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A Humphrey Bogart situation (code for Dad troubles) maybe. Or an Audrey Hepburn (girl troubles). Katherine Hepburn even (it used to mean Mom troubles, but now it means any older woman). There’s a whole system of troubles coded with Old Hollywood celebrities.
This is supposed to be a Mae West situation (it’s time to leave to get some).
Not this.
What is this?
I follow her into the kitchen. It’s not quiet, exactly, but it’s not as busy at the party. Only a few caterers plating appetizers and refrigerating champagne.
“Have you seen River?” She finds an empty spot next to the window, one where she can see the party in the backyard, the apartments, the Beau house next door.
Again, she looks to River’s room.
The lights are off.
“No,” I say. “Haven’t seen him.”
Wait. The hug. The whisper. The early departure.
The smile.
His smile.
Why would he smile?
Something is happening.
“Why are you looking for him?” I ask.
“Dee.” She says my name as if it explains everything.
“Where’s Jake?”
“He left.”
“Why did he leave?”
“Because we talked.” She looks to the fridge and waits for a caterer to finish shelving wine before finding a bottle of vodka.
“What did you talk about?”
“Our relationship. Like you said.”
“So you’re on the same page?”
“Exactly the same page.” She sets the vodka on the counter. Then cranberry juice. Limes. “Do we have Cointreau?” She scans the shelves again. “This is close enough.”
“There’s a bartender outside.”
“Too far.” She beams as she uncaps the bottle of vodka.
“Why did Jake leave? Did you break up?” I bite my tongue, so I don’t addyou’re supposed to be our poster couple.
“No.”
Thank god.
“We’re on a break,” she clarifies.
