***

David taps me on the shoulder.

I say, “Baby!”

I put my arms around him and kiss him. Full on make-out, like we’re dating again kiss.

“Hey,” he says. He’s smiling. My lipgloss is on his face.

“What happened?”

“Monsters,” he says. “Those kids, they just want to be on top of us.”

“They fucking love us.”

“So inconsiderate, isn’t it?”

“Yes. Babysitter seem OK?”

“Hunched over her phone and giggling at something when I left.”

“Good. Now hit that bar and catch up to me.”

He goes to get whatever whiskey they have. I stand where I am and wait for him.

The bridesmaids and groomsmen are sitting on each other’s laps—sometimes stacked three or four to the point where I’m sure they’ll slip off the chairs—and taking pictures for Instagram. The wedding has a hashtag: MarryingMeyer. It’s on the welcome sign at the entrance to the venue. It’s on the custom napkins. The officiant encouraged people to post pictures of the ceremony with #MarryingMeyer.

I am very happy David and I got married before social media was such a big thing.

He comes back with his drink, looks down at the napkin, smiles and shakes his head.

“What would our hashtag have been?” I ask.

“#MarryingJew?”

“#MarryingShiksa.”

“#Shiksappeal.”

“#JewHag.”

“#IsThisIronic?”

“#IDon’tEvenKnowAnymore.”

He takes a big sip of whiskey.

“We would have been shitty Millennials,” I say.

“I can live with that.”

“Me too.”

***

When David dances, he more bops his head than anything else. It doesn’t matter what’s playing, he dances like he’s at a Pearl Jam show. It’s cute.

Charlotte is dancing with some guy who knows what he’s doing; who, I’ll bet, spends weekends at the clubs. I notice that she’s taken her rings off her finger. She definitely had them on for the ceremony.

I don’t need to look to see this guy doesn’t have a ring.

David catches me looking at her.

“Guess she’s ready for single life again,” he says.

I say, “Sure seems like she’s having fun.”

“You want to go dance with a guy like that?”

“Please,” I say. “Thinking about doing that again gives me an anxiety attack.”

David smiles, keeps bopping his head and shifting from toe to toe.

“She thinks she’s pregnant,” I say.

“Seriously?”

I tell him about the whole thing.

“They’ve only been separated for, what, two months?”

“Yup.”

“So,” David says, “It has to be this new guy.”

“If she’s really pregnant. She’s tired and stressed, that may be all there is to it.”

“I hope so.”

Of course he does. Of course I do. Of course Charlotte does.

Yet a part of me thinks that Charlotte would finally face consequences, finally have to learn from them, finally grow from them.

The alcohol gives this part of my mind a little more time than it deserves, but it does not go away.

***

            “I have a theory about Jane Austin,” I say.

David sighs and smiles at the same time.

The reception is winding down. We are sitting, as are most of the guests, finishing their cocktails or maybe trying to squeeze in one more. The bridal party will continue by themselves, in their hotel rooms, through the night, when the rest of us leave for home or another hotel.

“Women who read Jane Austin books have better relationships,” I say. “The Brontës don’t hurt, to really solidify it all.”

“I take it your sister is not a Jane Austin fan?”

“Do you know how many times I’ve bought her Pride and Prejudice? Like, a half-dozen. Every time I go to her place, I check her bookshelf for it, and it’s always disappeared, so I buy her a new one.”

“It may be a lost cause.”

“God forbid Charlotte would ever listen to me. Look where it’s gotten her.”

“Are you going to buy her another copy?”

“Once the divorce is final, hell yes.”

Then, a song comes on and both David and I swing our heads to face the DJ. No one else reacts to it, they keep drinking and talking and laughing.

“It’s the original version,” David says.

“Dance with me,” I say.

I get up and he holds out his hand, makes me tug on his arm a little to get him out of his chair. Two tumblers with only melting ice cubes in them sit on the table behind his chair. We walk to the dance floor, and he’s not standing up as straight as he usually does, but probably neither am I. My shoes hurt, my dress suddenly feels scratchy, and I no longer give a shit that my legs are smooth.

When we start dancing, I lean on him a little, feel his arms tighten as he holds me.

The lyrics begin: “The book of love is long and boring…”

No one else is on the dance floor. No one is paying attention to us. David leads us over to one of the speakers which drowns out the laughing and chatting of everyone else back at the bar and the tables. We dance a slow box-step and let the singer’s bass voice fall across the sides of our faces like ripples of warm ocean water.

I could sleep well here. I fall a little further into my husband.