Borrow-A-Bridesmaid by Anne Wagener Page A

wine and beer. But I do. Charlie follows suit.
    Finishing our drinks, we amble through the Great Hall and deeper into the museum, where three open-faced stories of portrait people gaze down at us. We start on the first floor and work our way up. The portraits are organized by theme and era and depict all walks of people. Royalty and commoners, politicians and plebeians, mothers and children, rock gods and starlets.
    We wander for what feels like hours, losing all track of time and studiously ignoring the portrait captions in favor of our own fictional portraiture.
    â€œSpeaking of characters,” I say as we wander under a “Miscellaneous Americana” sign, “are you going to let me read that screenplay of yours sometime?”
    Charlie stops in front of Elvis, mimicking his pose for a moment. As he drops his arms, a look of vulnerability crosses his face. “I just might,” he says softly. He tugs on the ends of his suit sleeves.
    All of the painted faces seem to be watching us, and I wish I had another drink to sip or some words at the ready.
    â€œYou know what Elvis said once?” Charlie turns toward me. “ ‘Ambition is a dream with a V8 engine.’ Sometimes I feel like mine is going to either drive me off a cliff or burn out revving in place, keep me imprisoned forever in baristary while I try to make my writing happen—but I can’t let go of it. Sometimes I do wonder, what’s the point? What’s the point of putting this piece of art into the universe? Will it make anything better? Will it?” He addresses Elvis, hands outstretched in supplication.
    Elvis smiles down on us, and I smile back. “I don’t know. You have to put it out there to find out. Like Peter and his pumpkin gnocchi.”
    Before Charlie can respond, we freeze at a muffled sound coming from around the corner. Charlie pulls me back in front of Elvis and we stand still, facing each other, until I can’t bear the suspense. I peek around the corner and my lips part.
    Peter is totally snogging Marina. He’s got his hands tangled in her hair, and she’s leaning down to him, her black pumps resting on the floor beside her bare feet. Charlie’s chin pops over my shoulder, and I feel his sharp intake of breath. We sneak back around the corner, laughing silently until tears form in our eyes. He pulls me another row over, so we’re now standing in front of an eighteenth-century schoolmarm with a taut bun and round spectacles. She’s sitting in a hard-backed wooden chair and does not share our amusement.
    Charlie lets out his breath and takes my other hand in his. Maybe it’s the sight of our fictional corporate love story coming true. Maybe it’s the galactic lighting, maybe it’s the feeling of our palms pressed together, pulses racing to a finish line that stretches further and further into the distance. Whatever it is, a feeling crashes over my head: This. This is what it’s supposed to be like.
    Three years with Scott and I never had this feeling. The feeling that something epic is unfolding, something cosmic. With Scott I’d felt an escalating longing, like I was riding one ski lift gondola behind him; he was always out of my reach. But with Charlie, it feels like we’re at the top of the mountain, looking down a starlit slope, stomachs delightfully queasy. The whole journey is ahead, and gravity is on our side. I can only hope he feels the same anticipation.
    â€œCan I tell you something?” he says. The music from the courtyard is still audible, along with the white noise of a dehumidifier keeping the paintings cool. He steps closer to me.
    â€œSure.”
    â€œThis is the most fun I’ve had in a long time. An embarrassingly long time.”
    â€œI know what you mean.”
    â€œI have a feeling it has everything to do with you, Piper Brody.” And as the disapproving schoolmarm looks on, Charlie bends down and kisses me.