“Did it have anything to do with us?” Juice asks.
“We could have been nicer,” Marla says.
“But that’s not why she left,” Phoebe assures them.
Soon, others join. The mother, the father. Marla’s husband. Jim, too. But no groom. They eat cantaloupe and tell stories about Gary in his absence, stories that have nothing to do with Lila. Stories of Gary’s past. That time he hid the statue of David when he threw a party in high school. When he was a small boy sneaking something off the counter. And Phoebe gets the feeling they are telling the stories for her.
“He was seriously in love with doughnuts,” Marla says to Phoebe. “I mean, it was a problem. Our mother used to keep them up on the highest shelf above the stove, and he was trying to climb up to get them and somehow accidentally turned the burner on. He didn’t realize it, though, went upstairs, and by the time he had finished the whole box of doughnuts, the house was on fire.”
“Ever since that fire, Gary’s tried to be Mr. Perfect,” Gary’s mother tells Phoebe.
Each time someone new walks in to join, Phoebe hopes it is Gary. But it never is. It’s Uncle Jim. It’s Roy.
“It’s the whole goddamned family!” Jim shouts into the phone. “Get your ass down here, Gary.”
“Is he okay?” Gary’s mother asks Jim.
“Oh, leave the man alone!” Gary’s father says. “He was just dumped.”
But Phoebe pulls out her phone. She doesn’t want to leave him alone. The man was just dumped. Right now, he should not be alone if he doesn’t want to be. He should at least have the option.
You should know that the family is telling stories about you right now, she texts Gary.
Her phone dings right away. But it’s just her ex-husband, texting to say he has made it back to St. Louis alive. She wonders when he will stop texting her proof of life. Perhaps that will be the true end of the marriage, when they no longer need to know: Are you still alive?
IN THE LOBBY, new wedding people are arriving with their titanium-strength suitcases, looking for places to store them while their rooms are cleaned, and it reminds Phoebe that she needs luggage.
“Custom Canvas is on Thames,” Pauline suggests.
“Is there like, a Marshalls or something?” Phoebe asks, and Pauline writes down an address. Then Pauline goes to put up a new sign in the lobby: WELCOME TO THE WEDDING OF SOPHIA AND STEPHEN.
She is glad that Lila is not here to see it. Awful for the bride to watch another bride take her place—even if she is not really the bride anymore. She is just a woman who is eating poutine in Canada with her mother.
My mother keeps hitting on our waiter solely because he is getting a master’s in pre-Raphaelite art, Lila texts.
The early birds mill around, some already holding little white welcome bags. Half the room is saying hello, half is saying goodbye. They are exchanging numbers, saying, Stay in touch, let’s get together in a year, and she wonders if they will. She hopes they will but suspects they won’t. Perhaps this week is just a special moment in time. All of them together here, in this lobby, never to be so again.
“So how long is too long to wait before we call them?” Jim asks.
Phoebe smiles. “I’m sure Lila will explain that to you in detail when you call.”
“Well, Phoebe, I do hope we’re not done with each other just yet,” Jim says.
Phoebe hopes for that, too. So she does what feels like the most ridiculous thing to her: She gives him her number, hugs him, and says, “Let’s be friends.”
It makes her feel five years old in the best way.
“As long as you don’t use me for my weed hookup,” he says. “I’m never getting high with you again.”
“Two weeds, please,” she says.
Jim laughs. Phoebe watches him get in his Uber. He steps into the dark hole, just a person in jeans and a T-shirt. No longer the best man. An engineer on his way to Pawtucket, where there are apparently no more socks.
She wonders if this transformation has already happened to Gary. She wonders where and when he shed his tuxedo. She wonders if he is somewhere still wearing it.
IN MARSHALLS, SHE stands in a long line of other people buying things when she gets his text.
Is it the story about hiding the statue of David when I threw a party in high school? Gary asks.
Yes. And also the one about you lighting the house on fire.
So predictable.
Why did you hide your mother’s statue of David?
This was pre-Wendy. I couldn’t see art yet, remember? All I saw was a naked man sitting on my mother’s console.
You definitely didn’t use the word console then.
No, I just found out about the word, actually. I can’t stop using it. Hey, where are you?
In Marshalls trying to decide what suitcase to buy.
What are the options?
Is this something you really want to know right now?
Anything helps.
