“We didn’t even get a bite to eat yet!” I protest to Vanessa as we sit down in our seats.
“If you can’t beat ’em,” Vanessa says and hops up on her chair.
“I’m on a wedding diet anyway,” Lisa says, and jumps up on her chair.
I begin eating my tomatoes and mozzarella—it is simply too early to start dancing on chairs. And, I’m going to have to put something in my stomach if I’m going to continue drinking like I have been tonight.
“Brooke!” I hear a voice with a thick Polish accent call out to me, “Get up on your chair!”
I turn around and see my grandmother and my Aunt Devorah up on their chairs. All of the waiters and guests around them are going crazy as they shake their artificial hips in time to George Michael. This is probably the first time, in the history of Mangia e Bevi, that orthopedic shoes have rocked the chairs.
I grab my camera, only to have a waiter take it from my hands.
“Please allow me,” he says. “Which one is your grandmother?” I point at my grandma and then drag my chair over to where she and Aunt Devorah are dancing on their chairs. I jump up onto my chair and they put their arms around me. We all laugh and dance and somewhere in the middle of all of this, I see the camera flash go off.
22
“You said we were going halfsies,” Vanessa whines as I eat my chicken marsala. Little does she know, somewhere in the middle of lip-synching “You’re the One That I Want” with her, I decided that I was too hungry to share.
“We’re still going halfsies,” I say, “I’m just eating more than my half of the chicken marsala.”
“Well, stop eating,” she says, “I’d like to try some. The veggie lasagna’s great.” And with that, she takes the plate I’m eating from and swaps it with her own.
“If it’s so great,” I say, “then, why are you trying to swap with me?”
“Because you need the pasta to absorb all of the alcohol that you’re drinking,” she says and she’s got a point. I grab a piece of Italian bread from the center of the table.
“At your own bachelorette party,” Lisa says, over the loud music playing in the background, “you’re supposed to drink too much!”
“Not as much as you drank at yours, though,” Patricia says. “I practically had to carry you home from the Culture Club.”
I catch Lisa and Elizabeth smirking at each other. Then Lisa winks at me and I try not to laugh.
“You did not,” Lisa says, pouring herself another glass of wine for emphasis.
“Yeah,” Elizabeth joins in. “I was the one who had to carry her home.”
“I got too drunk at my bachelorette party, too,” Vanessa says, fingering her ring finger with her thumb.
“Which is exactly what you’re supposed to do,” Lisa says. “Right?”
“Right,” Vanessa says, and then audibly sighs. “Would you please excuse me from the table for a minute?”
I know where this is going. I’ve run this drill once or twice before. Vanessa never cries, but when she does, it’s always a doozy. After eight years of friendship, I know that when Vanessa excuses herself from the table randomly—especially when there’s some very delicious chicken marsala in front of her, no less—she’s upset about something and is running off to be miserable in private.
Vanessa’s been putting on a brave face today, all day, but there’s just no way that she can actually be okay with her divorce being final. I knew it. So, that leads me to the undeniable conclusion that she is now running off to the bathroom to cry about the fact that her marriage is officially over in the eyes of the State of New York. Hopefully, she isn’t too upset to remember not to use the first bathroom on the right. I jump up from my seat to run after her.
Only it’s not that easy to run through a crowd when you’re the guest of honor at a party.
“This is so much fun, Brooke!”
“Vanessa and your mom did such a great job, Brooke!”
“Excuse me, miss, can we have another bottle of wine? Oh, wait, that’s you, Brooke!”
I reach over to the bar to grab a bottle of wine for the table who mistook me for a waitress and my mother is back on the microphone.
“And now, ladies,” she says, “get ready, because it is time for
And with that, the waiters all begin to wheel out the huge four-foot-high cake. The top of the cake suddenly explodes and a male stripper pops out. Even though I knew it was coming, I’m still somehow totally surprised.
“Brooke Miller, where are you?” he says. I just stand steady, barely moving an inch, like a deer in the woods, hoping that if I don’t move, he won’t be able to see me.
“She’s right here!” one of my so-called friends screams out.
“Then, let’s dance!” he says and jumps over to me and grabs my hands to dance. My only saving grace here is that I know that Vanessa and my mom gave him very specific instructions to keep it PG-13. As we dance together, he begins peeling layer after layer of clothing off himself and I can’t help but think that the stripper at the bachelor party vs. the stripper at the bachelorette party serve two entirely different purposes.
The stripper at the bachelor party is like the groom’s last hurrah, his last night of something crazy. All of the men at the bachelor party are totally turned on by the strippers, and it makes most of the men wish they were still single. The stripper at the bachelorette party is the exact opposite—most of the women are totally overwhelmed by the stripper and his sweaty body and it has the effect of driving the bride-to-be directly into her groom-to-be’s arms.
Which is what I’m thinking at this very minute. All I can really think about is how long I’ll have to dance with this sweaty half-naked man before I can run to the bathroom to check on Vanessa.
The elder stateswomen of my family do not seem to be having the same thought process as me. I guess when you’ve been through natural childbirth a few times, you’re not going to let a little thing like sweat keep you from dancing with a half naked man. They have circled us, and after the first song is over, I leave the male stripper dancing with my mother, grandmother and Aunt Devorah as I rush toward the bathrooms.
The bathrooms at Mangia e Bevi are tiny—they’re clearly only meant for one occupant at a time—and Vanessa’s in the second one on the left, which, conveniently enough, doesn’t have a lock. I fling the door open and jump up onto the sink. I have to tuck my legs as close as I can to the base of the sink just so that we can both fit inside. Vanessa’s seated on top of the toilet with her head in her hands and her elbows on her knees. I’m thankful that the toilets at Mangia e Bevi have lids that you can close before sitting down for Vanessa’s sake, but I really wish I’d used some paper towels to dry off the sink before I sat down on it.
“Go back to your party!” Vanessa says, picking her head up from her hands, “I don’t want to ruin your bachelorette party!”
“You’re not ruining anything,” I say. “This party wouldn’t even have happened if it wasn’t for you.”
“Yes,” Vanessa says, “but now I’m ruining it. Please just go back to the party. I promise, I feel better already.”
“You’re my best friend,” I say. “If you want to cry—even in the middle of my bachelorette party—we’ll cry. But, you haven’t ruined a thing.”
“I’ve ruined everything,” she says, head in her hands.
“No, you haven’t,” I say, grabbing her shoulder, hoping she’ll look up at me.
“My marriage is over, Brooke,” she says, “and it’s all my fault. It’s all over. It’s gone. So, don’t tell me I haven’t ruined anything. I
“No, you didn’t, Vanessa,” I say, grabbing one of her hands and holding onto it. “You did what you thought the best possible thing was at the time. There’s nothing wrong with that. You did what you thought was right.”
“Except that now I’m divorced,” she says, shoulders quietly shaking, “And Marcus will never speak to me again.”
“Isn’t that what you wanted?” I ask and Vanessa immediately begins to cry even harder. “I’m sorry! Was
