Everything Changes

giving Hope a congratulatory kiss on the cheek before heading into the crowd to find Jed and me and hit the bar. Tamara is nothing more or less than my best friend’s wife, my feelings toward Hope are pure and uncomplicated, I’m celebrating with my two best friends, and it feels like I have the universe wired, like I’m exactly where I was always meant to be. Instead, Rael’s dead, Jed’s pissed and probably won’t even show up, and I’m staring at Tamara with a mixture of longing and dread so potent that it burns my eyes.
    Then she sees me, and her face lights up with a smile, warm and knowing, as she makes her way across the room to me. Her kiss is soft and chaste on my cheek, and the familiar scent of her shampoo, slightly cooked by her blow-dryer, fills my nostrils and then, it seems, the rest of me. “Hey,” she says.
    “Hey.”
    “You look like you got some color.”
    I hold up the glasses. “Just a lot of drinks.”
    She looks at me. “You’d better pace yourself. The night’s young.”
    I nod and look at her, wondering what the hell I’m going to say. “Thanks for coming.”
    “Sophie made you a card,” she says, reaching into her bag and pulling out a piece of pink construction paper decorated with jagged crayon streaks. On the bottom, written in crayon, it says,
I love You Zack
.
    “I didn’t know Sophie could write.”
    “I wrote that part.”
    I nod and she looks away. “I love you too,” I say.
    Tamara laughs, like I’m joking, and starts to fold the paper. “You’ve got your hands full,” she says. “I’ll hold on to this for you.”
    “No,” I say, putting my drinks down on the bar. “I want it.” I take the picture from her, fold it once more, and put it in my inner jacket pocket. Over Tamara’s shoulder, I can see Hope watching me. “Listen,” I say. “I have to go for a second. Why don’t you get something to eat, and I’ll find you in a few minutes, okay?”
    “Don’t worry about me,” she says. “You’ve got to meet and greet. Press the flesh. I’ll be fine. Is Jed around?”
    “I haven’t seen him yet.”
    “Oh, well. I’ll amuse myself, then.”
    She wanders over to the smorgasbord, and I head back up to Hope, who takes my drink and kisses my cheek. “It was so nice of her to come,” she says, her eyes following Tamara around the room. “Who’s babysitting?”
    “Rael’s folks, I would imagine.”
    “She looks great, doesn’t she?” Hope’s feminine survival instincts, exacerbated by the overt sexiness of Tamara’s dress, are in conflict with her natural generosity, and the tension adds a complex texture to her remark, which manages to extend goodwill and cloaked scorn simultaneously.
    My response must be seamless, or she’ll sense something. “She looks good,” I say.
    “I hope I can wear a dress like that after I have a baby.”
    It’s a backhanded compliment, launched like praise but falling on the ear with a calibrated disdain.
    “Dance with me,” Hope says. We walk across the room and join the handful of couples dancing in the clearing right below the band, which is playing a slow, bare-bones version of “The Long and Winding Road.” I can feel the eyes of the crowd on us as we sway to the music, Hope smiling grandly as her eyes dart around the room, while I cling to her, dizzy and flushed, wishing we could just disappear. As we turn, I catch a glimpse of Tamara standing in the living room doorway, drink in hand, watching us dance. Our eyes meet and she offers a bittersweet smile, lifting her drink in my direction. The milling guests crisscross between us, blocking my view, and when I can see her spot again, she’s not there.
    “You feel hot,” Hope whispers, her cheek against mine.
    “I’m okay.”
    “You’re sweating.”
    The band segues into Gershwin, and no one under sixty can dance to Gershwin, so we stand there awkwardly until Jack steps over and says, “Can I cut in?”
    “Be my guest,” I say, but by then they’ve spun away from me and I’m talking to myself.

    Matt arrives, dressed in leather pants, a pin-striped suit jacket, and his Elton John wig. He’s standing by the vegetable table, dipping celery stalks and carrots into the hummus with the regularity of a machine, tapping his foot to the band as he surveys the scene.
    “Matt.”
    “There he is,” he says, stepping forward to give me a quick hug. His jacket carries the unmistakable whiff of marijuana. “Sorry I’m late.”
    “You didn’t