What did you expect? I asked myself. Nothing is ever that easy. Just play it cool, act like it’s no big deal if it comes up, and don’t get drunk! “Easier said than done,” I said out loud, then sighed and walked to my closet. I couldn’t afford a new dress for the housewarming party, but I wanted to look nice. Rule number one of facing down a guy you never wanted to see again is to look your very best so he at least feels that it’s his loss, not yours.
Becca provided both the dress I wore to the party and the pep talk that got me in the door. And it helped that Megan updated her wedding website with pictures of the bridal party before the housewarming. All six groomsmen looked familiar, but I had met three of them since Megan and Tim started dating and the other three at the engagement party. None of them triggered specific memories of the later parts of the evening, and they all had similar enough coloring to prevent ruling anyone out. So while I couldn’t determine whom specifically I should be avoiding, I at least knew all six potential hot potatoes’ names. I couldn’t imagine it getting much worse than one of them mentioning our night of debauchery and me then having to ask him his name.
“You’ve got this,” Becca said reassuringly as I sat in my car outside Megan’s new house. “And if it gets awkward, text me and I’ll call you with an emergency.”
I thanked her and begged her to keep her phone handy, which she promised to do. “Give me an update even if it’s not awkward,” she said. “And worst-case scenario, you have material for your blog!”
I laughed and hung up. So far, I had made eighty-seven cents off the blog. Not exactly a runaway success, but I only had three posts. I was afraid to post it on the WeddingWire or Weddingbee forums, even though that would generate readers, because one of the brides might see it, so my only hits so far came from Google searches.
But I hadn’t written a post detailing the groomsman situation yet, so Becca was right. I could potentially get a juicy post out of this. I still hoped it would go smoothly instead though.
Before leaving the car, I typed help into a text message to her, but didn’t hit send. A good offense is the best defense and all. Thus armed against future humiliation, I took a deep breath, grabbed the bottle of wine I had brought as a de facto housewarming gift just in case other people did bring them, checked the address one more time against the number on the curb, and walked up to the front door.
“I love your dress!” Megan said, hugging me in greeting. “Is it new?”
“Borrowed. But neither new nor blue.”
“Come in, come in! Let me give you a quick tour!” She took the wine from me with a quick “You shouldn’t have,” and led me on a whirlwind tour of the house.
The doorbell rang as we were heading back down from a glimpse of the upstairs and Megan shooed me toward the kitchen, where the island was made up as a bar. “Plenty of gin and olives. Make yourself a martini.”
I will not get drunk, I told myself. No matter how much easier it would make things, I will not get drunk. A glimpse around the living room showed two of the groomsmen playing a video game with Tim, while another perused the bookshelves and a fourth told a story to two of the other bridesmaids. I threw them a half-hearted wave as I crossed through the dining room, where more people were helping themselves to the platters of appetizers. I passed Megan’s parents and spoke to them for a few minutes, hoping desperately that I hadn’t done anything too embarrassing in front of them at the engagement party. They greeted me as warmly as ever, and, relieved, I excused myself to get a drink. One is fine, I rationalized.
A handful of people were seated at the kitchen table, more gathered by the back porch door off the kitchen, and two more at the bar area. I stiffened as a man behind the island looked up at me and smiled with obvious recognition. “Lily!” he said, coming around to kiss me on the cheek.
“Mark,” I said, mentally thanking Megan for putting those pictures on her website. He was the best man.
“What are you drinking? White wine?”
I grimaced faintly. “No, thank you. I had enough of that the last time I saw you.” Mark laughed. I grabbed the gin. “Martinis are more my style anyway.” Mark reached for the shaker and the vermouth. “I can do it,” I protested.
“Nah, I make a mean one. How do you take it?”
“Dirty,” a voice behind me said. “Lily likes everything dirty.” I whirled around and saw the last of the six groomsmen, Justin, grinning lasciviously at me. I hadn’t needed his picture to know his name. Justin had been creepily hitting on me since I met him a year earlier at Megan’s birthday party.