ASHER
And here I thought engagement parties were dull.
This one might have been, in spite of the fact that I’m throwing it. My opinion of marriage rituals is ambivalent at best. But here comes the bride’s brother slinking through the door, looking like a kid who’s just been caught putting a snake in the teacher’s desk. A venomous one.
So this party just got a whole lot more interesting.
Ever since meeting Mark several months ago, I haven’t known what to think about the buttoned-up banker with the midnight blue eyes. He’s always struck me as mild-mannered and carefully inoffensive. Like a striped tie, or a white dress shirt. I’m sure he owns both. In multiples. If he has a car, I bet it’s silver.
He works at a Wall Street bank, for fuck’s sake, doing something with math or spreadsheets. “He’s in derivatives,” Flip once said, and I’d shuddered because the word made me think of failing out of calculus class in college.
Sometimes, though, if you get a few drinks in a guy, the truth comes out. That’s what happened last night, I suspect. A little after midnight, when Flip and I were out on the balcony of his apartment, smoking a couple of Cubans I scored off a client, both our phones started pinging with drunk texts from the mild-mannered banker.
I should probably feel guilty for reading them. It was immediately obvious to both of us that Mark had only meant to text his sister. The four-way group text had begun only yesterday, as a quick way for me to plan this spontaneous engagement party, and Hannah was the last one to weigh in with an exclamation-laden (I can't wait for the party!!!) reply.
But did Flip and I stop reading? Not on your life. That text thread was a box of delights.
In the first place, I was fascinated to learn that Mark opposes his sister’s wedding. Most men would be over the moon to welcome Phillipe “Flip” Dubois III to the family. My friend is both loaded and head-over-heels for Hannah. He’s a good man, and she’ll never want for anything.
He owns a full-floor condo on Park Avenue, a Mercedes E-Class, and has a membership at Maidstone. Material wealth aside, I’m here to tell anyone who asks that he cried actual tears of joy when she told him she was pregnant.
But all that’s not good enough for our boy Mark, I guess. He wrote—in shouty caps, no less—that the marriage was DOOMED LIKE THE TITANIC. I’M AFRAID FOR YOU ON THAT FLOATING DOOR.
Now that’s just dark. Besides, it’s not even a good metaphor. Everyone knows there was plenty of room for Leo on that thing. The MythBusters even proved it.
The whole ugly blowup was, however, entertaining. The next five minutes will not disappoint, either, since our buttoned-up Wall Streeter now wears the abashed look of a man who’s about to do the right thing and apologize to his sister and her fiancé.
I should probably walk away and give them some privacy. But I think I won’t.
“Hannah Banana,” Mark says in a rough voice as he approaches. “God, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean any of it.”
His sister grabs him into a hug. “Yes, you did, Marky Mark. You meant every last excruciating thing, including the mullet comparison. And I forgive you anyway.”
“Thank you.” He groans, sounding relieved. “I just don’t handle change all that well.”
“Gosh, you think?” she asks. “I know we just sprung this on you. The baby. The wedding.”
He grunts in acknowledgment as he hugs his sister. “How can I ever make it up to you?”
She pulls out of that tight hug and looks up at her brother. “Hold that thought. Because I do have a favor to ask a little later.”
“Anything. Whatever you need. But I do need to apologize to your fiancé,” he says.
“Good. I’d appreciate that,” she says, patting his arm.
Mark obviously left the rep ties at home tonight in favor of a dress shirt in a deep blue color that makes his eyes pop. I’m such a sucker for eyes. And he’s wearing a very sharp pair of glasses that accentuate instead of hide them. His glossy dark hair is cut in an attractive style that works with the whole boss man look he’s got going on.
Fine. If I’m being objective, he looks good tonight. Hot, even. I’ve always thought so.
But he’s still a stuck-up banker who doesn’t like my BFF. And now he’s got to grovel for Flip anyway.
This should be fun.
Slowly, Mark turns toward my friend, his expression chastened. “Flip, man, I’m sorry. There was no excuse for the lack of faith I showed last night.”
“Damn right,” Flip says, posting an arm around Hannah and lifting his strong, waspy chin in defiance. “I’ve never given you a single reason to doubt my good intentions toward your sister.”
God, where is the popcorn when you need it? Mark’s jaw is flexing. I can practically hear the arguments forming in his brain—most of which center around my friend’s inability to use a condom correctly.
Flip and Hannah didn’t mean to get pregnant three months after they met. It’s all good, though, because by the time that plus sign showed up on the pregnancy test several weeks ago, they were already planning a future together.
“I’m sorry,” Mark says again, even if his teeth are practically clenched. “It’s just been sudden. I worry.”
Flip rubs Hannah’s shoulder. “I know it seems fast, but we’re very happy. And we chose that wedding date next month partly for your sake.”
Apparently Mark’s high-pressure job makes it hard for him to get away, but he’s free for the second half of June. “Thank you,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’ll be honored to attend.”
His sister grins. “Go get a beer, Mark. Just stay away from the whiskey.”
“Good idea,” he says. “Thank you.”
Mark turns and reverses course toward the bar in the corner. I’m about to follow him when the waitstaff begins carrying in an array of sushi rolls arranged on wooden boats, and also thinly sliced bites of ahi and hamachi served on elegant little dishes.
As a party planner, I’ve outdone myself.
“Mister St. James?” the manager says, touching my elbow. “Please let me know if you need anything at all.”
I survey the generous spread of food and my stomach rumbles. “This looks terrific. I really appreciate the way you arranged this so quickly for me.” Everything came together in a flurry, Hannah announced her pregnancy a few weeks ago, and last weekend, Flip proposed. Now, here we are.
“My pleasure, sir.” The man gives a slight bow, and I return it, as I learned to do on an extended trip to Japan a few years ago. “If you need anything more, don’t hesitate to ask.”
Pleased with both him and myself, I turn back to the party and take a plate off the top of the stack. Then I hand it to Hannah. “The bride-to-be should start, right? If that’s not a tradition, it should be. Step right up, Hannah. All this sushi isn’t going to eat itself.”
Then I move out of the way so that my guests can have first dibs on the spread. My drink is empty, though, so I head for the bar and another Asahi Super Dry.
That’s where I find Mark, elbow on the bar, drinking . . . “Is that orange juice, Banks? How’s your hangover?”