The Plus One

Someone at the next table over is commenting on how only poor people get married during the week. I pretend to be fascinated by my stuffed chicken, but I envision my ears growing sharpened tips like a bat’s in order to catch every word. As far as I can tell, the argument for poor people getting married on a weekday (such as today, a Wednesday) is that it’s cheaper. If you’re rich, you spring for the weekend wedding. This argument is coming from a woman in a dress that looks like a tablecloth made out of the same fabric they use to make Costco beach towels. Hearing her spout such elitism is comical to me. The counterargument is coming from another woman who I would wager is a professor at a community college. She’s wearing glasses that look simple, but cost a fortune. I know, because for a short period of time right out of college, I worked for an eyewear designer. Her argument for poor people not getting married on a weekday is that if you get married on a weekday, you and everyone you know has to take the day out of work.

“Poor people can’t afford to take time off work for a wedding,” she says, as if this is a totally appropriate conversation to be having while eating under seasoned salmon and dry chicken, “They have to get married on the weekends. They don’t have a choice.”

I maintain that there is nothing better on this earth than attending an event where you know absolutely no one. If I stopped pretending not to eavesdrop on these two, turned my chair around, and told them both that nobody at this wedding was rich, because there is rich and then there is rich, and I have seen rich, I would face zero consequences. Someone would remark that there was a very rude young man at the wedding, who might be gay, and that would be that. If they asked who brought me, someone would say “Heidi’s son” and someone else would say “I didn’t know Heidi’s son was gay” and that would end up becoming the new conversation as I took full advantage of the open bar and flirted with two or three of the waiters.

All that exists only in my mind. I never want to make waves. Plus, I promised Will I’d behave. Will is Heidi’s son, and Will is not gay, but when he needed a plus one to his Mom’s semi-good friend’s daughter’s wedding, he decided to take me, because he owed me a decent amount of money for drugs, and his mother had promised to pay for whoever he brought to the wedding. That meant three days in a nice hotel, in a beach town, in late summer, along with the plane tickets, the free dinners, and the chance to get out of Portland where my ex had taken to showing up at all my favorite bars in order to make out with guys in front of me in the hopes of making me jealous.

“If I bring you to this wedding with me, will that cover my debt,” Will asked via text after not answering my questions about my money for two straight weeks.

“Sure,” I texted back, finding it amusing that I was being paid back by becoming a wedding date.

Some people might argue that I should have charged him even more money, but summer weddings are fun, even when they’re in August. When I asked Will what he told his mom when she asked why he was bringing a boy, he told me that he’d come out to her.

“But you’re not gay.”

“So,” he said, “She doesn’t need to know that.”

“Was she upset?”

“No,” he said, “She was thrilled. She’s never liked having  a straight son. She’s going to be devastated when she finds out I lied.”

I refrained from telling him that he might never have to tell her. Will was a colossal loser. The odds of him finding a woman to put up with him were low even taking into consideration how many women seem comfortable with dating total turkeys. From personal experience, I can safely say that if you’re a guy and a flop, you’re better off trying to find another flop you can partner with for the rest of your life. I was a flop until I started illegally selling prescription drugs, and now I’m an entrepreneur. I don’t plan on doing it forever. If I ever find myself getting married, I’ll take the money I’ve saved and open up one of those cat cafes like the ones they have in Japan. I love cats, because the more you love them, the less they seem to like you.

That resonates with me.

“Hey,” Will said, returning to the table after wishing the bride and groom well and most likely saying something insipid that was meant to be profound, “Do you think we should dance?”

“I don’t dance.”

I had gone over my terms with him on the plane.

• I don’t dance.
• I get the centerpiece.
• I get to leave before 9pm.

“I know you don’t dance,” Will said, “But can we just stand on the dance floor near each other? My mom keeps asking if we got into a fight, because we aren’t very affectionate with each other.”

“What kind of lunatics are affectionate at someone else’s wedding?”

“I don’t know. I think weddings are supposed to make you like the person you’re with even more than you already do?”

“Or make you realize you’re with the wrong person,” I said, thinking back to how many times I’ve broken up with boyfriends either after or during a wedding reception, “Maybe this can be your new narrative. You’re going to discover over the course of the evening that you’re not gay. You’re bi. You’re questioning. By the time they do the Electric Slide, you’re back to loving women, and I’ll meet you at that bar downtown that looks like the set from an amusement park stunt show.”

Will looked around to make sure nobody was listening, but luckily for him, someone at the other table changed the topic from poor weddings to someone’s husband cheating with the nanny. Will could have set my hair on fire, and I doubt anybody would have noticed.

“Listen,” he said, “If we go out there and stand close to each other while a slow song plays, then I can tell my mom that we’re heading out early, and she’ll think it’s because we want to be alone. If she thinks we’re fighting, she’ll have two more glasses of wine and then she’ll start playing couples therapist. Which sounds better to you?”

I was going to suggest the third option of me telling his mother that this whole thing was a sham, but that her hair looked amazing and topaz was her color. Instead, I allowed myself to be led onto the dance floor just as “Perfect” started playing. I noticed Will’s mother glancing over at us as we took our places on the periphery of the dance floor. She gave me a little wink and then went back to dancing with some man from the singles table who had a bad combover and a wrinkled suit jacket. Perhaps women were more eager to entertain flops than I previously thought.

“Can I put my hands on your waist,” Will asked, once it became clear that the two of us just standing across from each other wasn’t really selling the fantasy.

“Go ahead,” I said, and the next thing I knew, we were actually dancing.

It’s not that I enjoy being cynical, you know. I grew up loving rom-coms just like every other little gay boy. I could still recite most of My Best Friend’s Wedding if you asked me to. It’s just that life drags the romance out of you and then reality steals the comedy. Pretty soon, you’re living in a mostly empty apartment in a gentrified neighborhood wondering what would happen if you choked on a grape. Who would be there to smack you hard against the back? Who are you going to watch television with when you’re ninety? Who’s going to learn about all the worst parts of you and say “Eh, I love you anyway.”

As the song finished up, Will and I separated. His tie was a little crooked, and he smelled like a jacuzzi full of Tom Ford noir, but there was also something undeniably charming about him.

“I’ll go tell my mom we’re leaving,” he said, “And then we can go to the stunt show bar and make friends with whichever townie has the coolest tattoo.”

I put my hand on his arm to stop him. This is what I feared the most. It doesn’t matter how arid the chicken is or how many times you have to pretend to laugh when the bride pretends to shove cake in the groom’s face, the romance creeps in. It takes you for a dance, and then another.

“Actually,” I say, “Let’s hang out here for a little bit longer. Your mom got us a pretty nice room and she sent up champagne. We might as well make sure she gets her money’s worth.”

Will smiled at my sudden willingness to play along. Maybe he was a little questioning after all. Or maybe the romance had tapped him on the shoulder as well. Everything these days was in a state of flux. Love, politics, people’s opinions on how to properly cut up an avocado. One has to be willing to contemplate new ways to connect. Even if it meant slow dancing to Ed Sheeran.

“I’m glad you’re letting your hair down a little,” Will said.

“I am too,” I replied, “Just don’t make me regret it.”

As soon as the words left my mouth, the Electric Slide began to play.