The Plus One: A hilarious feel good romantic comedy Read online

  L.L. ABBOTT

  Books by L.L. Abbott

  Genre Fiction

  The Hotel Penn

  The Plus One

  Lake Pines Mystery Series

  Murder On The Water

  Death At Deception Bay

  Murder Of Crows

  The Dead Of Winter

  The Night Is Darkest

  Anna Ledin Thriller Series

  The Blackwater Operative

  The Phoenix Code

  Rogue

  Blown

  Teen & Young Adult

  Unfollowed

  Order From Karoo Bridge

  Carole And The Secret Queen’s Scarf

  The Plus One Copyright © 2021 by L.L.Abbott.

  All Rights Reserved.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

  Cover designed by L.L. Abbott

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  www.llabbott.com

  First Printing: February 2021

  eBook ISBN-978-1-989325-53-7

  Paperback ISBN-978-1-989325-54-4

  Large Print ISBN-978-1-989325-55-1

  For my husband.

  The Plus One

  “Paris is always a good idea.”

  - Audrey Hepburn

  1

  For all the things that I’ve done to avoid the mistakes in my life, or specifically being reminded of the mistakes in my life, attending weddings for friends is the least avoidable thing I have done. Showing up late and missing the service is as about as close as I can get to complete avoidance, and even though I think I’m fooling everyone, I can tell that it’s expected because no one even tries to save a seat anymore.

  The invitation arrived as most do now. With an assigned hashtag, extensive registry (with links for convenience), and of course images of the outlandish, albeit, very beautiful destination location where the couple will exchange their vows. All with the seal of approval by a certified social media expert who has been hired to coordinate the entire event.

  Princess Diana would’ve been impressed with the magnitude that weddings are conducted with now.

  Me, not so much. Partially because many of the invitations come bearing the weight of incomparable commitment. Routine postings of events, liking, reposting, tagging. You get the idea.

  Then there are the bridal party events. Destination weddings aren’t enough. Now girls' weekends need to take place in Vegas, or Mexico, or somewhere that free Wi-Fi is included.

  Thinking back to when I was that new bride and when I was about to step into the ring, the analogy more appropriate than you could imagine, my group of girlfriends took me out for a night of dancing, tequila, and a bump and grind show featuring Sebastian, who I’m sure wasn’t his real name.

  I sound bitter, but I’m not. I’m the one who walked, or ran, away depending upon who you speak to.

  And I’m happy for my friends who are getting hitched and entrusting their happiness to one human being, who may or may not be able to rise to the challenge.

  ‘All the best!’

  This is what I write before I scribble my name at the bottom of the sparkly card that I spend close to seven bucks for, and seal into the accompanying bright pink envelope. Another area I could find frustration with but decided because of my chosen profession to not voice this retail grievance to anyone by myself. It makes the message on the card seem so much more important than it actually is because let’s face it, no one really reads what you write anyway. It’s your attendance and registry choice that eventually will deem your friendship’s importance.

  The latest commitment challenge was produced by Jessica. The gauntlet was laid last June, a whole thirteen months ago, and friends, co-workers, and minor acquaintances began jockeying for the coveted position in the wedding party. It was a sport for many. One where I preferred to be a spectator and not a participant. I even began to lay bets with Dario, my best friend for the last eight years, on the day that the invitations arrived.

  Did I call them invitations? They're more like job applications with subtle references to ‘special friends’ or ‘dream event’ being dangled in front of the recipients who immediately begin their interviewing process online.

  One of the first to use the dedicated hashtag? Check.

  One of the first to purchase an item on the registry (preferably north of the one-hundred-dollar mark)? Check.

  The most incredulous advancement in the field of marriage would be the dedicated website and URL that’s assigned to the ‘couple to be’. The bridal party page containing a placeholder image with ‘to be determined’ splashed across as the ever-present reminder that there’s still a chance to be chosen. So, until then, the dream is still alive.

  The three best weddings I’ve been to are (and in this order); Nana’s, when she hooked her third husband while on a seniors cruise in the South Pacific; John and Joseph’s, because well it was long overdue; and mine.

  All of which I consider as having had a happily ever after. Or #HEA #foreverbliss.

  I dash out of the taxicab, grateful that Jessica’s destination wedding brought her to New York, which happens to be where I live. Making avoidance and late arrivals so much easier for me.

  I’ve chosen my dress carefully. The dark merlot color of the fabric not only compliments my auburn hair but also gives everyone pause as to how I feel about the impending nuptials. Red, if you’re attending an Asian wedding is good, not so otherwise.

  Jessica, a staunch non-practicing Anglo Presbyterian is marrying Richard, a somewhat traditional (but definitely beaten down by the bride) Chinese-American who have decided to be married on the iconic Gapstow Bridge in Central Park.

  Yes, red will keep them thinking. It’s also how my date will be able to recognize me.

  A late-night gin-fueled swipe on the latest dating app I’ve signed up for garnered me the body to replace the plus-one I indicated I was bringing when I replied to the invitation. That was six months ago when I was still dating Peter. Not taking the usual time to cyber-stock my choice before contacting him, I hoped his looks would be enough confirmation that he would be a suitable choice for the event. The fact he didn’t back out once he realized that our first date would be at the wedding and reception of one of my friends, was possibly a good sign. Either that or he was miserably desperate. I would soon find out.

  Oh, did I mention that Jessica is a vegan? Not an Instagram vegan with nuts and fruit drizzled on salads or extra veggies on the side, but a full out cauliflower-steak kind of vegan.

  Richard’s family went all out, and their pre-wedding dinner two nights ago was full-on meat-eater. Bacon-wrapped scallops, beef tenderloin, and traditional pork and duck dishes that they knew their son would have little chance of enjoying once the connubial match was sealed.

  I dash by a group of tourists who are mulling about Inscope Arch trying to figure out if they’re at the right bridge where the snowball scene in Elf was filmed, and blocking my quick dash to Gapstow Bridge. It was the pigeon lady in Home Alone, but I don’t tell them that as I shuffle through the swarm, sure a blurry red flash has appeared in a few of their travel photos. Welcome to New York City.

  The Jimmy Choo’s I sprung for are surprisingly comfortable and
after two more pay-cheques they’ll be paid off. Hopefully, I won’t misplace them like I did my floral Ted Baker court shoes with a silk bow on the heel during the last museum fundraiser, or specifically, the after-party.

  East Drive is as close as the cab can get me to my final destination and I’m in a half-run half-walk the remainder of the distance to the bridge. Guests have congregated along the path and the bridal party is expertly positioned on the bridge, appropriately flanking the bride and groom while they exchange their vows. Precisely written and co-authored by a ghostwriter to uniquely suit each of their personalities.

  I slow my jog as I near the group, not wanting to attract any more attention than my bright red frock already has. I nod to John and Joseph who I burrow in behind and lean forward to greet them.

  Joseph is lean and expertly built for his navy Versace suit, his blond hair cut short with blown-up sides which attracted the attention of a Trend Spotter photographer on Fifth Avenue, placing the style and Joseph at the top of the ‘ten best’ list of that year. John is more of a Hugo Boss man, and his work-out routine keeps his shoulders sculpted, waist thin, and Joseph perpetually jealous of anyone who held their gaze a few seconds too long at John’s blue eyes.

  “Did I miss much?” I hesitate to ask because I don’t really care to know.

  Joseph rolls his eyes holding them near the top of his lids as he says, “Only that they’re perfect.”

  We giggle, then John gives us a shushing motion with his finger to his lips and then returns his misty-eyed attention to the vows that are in motion.

  “Where’s your date?” Joseph whispers, ignoring John’s aggravation at our inattention.

  “Not sure,” I gave him a description of my dress, but as of yet, there’s no one who’s approached me.

  Joseph waves his hand dismissing the absent plus-one, “At least your shoes are hot.”

  I snag a peek, my tanned feet and perfectly manicured toes framed beautifully below my flowing red dress. I nod in agreement.

  Eventually, a hand presses against my lower back and I turn to see the internet image from my haphazard swipe standing next to me. He’s six-two, so I’m glad I wore the heels, and has the chiseled features that only perfect genes or expert cosmetic surgery can produce. He doesn’t say anything, trying to respect the silence of the crowd, but gives me a wink and a nod.

  My heart flutters slightly and my cheeks warm to the blush that begins to rise at his attention. John even ignores his own admonishment of inattention and snags a glance, his eyebrows raise to say ‘well done’ with a chin dip, and then he turns around to focus on the ceremony again. I press my lips together and smile mischievously.

  The final stages of the ceremony are approaching, I can now sense them by the tone and inflection of the minister who’s officiating the wedding.

  Jessica and Richard have settled on an Asian Presbyterian minister to officiate the wedding. Jessica’s attempt at a compromise. His voice is smooth and warm, and you could even sense yourself wanting to fall into the habit of attending church just to listen to him speak.

  Outside of Pastor Lee’s job as the officiant where he must ensure the wedding is legal and official by fulfilling the requirements set forth by the marriage laws in the state in which the couple is wed, he also must make the show so compelling that others are intrigued to permanently step into the path of love.

  I watch as the guests that are already coupled, reach their hands out to each other, and entwine their fingers as the final steps toward the wedding vow are taken. All had experienced the same joy themselves.

  I imagine the clinking sound of gold and diamonds as those embedded in wedded bliss grab each other's hands as they stand looking onto the bridge.

  A seemingly loving moment that I, instead, interpret as the equivalent of grabbing hold of a lifesaving buoy. The wordless equivalent of ‘don’t leave me’ screaming between them. At that same moment, the familiar feeling returns, and I grab my left ring finger and try to rub the memory away. But it doesn’t seem to work this time.

  Is it because Don Julio is holding his hand against my back or because I miss the ring that comforted my finger for a year?

  My finger begins to itch, and I try my best to ignore the sensation when my skin begins to grow red where my nails scratch.

  The image of Charlie floods back, handsome in his black tux and me in my A-line silhouette standing across from him, ignoring the fact that should’ve been obvious to most of our friends.

  That we shouldn’t have been getting married.

  I shake the memory as my eyes begin to haze over. It’s been long enough, and I should’ve been able to put it behind me by now, but instead, I continue to chastise myself for falling too deep in love to see what was on the surface. To see what everyone else, well mostly everyone else, was able to see.

  The feeling of drowning returns to me and I hold my breath and force a steady, calm exhale just as Doctor Bain had taught me to do. Six months of crunching down on anti-depressants did little to numb the reality of leaving Charlie and more to increase my desire for chili dogs and full-fat cheese.

  Whether it was vanity at my waist size or the desire to be able to conquer the Charlie-esque fear of returning to the world, Doctor Bain became a mainstay for twelve months teaching me the secrets to stable, tranquil relaxation and helped me increase my self-esteem.

  I start to calm down and resume my maven demeanor and look on as Jessica and Richard lean in to share their first-ever, public kiss as an official married couple.

  Don Julio presses his hand against my back and pulls me in toward his body. I look up and notice he is smiling. Not at me, but at the spectacle that’s taking place on Gapstow Bridge.

  Then I realize that I’ve been biting down on my lower lip, holding back the emotion that has built up over the last seven years. Just as the tears begin to rise, I clamp down my front teeth and the pain climbs above the tears and I regain my composure.

  Welcome to marriage and dating in the twenty-first century. #HEA #notforeveryone.

  2

  I decide that I’m going to call my date Don Julio. At least in my mind. I was pretty sure the moment he called me ‘hon’ as we were walking out of the park that my plus-one wasn’t going to get to base one, no matter how freaking gorgeous he was. The full sentence stream was “You look beautiful, hon.” This was followed by a wink and a nod. How lucky, I thought to myself, that you approve. At least the pictures will look good.

  The cab stops in front of the New York Public Library behind a row of limousines and Bentley’s that have been hired by Jessica’s parents to transport the bridal party in style. I hurry to step out before Don Julio can shower me with any more handsy attention. We arrive as we are attending a movie premiere and I expect to find a row of paparazzi with microphones being jammed into our faces.

  Instead, pink rose petals are scattered over the red velvet carpet that creeps up the steps and in through the grand front entrance. Brass bars weigh down the carpet at the steps folds and reflects the amber lights that hang on the ropes edging the pathway. Although, I’m not sure who’s looking to sneak into the vegan wedding. An immediate embarrassment rises as I stride down the path with Don Julio running to catch up to me, calling my name to grab my attention.

  Now, I realize it may be a little too late to let him know my real name is Kenzie and not Sophie.

  Strange glances land in my path as friends I’ve known for many years, even the Charlie years, wonder why Don Julio doesn’t remember my name. After all, he looks pretty smart.

  I grab the lapel of his jacket and pull him close, “Oh, I forgot to tell you, my name’s not Sophie. It’s Kenzie.” I release him as quickly as I grab him, so he doesn’t think I’m pulling him in for a kiss.

  Soon, however, I realize I should have hung on a little longer as the flat bottom of my Jimmy Choo’s slip on a pile of smooth, fresh petals and my front leg shoots ahead of me, widening my stride to an unnatural width.

  Don
Julio, however, manages to reach out and grab my arm, lifting me before I fall. I redden as I mumble a thank you and try my best to elegantly climb up the mountain of stairs as the side of my knee begins to throb.

  Waiters posted as sentries at the event are poised throughout the foyer extending platters of vegan delights. Grilled mushrooms with some sort of bean spread are the first offering. Remnants of the few previously taken, already discarded in nearby trash cans. The color of the food the closest indication of what they’re made from. Brown, most likely a mushroom-based treat. Red, beets would be the main ingredient, and the biggest crapshoot would be anything green. Green could offer you everything from a throat clogging broccoli concoction to a parsley prepared canapé.

  I opt for the glass of wine that’s being proffered, knowing that it’s an item that’s survived being vegan for several years without its reputation being harmed.

  Don Julio reaches for the mushroom bean creation and pops it into his mouth. The look on his face is obvious that he was expecting a spicy crab mixture filling, possibly even one loaded with cheese. To Don Julio’s credit, he swallowed his shock and the appetizer without saying a thing. And when the waiter was hopeful that he found a guest who may enjoy another, he stepped forward and extended the tray. Don Julio waved him away with a thanks but no thanks look. He reached over to another waiter balancing crystal glasses of wine on a tray and grabbed one for himself and quickly gulped a mouthful to wash away the taste in his mouth.

  We stood awkwardly looking around the room, nodding and smiling at guests as they entered the library’s foyer. The Rotunda of the library is the highlight of the grand Georgian-style mansion. Outside of the stunning marble staircase that would gracefully lead guests to the second floor where a reception hall was located, it was basically just a building with a lot of rooms. Beautiful and ornate and spectacularly historical rooms, complete with French doors that overlooked Central Park, but still just rooms.