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

  Joseph waved from the top of the staircase and I tugged at Don Julio’s sleeve for him to follow me up the stairs. I forced a straight walk against the limp my step wanted to favor, courtesy of the petal mine that was laid on the front steps, placing my feet deliberately on the slippery marble steps. In my rush to flag a cab in front of my building, so I would be just the right amount of late for the ceremony, I forgot to scrape the bottom of my new shoes on the pavement that would have given me the grip I needed.

  The hand appeared again against the lower part of my back and his soft warm breath crept across the side of my neck, “My name’s not Don, by the way.”

  I snapped my head sideways and looked confusingly at him and blushed.

  “What?” I asked.

  “Don. My name’s not Don,” he explained. “It’s Kyle. You called me Don when I reached out to keep you from falling.”

  “Oh,” I mutter. “Sorry about that.”

  I turn around and mouth ‘shit’ about three times hoping to banish the name from my mind. The guy may not be a keeper, but he didn’t deserve that.

  I greeted John and Joseph with the side kisses we usually met with before I introduced my date.

  “John, Joseph,” I say, pointing to each of my friends as I say their names. “This is Kyle.”

  I smile, proud that I remembered his name, and then begin to giggle as an image of a Latin version of George Clooney flashes into my mind, as he mockingly says how do you do, with an exaggerated Spanish flair.

  All three of the men try and ignore my laugh, Joseph choosing the WTF look that only an old friend can give you with just one blink.

  “Sorry,” I apologize. “I just remembered something funny.”

  Six eyes land on me waiting for me to share the humor, but only Joseph knows what I was probably laughing at.

  “Never mind,” I say. “It wasn’t that funny.”

  They return to a conversation filled with what do you do, do you like it, have you been to, that takes up the next twenty minutes of the idle pre-reception camaraderie.

  A waiter appears at the summons of the dimming light, much like when the intermission is ending at the theater, and opens the large mahogany doors of the reception hall.

  Fresh orchard blossoms are arranged in the vases that are placed in the center of the table, and the same haphazard petals that threatened to take me down in front of the library, now dot the surface of the white linen table cloths.

  “We’re all at table ten,” Joseph announces.

  We follow the flow of guests and find our table and take our seats. The hand appears again and guides me into my seat and he gently pushes it toward the table once I’m safely in place. He takes the chair beside mine, because why else wouldn’t he, and he unbuttons his suit jacket as he lowers himself to the chair.

  My heart leaps at the move, so subtle yet somehow comforting. He sits as he belongs there with me and it oddly makes me feel contented. He places his drink order when the waitress approaches our table.

  “Whiskey, neat, please,” and then winks and nods at the waitress.

  I push the moment away. He’s a date, nothing more. Scratch that, he’s an internet date that I know nothing about. A step below a blind date, to which a friend at least has some knowledge if the person you are being set-up with has some questionable traits. Like, let’s say, a killer for hire, or something like that.

  Once I place my order and John orders two bottles of wine, one white and one red, for the table, the speeches begin.

  Time drifts by, meals being delivered between speeches and drinks being refilled before they are fully emptied. All signs of a well-coordinated wedding.

  Don Julio excuses himself to use the washroom and Joseph watches him go. John smacks his arm and shakes his head.

  “What?” Joseph says defensively. “Just wondering if he’s good enough for Kenzie!”

  “And?” John asks, crossing his arms, waiting for a sufficient reply.

  “I’m not sure,” Joseph turns to me. “What was with the wink and nod to the waitress?”

  “You saw that too!?” I laugh.

  “Uh, yeah,” Joseph says. “Not cool.”

  “Well, I’m not sure I’m going to see Don again.”

  “I thought his name is Kyle?”

  I explain the moniker I have given my quick-swipe date and both Joseph and John laugh.

  “I can see it,” John adds. “It works actually.”

  My date returns after a little while. I figure the ultra-fiber-rich meal probably has taken its toll on him and he couldn’t wait until he got home.

  The meal ends soon, fueled by more wine and empty conversation which makes the time fly by. The lights begin to dim, and a dance floor is suddenly noticeable in the center of the room.

  First, the father-daughter dance begins and I’m glad that it quickly morphs from a sob-yanking tune of My Little Girl by Tim McGraw to a series of thud-pounding moves choreographed to Sweet Child of Mine by Guns ‘n Roses.

  The mother-son dance is more traditional and less heart wrenching for me to watch and I clap along. The crowd is called up to join the newlyweds in their next dance and Don Julio grabs my hand without asking.

  I grab Joseph’s hand as I pass by and he, in turn, grabs John’s. The four of us begin our drunken renditions of whatever tune the band is playing and then I see it.

  The same bright red lipstick that matched my dress (but is coated on the waitress's lips) is smeared across Don Julio’s right ear lobe and the edge of his shirt collar. The beginnings of a hickey rising to the surface of his neck just visible with the low light.

  The moment has come and gone, and I’ve already ended the night. As Don Julio excuses himself to use the washroom again, I explain my quick exit to Joseph, and he grabs my arm and squeezes it.

  “I’ll cover you and leave him hanging as long as I can,” Joseph promises. “Bastard.”

  I smile, tell him I love him, and leave before I change my mind about bolting out of the reception. The marble staircase faces me like a dare, and I grab hold of the brass railing as I hurry to the bottom and exit the foyer.

  I grab the first cab waiting in the queue and tell the driver my address. I watch as the library and the lush red carpet fade out of view and wonder what type of review Don Julio will give my profile. I figure if he gets lucky with the waitress tonight, not a bad one.

  3

  The cab arrives at my building and I pay the fare in cash. I step out more slowly now that the wine has settled comfortably in my head and knee, making the climb to the front door less daunting than I thought it would’ve been. The building owner had upgraded the building’s security a year and a half ago and a six-digit code is all that’s required to unlock the front door.

  I enter the numbers. The digits represent the day I left my marriage and vowed to begin my life anew. It was supposed to remind me each day that I came home was a new beginning, a chance at a new life. Tonight, all I needed it to do was to open the door.

  A click echoed from beneath the strike plate and the power mechanism engaged and the door slowly began to open. My apartment is on the second floor and I decide that taking the stairs will help prevent a hangover.

  I lie to myself a lot like that.

  A stray tabby runs into the building before the door whirs shut and challenges my pace to the second floor. He purrs at the base of my Jimmy Choo’s and I gently nudge him away. I bend down and gather the pile of mail that Mrs. Groves collects and distributes to each unit every day, and I unlock the door.

  I live alone and I don’t have to worry about waking anyone as I noisily stumble through the door. The one roommate I did have, left when she realized I had little interest (read: no interest) in starting a book club with her or plan regular movie nights in.

  She was looking for a friend, I was looking for half the rent.

  My job as the assistant to the assistant to the editor of the up-and-coming fashion magazine, NYSharp, was upgraded. Removing an ‘
assistant’ from the title and adding twenty-five percent to my salary.

  It afforded me access to influential people in the fashion industry and the chance to live like an adult. Alone.

  A broad clothing budget was also added since my upward movement also would see me in front of potential clients. Or more specifically, they would see me. And my boss at NYSharp couldn’t have her assistant to the editor showing up for work in navy Gap sweatpants and a hoodie.

  I step out of my shoes and giggle at the fact that Choo rhymes with shoe. I wonder if Jimmy has ever realized that? With no one present to remind me how lame my jokes are, I continue to smile.

  I toss the mail on the counter and reach for a glass from the upper shelf in my kitchen. I opted for open shelving above and closed cupboards below. The exposed brick wall gave my Manhattan apartment the bohemian chic feel that’s popular in the village. Intentionally roughed down in parts giving the appearance of having been the location of a garment factory in 1919 even though the building was built in 1974.

  Cold water streams from the tap and I let it run a minute longer lulling myself with the sound of rushing water and ensuring it’s properly chilled since the ice dispenser in my fridge has been broken for a month and I haven’t had it repaired. The liquid quenches my thirst and I quickly drain the glass and tip it under the faucet to refill it.

  I finish half of the second glass and place it on the counter. Water drips down the side and pools at the base of the glass. I push the mail away to prevent it from getting wet and the envelopes fan out over the granite countertop.

  Brown envelopes containing monthly utility bills; a thick, linen looking package from Saks (my personalized catalog inside compiled by my style advisor for fifty dollars a month); and the next wedding invitation of the season.

  I test my memory to try and think of who the next person would be that’s getting hitched. I volley through the names of my single acquaintances, but my mind is still hazy from the wine and I can’t remember if Shirley from accounting is married, dating someone, or in the middle of a divorce.

  I tuck the tip of my finger in the small opening at the edge of the envelope flap and pry the seal loose.

  The weight of the paper means it’s an expensive affair, which would rule out Shirley from accounting. My finger feels the inside of the envelope as I wiggle my finger along the seam and the silky-smooth surface is cool to my touch.

  With the envelope’s seal free, I pull out the invitation, thick with added cards and envelopes. All inserted for the express use of the return of my prompt reply and directions and instructions for where and when the wedding will be held.

  The embossed initials are intertwined on the top of the invitation and, I now notice, are also on the back flap of the envelope. At first, I thought it was a cheesy nod to an elegant brand, one that would be easily recognizable by many who saw it.

  Two ‘Cs’ linked together, each pointing in a different direction. But it wasn’t the iconic fashion brand who had sent the invitation. It was worse, so much worse than what could have been imagined.

  Their distinct hashtag was what I noticed, right after I read the two names for a second time.

  #OnCloudDavis

  I dropped the envelope and held onto the invitation. Two thoughts came to mind. One. How lame the hashtag was. Do they not know that there are free online tools to help newly fuzzy-minded engaged couples pick a catchy hashtag? And, two. How could Charlie be getting married?

  The throbbing returned and I knew that no amount of cold water was going to make it go away.

  I jump when I feel the tickle against my ankle and I scream, frightening myself and bumping the tabby that had followed me into the apartment. The cat meowed and looked up at me, unfazed by my shriek. I stoop to pick up the cat and nuzzle it next to my chest. To my surprise, the cat purrs louder and presses his head against my neck.

  Is it a he or a she? I’m not checking, let’s just go with ‘a he’. As the cat purrs, the familiar ache returns, and I can no longer hold back the tears that I have been fighting to hold inside for seven long years.

  Therapy, anti-depressants, empty dates, and a pile of self-help books just built a dam for them and now the soft purring intruder in her arms is wearing them all down.

  I stand like that for some time and eventually wipe the tears from my face, feeling they’ve earned the right to say as long as I can let them. My resolve is betraying me, and I find my mind returning to the day Charlie proposed and how I felt. A place I said I would never go to, a memory I banished to where all bad choices and bad hairstyles went to die, and would never be spoken of again.

  But no matter how hard I tried, it crawled up and was standing in front of me.

  Excitement had built inside me for days after I found the receipt from Tiffany’s. I was eager to wait for the light blue box that would be presented, regardless of what it held inside. It was the comfort and the contentment that Charlie had already given that cultivated our love.

  Light Pink. That was the color of nail polish I chose during my manicure, sure to be ready for the proposal.

  It happened at the top of the Empire State Building, as the sun was rising over the city. It was our favorite place to go on the weekend and watch the sunrise warm the city. Our city.

  Free admission to the top was a perk that Charlie had with his position as an executive for the advertising firm he worked for, and that also rented offices in the iconic tower.

  It was a one carat round halo encrusted engagement ring set in white gold. Afraid to remove it from the blue velvet myself, Charlie wiggled it free and slipped it on my finger, where it remained for a year. One long, horrible, sweet, short year.

  I could feel the weight of the ring when I let myself think about it. The scent of the freesia mixed in with the roses in my wedding bouquet was suddenly ripe in my small apartment, conjured by the reticent memory.

  The cat began to lick the remnants of the salty tears from the back of my hand, its tongue much rougher than I’d ever imagined a cat’s tongue could be.

  I lowered the tabby to the floor and folded my body over the counter, laying my face against the coolness of the white granite. The invitation lay exposed on the pile of mail and it could be read on an angle.

  Charlie and Chrystal are proud to announce. . .would love for you to join them. . .short notice. . .small gathering. . . friends and family. . .Mont Boron.

  I spring back up as I read the last two words.

  Nice? It was a place that was special to them. When it was Charlie and Kenzie. True, they’d never managed to make it there, but they had talked about celebrating their first anniversary in the south of France.

  It didn’t matter that I’d left on the day they were supposed to catch their flight. Or did it?

  Memories were flooding back, and it was hard to push them away.

  I drag my hand over my face and wonder if I have any of the small white anti-depressants left and then push the thought of the chalky pills out of my mind. Instead, I go to the bathroom and peel off the bright red dress that I only feel silly in now, especially knowing how much Charlie hated the color red.

  I turn the water on and step under the showerhead before the temperature of the water has warmed and I shiver as the cold water traces a line along my spine and down the back of my leg. The pipes in the building rattle as the hot water flows up from the basement to the second floor and then gently eases my muscles and I stop shivering.

  I stand like that until the water temperature begins to cool and then I quickly shampoo and soap myself, removing the makeup and hairstyle that allowed me to pretend that I was something I wasn’t today.

  The cat is curled on the red dress, crinkled in a merlot puddle on the black and white bathroom tiled floor. He purrs as I step onto the mat, pleased that I’ve managed to compose myself, and I pull the towel hanging on the hook. It slips down and I swirl it around my body, shielding myself from the draft.

  I manage to brush my teeth and comb l
oose the knots that spring into my curly hair after I shower, only to shake my hair out with my fingers a few seconds later.

  Puddles of water follow me as I tiptoe my way from the bathroom to my bedroom. My top drawer is stuffed with an assortment of pajamas, a nod to my extensive list of Saturday evenings spent alone.

  I decide on a striped pair of bottoms and reach for the first t-shirt that my fingers touch.

  It’s soft and warm. I pull it out and begin to cry. It’s the t-shirt that Charlie worked out in. The faded New York Athletic Club round logo on the gray cotton, familiar in my hands.

  It slips easily over my head and falls over my shoulders and below my waist. I packed it with the rest of my clothes when I left, needing to have one recognizable comfort from our marriage. The one thing that maybe wasn’t a lie.

  The cat has already claimed a pillow on the bed, the one next to mine, and as I crawl beneath the covers, I can hear him already purring himself to sleep.

  I realize I miss the company and feel my resolve soften toward the cat.

  I decide to let him stay, but just for tonight, not having the heart to turn him away. I turn off the light and close my eyes. I pray that I can get through the next few weeks, and somehow manage to come out the other end alive, if not stronger.

  4

  I decide to call him Mr. Darcy.

  Faced with the prospect of my ex getting married, my mind immediately fell back to the exhaustive courting that was rife with misunderstanding, predetermined opinions of others, and, of course, lies, in my favorite novel.

  But Mr. Darcy was a ray of hope in an otherwise dim world. He has become known as the holy grail in all thirty something’s quest in finding ‘the one’. The mere mention of his name casts an image of your soul mate bumbling their way through a room full of nay-sayers to resolutely stake their right to love you. No matter what.