Once and for All(8)
It was coming from behind a florist’s van a few spaces down from me, and was followed by another chuckle, this one distinctly male. I started toward the van, wondering again why I hadn’t just chosen to work in a coffee shop, bookstore, or some other place that didn’t involve corralling strangers against their will. I rounded the van’s back bumper, clearing my throat.
When I first saw Ambrose Little, I had two distinct thoughts, cementing how I would feel about him from that point on. I didn’t know this at the time, though. All I registered was this: First, he was incredibly good-looking. Second, just the sight of him—a mere glimpse, in profile, from a distance—annoyed me in a way I couldn’t quite explain.
First, his looks. Bee was right: they did share the same coloring and features. But Ambrose, who was in a tux and white shirt, was tall, almost gangly, with long arms and legs, distinct cheekbones, and a swoop of blond hair just tousled enough that you knew he had to spend time on it. He was like that upside-down exclamation point at the beginning of a sentence in Spanish, the mere appearance of which warned of something complicated ahead.
As far as the annoyance factor, it was harder to quantify. Maybe it was that he was so good-looking, like the chiseled, flat-chested surfer boy doll of my childhood morphed into human form. Never before, though, had I viscerally disliked someone purely on sight. It made me feel shallow in a way I didn’t like.
At that moment, however, he hadn’t even noticed me, too busy leaning into a curvy Indian girl wearing khaki shorts and a golf shirt with the country club insignia. She, in turn, was resting against a Toyota, a set of car keys dangling from one hand. They were about as close to entwined as you could be without touching, and despite my vocal warning, neither of them noticed me.
“Ambrose,” I said, in my stern voice. This time, he looked over, that curly swoop moving to the other side of his forehead. Straight on, I saw it was a perfect curl, so intact you couldn’t help but want to reach out and pull on it. Just thinking this annoyed me again. “The wedding is starting. We need you in place.”
He smiled at me then, a lazy, rich boy smile, all teeth and confidence. “Well, hey there. Who are you?”
The girl made a face, clearly unhappy with this development. I said, “I work for Natalie Barrett, the wedding planner. I need you to come with me. Now.”
He laughed, then saluted me, his hand brushing the curl. “Yes, ma’am! Just give me two shakes.” And with that, he turned back to his friend, who tilted her head up once she had his attention again.
Some people asked themselves in difficult situations What Would Jesus Do? For me, when it came to work at least, there was only one true example to follow, and I knew that in my shoes she’d take whatever measures were necessary to get things back on schedule. Next summer, a bookstore or coffee shop, I promised myself. Then I marched over, clamped a hand around Ambrose Little’s wrist, and started dragging him toward the club entrance.
“What the hell?” the girl said, her eyes narrowing. “You can’t just—”
But I could, and I was. I’d expected resistance, which was why I’d grabbed him with such gusto. Instead, he immediately lost his balance, stumbling forward into me while flailing for something to grab on to, which turned out to be my left breast. Now I was dragging someone while being groped, while the golfers looked on. Nice.
“Normally I like an assertive girl,” Ambrose said, regaining his footing as I shoved his hand off me. “But you’re coming on a bit strong.”
I ignored this, afraid of what I’d say if I did respond. We were almost to the club entrance; once over the threshold, he’d be my mother’s problem and I could get back to BRR duty, where I belonged.
“I feel like we haven’t been properly introduced,” he continued, as I yanked open the glass door with my free hand. “I’m Ambrose. And you are?”
“Finally,” my mother hissed, intercepting us the moment we stepped inside. I looked at a nearby clock: it was six fifteen. As she was someone who deeply prided herself on the timeliness of her events, every minute of a postponement caused an uptick in annoyance. Ambrose might not have known it, but if he’d dawdled any longer, more than his wrist would have been twisted. As it was, he gave her the same charm-confident smile, which she countered with a stare so icy I almost felt sorry for him. Almost.
“This way,” she barked, as I dropped his hand, relieved to step out of the way and the fray. He followed her without any comment, protest, or dragging involved. Even he knew right off who was the boss.
My phone buzzed. William. UPDATE?
ALL IN PLACE, I replied. HEADING TO BRR.
I walked past Ambrose and his mom, then the rest of the wedding party, which had been lined up for so long their restlessness was obvious. As I passed the bridesmaids, I felt a hand on my arm. When I turned, Bee gave me a grateful smile. “Thanks for retrieving my stupid brother.”
I nodded, markedly not assuring her he was nothing of the sort. “Of course.”
Back in the last row of chairs, there was an obvious buzz of speculation as to the delay. To the untrained ear, all waiting sounded the same, but I knew the difference and so did William, who claimed the energy of a bad start had the potential to curse any event that followed it. When I spotted him behind a pillar, I was not surprised his mouth was a thin line, the closest he’d allow to a frown while working.