The Plus-One

The envelope came on a Tuesday, which should have been my first warning. Nobody sends good news in an envelope with a wax seal.

I stood at my kitchen counter with the letter opener and a glass of wine, because I already knew what it was. Bette Hawkins had been posting countdown photos for months. 200 days! 150 days! Me and my Theo! Every single one with the same wide smile and the same caption about forever.

Sure enough. Bette and Theo. Save the date. A lakefront resort in the Poconos, whole weekend, rooms blocked off under "Hawkins-Price." And tucked in behind it, because Bette is thorough, a printed list of who else was coming.

Walter Taft. My Walter. Well, not mine, obviously, not for three years now, but mine enough that my stomach did that dropping thing it does in elevators.

"You have got to be kidding me," I said out loud to my empty kitchen. My cat looked up from his food bowl and went back to eating, which honestly was the support I needed.

The thing about Walter is this. He didn't dump me. He eased out of the relationship like he was backing a car out of a garage, slow and careful, checking his mirrors, until one day I turned around and he was just gone. Six months later he was dating some woman named Diane, and a year after that he was engaged, and now there was a wax seal in my kitchen inviting me to spend a whole weekend watching the two of them be happy at somebody else's wedding.

And the list had them right there, one line under the other. Walter Taft. Diane Taft. Like they'd already merged into one name, one unit, one of those couples that holds both sides of the menu when they order.

I sat down at my kitchen table and drank my wine and thought, well, I could just not go. I could send a card. Congrats, so happy for you both, warmest wishes, Antonia. And then I'd spend the rest of my life knowing that Walter and Diane and probably Bette herself all agreed that I couldn't get a date for a weekend in the Poconos.

No. Absolutely not. I was thirty-four years old, I had a company car and the top sales numbers in my region, and I was not going to that wedding alone and I was not going to that wedding sad.

That's when I thought of Mitch Gonzalez.

I need to explain why I thought of him, because honestly I barely can. There was this history project in tenth grade, the Roaring Twenties, and we got paired up and he made this whole poster with bootlegger money photocopied and aged with tea, and I remember thinking, huh, this guy is way more prepared than me. And then I never thought about him again for eighteen years, except sometimes when I drove past the high school, and then I'd think, huh, Mitch Gonzalez.

But he'd been at our ten-year reunion, I remembered that much. Somebody said he was teaching history now, back at our own high school, which sounds like a punishment but apparently he liked it. And he'd been nice to me at that reunion. He'd asked actual questions and listened to the answers, which at a reunion is so rare it's practically a medical condition.

So I googled him. It took four minutes. Teachers' emails are public information, which is a fact I found slightly alarming on his behalf.

I typed the message six times before I sent the seventh one.

"Hi Mitch, this is going to sound insane, it's Antonia Weber from the Roaring Twenties project. Are you free the second weekend of June? I'll explain. It pays."

He wrote back in twenty minutes.

"Antonia Weber! The twenties project! I still have that poster somewhere, I swear. What exactly pays? I have questions. Many questions."

So I called him that night, and I will admit my pitch was not polished.

"Okay, so here's the deal," I said, pacing my kitchen. "My ex and his fiancée are going to be at a wedding I can't skip, and I need a date who looks like a real boyfriend and not a rental, and you were nice to me once at a reunion, and I will pay you, like, actual money, plus a free weekend at a lake resort with an open bar. Is that insane? That's insane, right?"

There was a pause, and I could hear him not laughing at me, which I appreciated.

"It's a little insane," he said. "But I've heard worse job offers. Two questions. One, do I have to pretend we're in love, or just dating? Those are different skill levels."

"Just dating! Very newly dating. Giddy but not weird about it."

"Got it. Two, do I get to know why me? Because I remember being seventeen and mostly smellable, so I'm assuming there's a logic gap here somewhere."

"You were nice to me at the reunion," I said. "You asked about my job and you didn't do the thing where guys wait for their turn to talk. And you're safe. You're not going to fall in love with me over one weekend and ruin everything."

"Wow," he said, and he did laugh a little then. "Flattery like that, how could I say no. Okay, Weber, I'm in. But I'm bringing actual clothes, and if your ex asks what you do for fun, we need a story beforehand."

"History teacher, prepared for everything. Shocking," I said, and I meant it as a joke but my chest did this warm little flip that I decided to ignore.

* * *

The resort was one of those places that photographs beautifully and makes you feel slightly watched. Emerald lawns running down to a wooden dock, a lake so still it looked painted, and a barn out back strung with fairy lights for the reception. Bette had clearly spent money. Bette had clearly spent a lot of money.

Mitch drove up separately because I'd insisted we arrive together but not too together, and I saw him get out of his car by the valet stand and I actually said "oh no" under my breath, out loud, in public.

Because here's what I remembered: a skinny kid with a decent poster. Here's what showed up: a solid, calm-looking man in a light blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and when he saw me he did this half grin, like he'd already spotted me lying about something, which I was, I was lying with my entire posture.

"Weber," he said, and hugged me, quick and easy, no awkward back-patting. "You look terrified. Relax, I've read the dossier."

"I didn't send you a dossier."

"You sent me nine texts about Walter. That's a dossier." He picked up his bag. "Lead the way, girlfriend. Which I will not say again because it's gross, but I wanted you to know I'm committing."

And that was the problem, right there. He was committing. He was good at it. At check-in he chatted with the desk clerk about the fishing on the lake without showing off, and when Bette spotted us across the lawn and came shrieking over in her welcome-dinner dress, Mitch had his hand in mine before I'd even thought about it.

"Bette! Congratulations!" I said, hugging her over the top of Mitch's arm.

"Antonia! Oh my gosh, and you brought someone! I'm Bette!" She stuck her hand out and Mitch shook it like a normal person instead of doing the kissy thing, and I could tell she liked him for it.

"Mitch. Very nice to meet you. This place is incredible, by the way. Antonia would not shut up about it on the drive."

"I did not do that."

"She did that," Mitch said, pleasant as anything, and Bette laughed so hard she had to hold her own elbow.

I want to state clearly that I was holding his hand for the audience. That was the arrangement. Hand-holding was in the contract, verbal, but still. The trouble was that his hand was warm and dry and he kept his thumb doing this slow little thing against the back of mine, probably not even knowing he was doing it, and every time Bette or anyone else drifted off to greet somebody, I told myself, okay, let go now, and I did not let go.

The welcome dinner was out on the lawn, long tables, and of course Walter was there, in a linen jacket, with Diane, who was pretty in a way that made me want to object. Walter came over with his glass doing his gracious ex routine, all warmth and no substance.

"Antonia! Wow, it's so good to see you. You look fantastic. And who's this?"

"Mitch Gonzalez," Mitch said, standing up, offering his hand. "I teach history. Antonia and I go way back."

"History! Wow." Walter did his little laugh. "That's great, that's really great. Well, you two, enjoy the weekend. The lake's beautiful this time of year."

"Walter," I said, and smiled, and he drifted off, and I sat back down and realized my heart was racing and my hand was still locked around Mitch's like he might get drafted away.

"Hey," Mitch said quietly, not looking at me, fixing his napkin. "You're crushing my fingers."

"Sorry!" I let go. Then, before I could stop myself, I put my hand back. "Sorry. Habit. For the show."

"Sure," he said, and laced his fingers through mine, which was definitely not in the contract. "The show."

* * *

The cocktail hour was in the barn, which had been done up so hard it looked like Pinterest had vomited on a barn. Fairy lights everywhere, a string quartet nobody was listening to, and a raw bar that I hit like it owed me money. Three oysters in I spotted Walter and Diane across the room and my whole body did this thing, like a car downshifting.

"There he is," I said. "Mr. and Mrs. Gracious."

"You're doing the thing," Mitch said. He was holding a beer he hadn't sipped once, which I'd noticed, because I notice everything now, apparently.

"What thing?"

"The jaw thing. You're doing the jaw thing."

"I do not have a jaw thing!"

"You have a jaw thing, Weber. Blink twice if you want me to go talk to them."

"No! Why would you talk to them?"

"To be friendly? It's a wedding. People talk at weddings. Look around."

He was right, which was annoying. Everyone was mingling. Diane was laughing at something one of Bette's aunts said, and Walter was doing that thing where he stands with one hand in his pocket like he's been cast as Successful Man #1. And I was supposed to just stand here holding my chardonnay like a person at peace.

No.

"Mitch," I said, and grabbed his forearm. "They're coming over. Look natural."

"They were coming over, or you walked us into their path?"

"Walk fast, smile big!"

Too late. Walter was already steering Diane toward us with the little wave men do when they want credit for waving. "Antonia! There you are. Have you met Diane? Diane, this is the friend I was telling you about."

Oh, so I was "the friend." Okay. Okay! That was fine. That was completely fine and I was fine.