Good Luck, Fatty

casserole dishes and dumping supersized bags of potato chips into lavender and yellow plastic bowls (Dollar Tree finds in Denise’s wedding colors).
    I peck Tom on the cheek and tell him, “I’ll be right back.” Then I snatch a cup from the edge of the buffet table and dash into the house, where I load the cup with water and sink the stem of my bouquet into it, creating a pretty floral display.
    Back in the yard, I locate the rainbow-colored index cards with my and Tom’s names on them (also from the Dollar Tree; Denise is using them as place cards), which are stuck to our shifty picnic table with golden thumbtacks. I rearrange a couple of disposable champagne glasses to make space for my bouquet, which, as I set it down, strikes me as a lovely centerpiece.
    Tom’s gaze finds mine, and he twists through a clot of older folks to reach my side. “I’m starving,” I tell him, my stomach rumbling to back me up.
    He squints at the buffet. “Should we get something?”
    The food has yet to be touched, but if it sits out much longer, it’s sure to wilt in this late-day heat. “Why not?” I say with a shrug that threatens to expose a bit too much cleavage, my dress being strapless and all. I grab the bodice by its armpits and hike it back up. “I don’t think anyone cares.” If there’s a protocol for this shindig, no one has bothered to put me in the loop.
    Apparently there isn’t a protocol, though, because before Tom and I can mosey over and raid the chips and dip or the macaroni salad, Marie leads a conga line of people doing the same thing, ahead of us.
    We queue up behind them, me shaking my head and telling Tom (about Marie’s preemptive strike on the food), “It figures.”
    He chuckles lightly, rests his hands on my hips from the rear, leans over my shoulder and brazenly—right there for everyone to see—begins kissing on my neck, my ear, my…
    I may have been screwed by a lengthy list of boys, but this public display of affection is too much. Blushing profusely, I twist around and say, “Not here, okay?”
    Tom’s eyebrow notches in surprise. “Oh, okay,” he agrees. Then he straightens up and removes his left hand from my waist, which I immediately miss. When his right hand lifts off me, I grab it and force it back into place, giving it a little pat. “That can stay,” I say with a smile he can’t see, since we’re both facing forward.
    Eventually the line clears out, and we inhale Denise and Orv’s barbecue-themed reception dinner, down an apple-cider toast, and even indulge in a bit of post-meal calorie burning in the form of seriously bad disco/hip-hop/country line-dancing (not all at once, of course).
    Half an hour into this revelry, after the twenty-one-plus crowd (excluding Orv, who is abstaining from alcohol in support of Denise and the pregnancy) has swilled through most of the BYO-Booze, Duncan starts raving about some topic or another, leaving me to assume that an unsuspecting wedding guest has dropped a religious or political comment in his vicinity. “…bunch of mindless, know-nothing…” his slushy, alcohol-soaked voice spouts. From my post by the boom box, I catch bits and snatches of his rant, which shows no signs of letting up. “…rules, rules, rules…genius, I tell you…never see it coming…” He belches loudly, then sighs. “…utter brilliance…damn halfwits…” He cackles to himself and repeats, “…never see it coming…”
    I look to Marie for guidance, but once again, she’s distracted with Roy. “I think I should, uh, check on my dad,” I tell Tom with a flash of embarrassment. Then I remember how his drunkard of a stepmother treated me last time I saw her. “Maybe you can hang with Denise’s brothers?” I suggest, noticing that Max and Matt seem to be brooding at the edge of the yard, nobody their age to chill with. At least they’ve got each other, I think. Built-in best friends.
    Tom tilts his head in an adorable way that melts my heart. “All right,” he says softly. “But then maybe we can get some time to ourselves?” He pulls me in for a gentle kiss I don’t resist, even though it’s on the lips (appropriateness be damned!).
    “Maybe,” I whisper.
    His fingers make an “accidental” sweep over my ass as he goes, leaving me, as usual, longing for more.
    But now is not the time, because when I get within Duncan’s orbit, I realize that he’s intoxicated to the point of incoherence. “Dad,” I say, shaking his