Borrow-A-Bridesmaid by Anne Wagener

“This Is What a Feminist Looks Like” printed across the chest in hot-pink lettering. He’s a gentle giant, that one.
    We follow the crowd through a high-ceilinged hall that opens up into a spacious courtyard flanked on either side by Greek Revival buildings. An intricately textured glass canopy stretches overhead, stars just visible beyond. Blue-and-gold-dappled lights kiss the buildings and scatter abstract patterns across a marble floor. Around the perimeter of the courtyard, sculpted trees woven with string lights alternate with buffet tables bearing a cornucopia of hors d’oeuvres. High-top tables decked with linens and candles line the edges of a wide dance floor, where couples slow-dance to a string ensemble.
    It’s absolutely magical.
    Charlie squeezes my hand, and there’s something in his eyes that halts my breath. A kind of guarded hopefulness, a small fire he’s protecting from heavy winds.
    The music changes. Gets slower, settles into all the corners of the room. Inches its way up the courtyard buildings and windowpanes. Fills me until I could burst.
    â€œMary Alberton, will you dance with me?” Charlie unlocks his fingers from mine and holds his hand out as an invitation.
    â€œJohn Alberton! I thought you’d never ask.”
    He sweeps me onto the dance floor in a goofily dramatic move, but I sense what I hope is a slow seduction behind the playfulness. His left hand locks mine into a ballroom dance frame, while his right rests dangerously low on my hip. We’re waltzing.
    â€œI didn’t know I could waltz,” I tell him.
    â€œI’m making it up as I go along.”
    His tie sways slightly as he moves, a life-size metronome: He keeps perfect rhythm. We make our way across the dance floor, and I get a secret thrill when my skirt brushes against the elegant dresses of the corporate matrons. An even more secret thrill when Charlie and I move closer together to maneuver around other couples.
    After a few moments of intense eye contact, I look away and remind myself to breathe. My eyes rest on a lonely-looking man lurking by the hors d’oeuvres, his large glasses tipped to the end of his nose as he holds a gigantic piece of goat cheese–ricotta ravioli between his thumb and pointer finger.
    â€œWhat do you think his story is?” I ask Charlie. We make a subtle path past the lurker, watching as he rotates the piece of ravioli to examine it completely before popping the entire thing in his mouth.
    At this, Charlie pulls me fully into the Lurk Zone, sidling up to the other end of the ravioli table. “He’s Peter Vandermoorten. Works in accounting but dreams of opening his own homemade-pasta shop. The kind of neighborhood shop where he knows all his customers’ names. Working for Leverage, he feels like he’s offered nothing tangible to the universe. All the spreadsheets and PowerPoints disappear into the corporate ether without any lasting value. He worries that he himself has no lasting value.”
    Peter’s chewing slows as a tall brunette walks past, deep in conversation with an even taller blond man.
    â€œHe’s secretly in love with Marina Macklemore, head of marketing,” I say, leaning closer so Charlie can hear. “Rumors abound of Marina’s secret engagement to Atticus Corley, Chuck Corley’s freakishly tall son, but Peter refuses to believe it. Meanwhile, he’s working up the nerve to ask her on a date.”
    â€œHe has visions of inviting her to his place. He just knows, if she tastes his pumpkin gnocchi, she’ll be his forever.”
    I laugh. Peter looks up at the sound, and Charlie quickly pulls me back into the fray for another few slow songs. By the time he leads me off the dance floor again, our fingers interlocked, there’s no sign of Peter. In his place is a server with a fresh round of drinks. Charlie fetches me a flute of bubbly. I shouldn’t; I’m still tipsy from the