My head was reeling, but I think I made a vaguely appropriate response of congratulations before reminding Amy that I was at Megan’s engagement party and couldn’t stay on the phone.
“Ooh, okay! I have to go call Jake anyway! And Grandma and Aunt Anna and so many other people! I’ll call you tomorrow with all the details, okay? Bye-ee!”
I dropped my phone back in my purse and poured the remains of the drink I had been holding down my throat, then walked straight to the bar, where I ordered another. I drank that one the same way, ordered another, and remembered nothing further until waking up the following morning in a strange hotel room with an even stranger groomsman.
CHAPTER THREE
It was time to do some quick damage control. First, there was the issue of the mystery groomsman. I thought about it while I showered the morning after the party and decided it truly was best to not know which groomsman I had slept with. Curiosity killing the cat and all. And that cat probably actually died of shame from having to repeatedly face the guy she hooked up with while blind drunk. No thanks. If I didn’t know who it was, I couldn’t be awkward about it, nor could I develop a posthookup rebound crush on the guy in order to justify having slept with him. Having been down that road before, I felt qualified to postulate that those relationships have an expiration date on par with that of a container of yogurt, which is far less time than a typical engagement takes, and I had zero desire to walk down the aisle at Megan’s wedding with someone whom I had not only slept with, but also horrifically dated and broken up with. The only solution? Tell Megan I didn’t want to know who it was and move on. I could ask after the wedding if I was still curious.
With that settled, there was the issue of keeping the details of five weddings straight. I, to put it mildly, lack major organizational skills. Caryn’s and Megan’s weddings would be a piece of cake on that front at least. Caryn was the most organized and highest functioning person I knew, and Megan had been planning her dream wedding for so many years that she would need almost nothing from me. Sharon’s would be harder, as her disdain for all things wedding meant she would need a little hand-holding. But, I rationalized, her mother would take over the planning, and with Sharon not wanting a wedding at all, she would be pretty laid-back about the whole process. Then again, Mrs. Meyer was the opposite of laid-back, and she would be running the show. But she also probably wouldn’t allow any feedback from me, so there wouldn’t be much I would be expected to do anyway.
Jake’s and Amy’s weddings were going to cause the biggest headaches. I was definitely off on the wrong foot with Madison after the engagement phone call, and I needed to fix that. She and Jake lived in Chicago, so taking her to lunch wasn’t an option, but a gift with an apology note was. And Amy—well—she was twenty-four. I figured that the odds of her and Tyler actually reaching the aisle in June were only slightly higher than the odds of me getting married to the random groomsman I had slept with. It was possible, but pretty freaking unlikely. My baby sister didn’t exactly have a reputation for following through with things, and Tyler was her longest relationship, at just over a year—a year that she had spent still living with my parents. In grown-up relationship time, that took it down to maybe three months. I decided if I took her out of the equation entirely, everything else seemed far more manageable.
I can do this, I thought as I stepped out of the shower. Just one step at a time.
I had a missed call and voicemail from Megan by the time Becca and I finished breakfast. I deleted the voicemail without listening, then called her back.
“Before you say a single word,” I said, cutting her greeting off, “I don’t want to know who it was!”
Megan hesitated, processing. “Explain.”
“Promise you won’t tell me first.”
“I promise nothing.”
“MEGAN!”
“Ugh, fine, I won’t tell you. But I want to know what happened.”
I sighed. “Amy is getting married.”
“Amy who?”
“My sister.”
“Your sister is twelve. She’s not getting married.”
“Twenty-four,” I said. “I agree, she probably isn’t actually getting married, but she’s engaged nonetheless.”
“Gross. When did that happen?”
“Last night.”
“Ahhh. That explains why you started mainlining chardonnay at the party.”
“And that explains my hangover,” I groaned. “Really? Chardonnay?”