Plus-One

Dené Breakfield

Martha’s text put me on notice: LuAm1 and I will be over @ 6 to talk about your actions at Fran’s bridal shower last night.

I’ll admit my memory of the evening’s events was spotty, but my family has a habit of overreacting. And cousin Fran in particular has a stick up her ass, so she probably guilted my sisters into having this come-to-Jesus with me for some perceived slight.

The bright side: They always bring a casserole to my interventions, and I was thinking I could really go for some of LuAnn’s Mexican lasagna. So I straightened up my apartment, shoved the clutter of my life behind closed doors, and got ready to play defense.

They showed up emptyhanded.

“Fran can’t stop crying,” said Martha. “It was supposed to be her night, and––”

‘’Nobody died,” I said. “Earl’s still going to marry her, right?”

“We were thinking everyone would act like adults and have a good time,” said LuAnn. “We weren’t thinking you’d ruin it with your drunken, provocative behavior.”

“Just trying to liven things up,” I said. “Didn’t mean to provoke.”

If anyone’s to blame, it’s the dipshit who thought it’d be fun to give all the single girls black Sharpies, vaguely man-shaped balloons the size of a third grader, and instructions to make ourselves a plus-one for the wedding.

I took regular sips from my flask, and by the time we were told to put down our Sharpies and inflate our dates, I was seeing two of everything. My guy looked like a ‘70s lounge singer, but once he got some helium into him, boy, he could dance. I named him Vince.

“I guess you don’t remember mooning Fran and her bridesmaids? That’s when we had to shove you and Balloon Boy into an Uber and have you hauled away,” said Martha.

“The driver charged us extra,” said LuAnn.

“You’re uninvited from the wedding unless you get your shit together,” said Martha. “We’re rooting for you, we really are. But we’re done cleaning up

your messes.”

“It’s tough love,” said LuAnn, tearing up, “but it’s still love.” She held out her hands. “Group hug?”

Her hair smelled like cumin and chili pepper.

After they left, I pulled Vince from the hall closet and sat with him out on the balcony.

He was still lighter than air but losing altitude. His head swayed side to side, like he’d overheard my sister’s rantings and was having a tough time processing the details.

I walked us to the edge of the balcony, leaned over the railing and held him at arm’s length, trying like hell to decide whether to hold on or let go.