The Plus One

By Pamela Love

“Good news, Josh.” Despite Mom’s tap on my back, I kept heading toward Olivia, one of my sister’s bridesmaids. Madeline said the blonde was single, and a wedding reception was the perfect chance to meet someone new after my breakup. “You won’t have to spend this evening alone.”

“I wasn’t planning to.”

Then Mom wrapped a blue sequined arm around my shoulders and turned me around. One look at the giggling redhead we were now facing, and I didn’t protest. If she’s the one Mom has in mind… I ran a hand through my auburn hair. We’ve already got something in common.

Instead, Mom hauled me toward another table where a girl in a black and white pinstripe vest and black slacks was draping a long brown coat over a chair. I sucked in my breath. I’d know those thick glasses and freckles anywhere.

“You invited Ethel Grieves?” We’d been lab partners in high school chemistry, but there’d never been any chemistry between us.

“This wedding’s the social event of the year. We invited every VIP in this city, so we couldn’t leave out the Grieves family, especially considering the Sanderson deal.” I nodded. Dad had chosen Sanderson Inc. over the Grieves Syndicate to handle certain financial transactions for us. We’d be signing the contracts Monday afternoon. “Ethel’s the only one who came. She doesn’t have a plus one, and we can’t leave her alone.”

I snorted. “Can’t she hold her liquor?”

“Her, yes. It’s other people.” Suddenly, Mom accelerated—her dark updo went updown, she was moving so fast.

Some guy in an ill-fitting tux with a worse shave had lumbered up to Ethel. “I said, I want a whiskey sour.” He didn’t quite bang his fist on the table, but it was close.

She looked up with a sweetly poisonous smile. “That fact is relevant to me because?”

His eyebrow—yes, singular—lowered. “Get me my drink or—”

“Ethel Grieves!” Mom sang out, clasping her hand. “So glad you could come. I see you’ve met—Scott, aren’t you feeling well?”

A reasonable question. He’d gone ash white when he heard the name Grieves. You know what happens to people who insult one of that family three times? Trick question. People who do it twice tend to… disappear.

“S-Sorry, Ms. Grieves.” He backed away. “I thought…”

You thought she was a caterer, dressed like that. Other people might too. I didn’t want a scene at Madeline and Nick’s reception. Cursing my luck and Ethel’s taste in clothes, I plastered a grin on my face. “Hi, Ethel. Want to dance?”

As Mom power walked Scott away, my new plus one stood. “Josh Dennison! Sure!”

We headed for the dance floor. I’d forgotten her limp; in school she didn’t take regular gym class and skipped every dance, even the prom. Can’t back out now, I thought. She tried to keep up with the steps but kept stumbling. After a minute, we just swayed a little, but it wasn’t that kind of song.

“I’m rather fatigued.” She led me back to her table. Only two chairs were left—other guests had taken theirs elsewhere. Maybe they didn’t want to get drunk and risk hurting Ethel’s feelings. Not always easy being a Grieves.

But catching up over dinner was surprisingly easy. Mostly Ethel talked about her cat.

When the bandleader announced the bouquet toss, she joined dozens of girls who looked like supermodels by comparison. Mom caught my eye. She mouthed, “Follow her!” Casually, I strolled toward the bouquet brigade.

Madeline flung the flowers over her shoulder. Poor Ethel. Everyone towered over her, and she was way at the back. She had no chance of catching the bouquet with all those crimson nails clawing for them, but she leaped with the enthusiasm of an Olympic gymnast—except her legs flailed and I knew she’d never stick the landing.

I launched myself across the dance floor and somehow swooped in before her head hit the ground.

“You okay?” I panted, pulling her upright amid a chorus of snickers.

“Yes, thank you.” She bit her lip. “Father insisted I come.”

Some party this turned out to be, for both of us. Our folks owe us big time. I squeezed Ethel’s hand. “Parents, am I right? Want a drink?”

“Ginger ale.”

I don’t remember much about the rest of the night except drinking—no ginger ale for me—and complaining about my family. Ethel couldn’t dress, dance, or drink, but she was a good listener.

***

On Monday morning, Ethel stopped by Dennison Holdings. I froze when I saw her in the lobby. What did I say to her Saturday night after the first couple of drinks? Did I accidentally insult her? I gulped. Or did I ask her out to lunch and forget?

“Josh, is your father in?” She held up a small white box tied with a silver bow. As I reached out for it, she pulled it back. “My parents asked me to hand it to him personally.”

I exhaled. She forgot to drop off the wedding gift and say hi to Dad at the reception.  Poor Ethel. Her family should’ve let her stay home with her cat. “Sure, I’ll tell him you’re on the way up.”

Twenty minutes later, Dad stormed into my office, slamming the door shut. “Well, the Sanderson deal is off the table, thanks to you.”

“What?” I sprang to my feet. “How?”

Dad folded his arms. “Ethel Grieves played a recording of you babbling about me and Helena Sanderson. She said that if we didn’t go with the Grieves Syndicate, she’d make sure your mother heard it.”

Sinking back in my chair, I flashed back to the reception. What did I say to her after those first couple of drinks? Exactly what she wanted me to say—secrets about my family.  

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Pamela Love was born in New Jersey and worked as a teacher and in marketing before becoming a writer. Her work has appeared in Havok, Page & Spine, and Luna Station Quarterly. She is the 2020 winner of the Magazine Merit Fiction Award for her story “The Fog Test,” which appeared in Cricket. She and her family live in Maryland.

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