“How long have you been married?” Mari asks them.

They stare at each other, their eyes glowing with affection. “Forty-one years,” they say in unison.

Mari leans in conspiratorially. “So what’s the secret to a long and loving marriage?”

Barbara covers Tom’s hand with hers. “We were best friends first.”

Go, Barbara, go. If I didn’t know any better, I would think Barbara’s a plant, paid by yours truly to remind Mari that Alex isn’t the guy for her.

Mari swallows, her eyes downcast, then says, “That’s lovely. We wish you all the continued happiness you deserve.” But her head’s already on a swivel, searching for the exit and signaling in no uncertain terms that she’s ready to leave.

I knock twice on the table and wave goodbye to Tom and Barbara. “It was wonderful to meet you.”

“Take care, you two,” Barbara calls after us.

As we make our way through the lounge, I tap Mari’s arm. “Sienna’s a no, I take it?”

Mari snickers, her eyes flashing with amusement. “Sienna’s a I-think-the-fuck-not. Thanks for coming with me, though. I still had fun.”

“It was nothing,” I say. “But what was her deal anyway? Why’d she melt down like that?”

“She had sex with her friend David last night, and now she’s worried they’ve ruined their friendship.”

“Oh shit,” I say, stopping short in the middle of the lounge.

Mari turns back to me, her eyebrows raised. “Exactly. Now where have we heard that before?”