Scot on the Rocks

them around as if they were going to start up some sort of spontaneous break-dancing wave or something. I could see Jack over Mr. Martin’s shoulders and I gave him a hopeful smile. After all, he’s a smart guy. He can improvise.

He began to do some salsa. Salsa? Maybe he can’t improvise. Gosh, what does this guy do when he’s in court? Thank goodness big firm litigators never really ever go to court, or this guy would really be in trouble. (Jack: “Your honor, I object.” Judge: “Over-ruled.” Jack: “Your honor, por qué?” Judge: “Sit down before I hold you in contempt.”)

“No, Scottish moves, silly! Don’t you Scots have any traditional dances?” she asked, laughing. I’ve laughed that laugh before. I could tell that in her head she was thinking, Those crazy Scots!

“Ah, yes, but I’m embarrassed to say that I don’t know them very well,” Jack said, taking a handkerchief out of his breast pocket to dab at his brow.

“You don’t have to be shy with me!” she persisted.

“I’m just afraid that I wouldn’t be able to teach them very well, is all. Scottish dances are very complicated, you see.”

“But I’m a great dancer! Try me!” she said, and I tried to formulate a getaway plan. Perhaps now would be a good time to feign illness? Or pretend we just saw some wedding guests that we simply had to say hello to across the floor? Would the Martins buy it if I pretended that we’d just spotted Matt Damon and we absolutely had to go over and say hi since we were friends from high school? Or would Mrs. Martin know that Matt Damon was slightly older than me? Oh, my God, is that really Matt Damon?

Or, failing everything else, should I just simply grab Jack and run all the way back to New York? That wasn’t sounding like such a bad idea right about now. After we said “hello” to Matt Damon, that is.

What? I wouldn’t want to be rude.

“It’s just that I don’t want to butcher any of the moves,” he said.

“It’s not exactly like any of us are going to know the difference, now then,” she said laughing.

I could see the lightbulb go off in Jack’s head. I began looking around for the emergency exits. Clearly, this constituted an emergency situation.

Jack began to smile.

God, no. Please, no.

“Good point, Mrs. Martin,” he said.

For the love of God, no! I was pretty sure I had told him that I was going for the whole “quiet - complacent - ex - girlfriend” thing, not the whole “loud - flashy - ex - girlfriend - with - the - hottie - in - a - skirt” thing. Certainly that excluded said hottie in a skirt dancing a ridiculous Scottish dance, didn’t it?

“So, go on, then,” Mrs. Martin goaded. “Show me what you’ve got.”

And he did. He showed her exactly what he had. And it was not pretty. Depending on your point of view, that is.

Jack began doing a Scottish dance. Well, his rendition of a traditional Scottish dance, anyway. It was a crazy mix of the hora that they do at Jewish weddings and the Irish dancing that Lord of the Dance does. He began very slowly, very gingerly, and was clearly making up the steps as he went along. I wondered if Mrs. Martin could tell.

“That’s right, Douglas!” Mrs. Martin called out. “Make your mum proud!” (I guess she couldn’t tell.)

He continued dancing, and a few of the other guests began to watch. Within minutes, Mr. and Mrs. Martin were actually following along. I was having none of this, though. I slowly backed away from the dance floor and made my way to our table. By the time I’d edged away from the scene of the crime, even more wedding guests were watching Jack — cheering him on — following every move he made.

“Funny, I’ve never seen that dance before,” the Scottish waiter said to me as I reached the edge of the dance floor. Oh, my God. We’re busted. We are stone-cold busted. He’s going to tell everyone that Jack/Douglas is not really Scottish! Everyone will know that I made my best friend dress up as my most recent ex for my other ex’s wedding and it won’t even matter that Jack wore a kilt, or that we almost kissed on the dance floor, or that I’ve finally come to my senses! I will be humiliated and never able to show my face in L.A. again! The whole west coast, really, if you think about it. Who would have thought that after all of this careful planning and plotting, in the end, I would get busted by the Scottish waiter? Damn the gods of coincidence. Damn these large banquet halls and their hiring of random Europeans all the time. Damn! Damn! Damn!

“He must be from Perth,” the waiter said, shrugged, and walked away.

Damn.

I looked up and Jack was still doing his rendition of a traditional Scottish dance, now in full force and with most of the dance floor dancing along with him. Those who were too timid to try their luck dancing stood on the side of the dance floor, clapping along.

“Is that supposed to be a traditional Scottish dance?” Vanessa asked me, as she nibbled on a dinner roll. Our salads were being set onto the table.

“I don’t know. I can’t bear to look,” I told her, turning my back to the dance floor and taking a swig of white wine from a glass that was sitting on our table. I hoped it belonged to someone we knew, although at this point, I didn’t really care.

“Do the Scots even have a traditional Scottish dance?” Vanessa asked me.

“How the hell should I know?” I asked. “I think that we have established that I did not do the requisite research for this weekend. You think you’ve got an outline with colored tabs and some color-coded index cards with the name of a hometown and a kilt, and you’re set. But you’re not.”

“Yes, I think that it’s supposed to be a Scottish dance,” Vanessa said, mesmerized by what she was seeing on the dance floor, unable to take her eyes away. “Only it looks like a cross between the hora and an Irish jig.” Vanessa was intently staring, head tilted slightly to the right as she puzzled over what was before her eyes.

“I’m just warning you now, if he starts lifting people up in chairs, I’m walking out,” I said, closing my eyes against the scene.

“Oh, my God. Do not turn around,” Vanessa said, her head snapping upright. My God! Did that man start lifting people in chairs already?

“What?” I asked, starting to turn around. Vanessa grabbed my arm.

“Do not turn around until I’ve had a second to come up with a plan,” Vanessa said, suddenly very serious.

“What on earth are you talking about?” I asked. “What is Jack doing now?”

“It’s not Jack,” she said.

“So, then what is the big deal?” I asked.

“It’s not Jack. It’s Douglas.”

“What?” I asked. I stood up and turned around very slowly. There he was, walking to us, as if he didn’t have a care in the world — the cad of all cads, the cheater of all cheaters — Douglas. Walking toward us, as if in slow motion. I sat there, completely helpless, like when you know you are about to be in a car accident, but it’s too late to do anything about it but simply brace yourself and hope that you don’t get too hurt.

I stared at him coming to us, closer and closer, looking absolutely gorgeous as always — like James Bond, only more handsome. Eyes flickering with that devilish look, mouth contorted into his David Addison smirk, with just the perfect amount of stubble on his face. I could just tell that if you got close enough to him, he probably smelled great, too.

As he walked toward me, I couldn’t help but notice that he was impeccably dressed from head to toe. It wasn’t surprising — he always had all of his suits custom made — but there was something unexpected to this evening’s ensemble.

Pants.

“Is that man wearing a fucking tuxedo?” I asked Vanessa.

Stay cool. Stay calm, I thought to myself. This is not a problem. This is nothing you can’t handle. This isn’t even that big of a deal. You are simply at your ex-boyfriend’s wedding with your faux fiancé keeping your dignity ever-so-slightly intact. Piece of cake. Nothing can stop you now. Not losing your luggage. Not a run-in with your high-school nemesis. Not Vanessa having a nervous breakdown in the