Chapter 3 excerpt
(Continued)

I spot a waitress slinking through the crowd with a tray full of red wine.

“Score.” I tell Iris, giving the wine chick a wave. She sidles up to us.

“Hey Val,” said Iris, selecting a glass of red from her tray. “They got you working tonight, huh?”

“I’m doing this as a favor to Ben,” says the waitress, shaking her dark curls. “This is his night.”

“What an honor,” Iris grins. “Val, this is Jordan Lockhart. She works in jewelry, too."

“Oh cool,” she turns to me. “Do you have any stuff here tonight?”

“No, I wasn’t able to get anything together in time for the show.”

“Silver jewelry?” Val asks me.

“I do beadwork mostly. Glass and ceramic beads, some semi-precious stones.”

“Oh, cool.” Val says, looking unimpressed. “I love your tea set, by the way,” she tells Iris.

“It’s a sake set, actually. But thanks.”

“Oh, right.” says Val, giving her a weird crooked smile. She gestures toward her tray. “Well, duty calls. Nice meeting you.” She sashays off.

Iris and I look at each other.

“One of my former students,” she says. “She took my ceramic tile course last semester, and was always trying to tell me how to run my class.” Iris pauses. “I gave her a C.”

“Good call.” I smile. “Did you see her turn up her nose when I said I did beadwork? I’m sick of people acting like I’m some sort of hack.”

“Oh Jordan, don’t worry about it. I’ve had people tell me that pottery isn’t an art, it’s a craft. I’m a craftswoman. Makes me sound like some old lady folding origami birds.”

“Well, at least you have an art degree. That makes you way ahead of most supposed artists, anyway.”

Iris snorts. “Yes, my degree,” she says. “Thank God for that. Otherwise, I’d have to work two waitressing jobs instead of just one. This way I have so much more time to work on pieces no one buys.”

“Whatever, girl.” I say. “You done with your food? Let’s toss these, I can’t eat and drink at the same time.”

We locate a trash bin and dispose of our plates.

“Okay Jordan,” Iris says. “Point me toward the most fucked up guy in the room so I can get this over with.”

“You’re on your own tonight, sis,” I tell her, scanning the gallery. “I don’t recognize anyone here. They must all be Herron people.”

“Look, there’s the Skipper.” Iris deadpans, pointing with her glass at a rotund, white-haired man in a black turtleneck. He’s clutching a whisky glass in his fat fingers and talking enthusiastically to a skinny blonde, who looks like she’d rather be receiving an enema.

Iris cranes her neck, searching the room for Genna.

“I don’t see Genna--oh Jesus, are those elbow patches on that jacket?”

I follow her gaze past the Skipper, where a lanky man in a turd-colored corduroy blazer is standing with his back to us, chatting with a pale redhead.

“Yep, those are elbow patches. He’s going for that junior college professor look, I think.”

“Lord, the fashion crimes you see at these things.” Iris shudders. “That’s gonna drive me to drink.” She swallows the last of her wine.

I can’t put my finger on it, but something about the guy in the corduroy jacket seems eerily familiar. It’s something in his stance and demeanor, something that’s giving me a déjà vu feeling in the pit of my stomach. I raise my wineglass to my lips, obscuring my face from view as I squint across the room, trying to get a better look at him.

“Jordan, what are you staring at?” I hear Iris say.

I take a large swallow of Merlot just as the corduroy guy turns to the woman on his left, giving me a full view of his profile.

“Holy shit!” I gasp, sucking wine into my windpipe.

“Are you okay?” Iris says, thumping me on the back. “Jesus, what happened?”

“That guy over there," I cough. "I used to go out with him."

“Who?”

“The corduroy jacket,” I say.

“Patches?” Iris cackles loudly. “You used to go out with him?”

“Shh!” I hiss. “That’s Mark. I’ve told you about Mark before,”

“Mark,” Iris repeats blankly. “Oh, Mark,” she nods slowly. “Yeah, weren’t you like, majorly in love with him at one point?”

“I can’t believe he’s here,” I say, ignoring her question. “This is too weird.”

“What, seeing him at an art opening?” Iris says. “Why is that weird? Do you know how many men I’ve slept with in this room?”

This revelation prompts startled looks from two women admiring a nearby glass vase.

“Say that a little louder. I don’t think everyone heard you."

Iris stares openly at Mark while I duck behind her, cringing.

"I hate to break it to you, but he’s not cute at all. I don’t see why you’re freaking out,”

“It just caught me off guard,” I say, “I haven’t seen him in two years.”

“Are you going to talk to him?”

“What am I going to say?”

“I don’t know…ask him why he’s wearing my father’s corduroy jacket from 1983."

“Shut up. You’re not helping anything,” I take a slow drink from my glass, trying to steady myself.

“You’re shaking like a crackhead!” says Iris. “I don’t believe you. Just grow some balls and go over there.”

“I can’t. I don’t want him to think I noticed him first,”

“Oh my God,” Iris rolls her eyes. “Jordan, it’s happened. You are officially lame.”

Genna reappears then, a bemused smile on her face.

“Okay, number one, where did you and the waiter run off to, and number two, how big is he?” Iris says.

“Number one, we were over by that steel sculpture--which is his, by the way--and number two,” Genna pauses, shooting a disdainful glance at Iris, “I have no idea. He has a wedding ring, anyway.”

“So?” Iris shrugs.

Genna cocks her head. “No. Uh-uh. I am not about to be the other woman,”

“If it’s not you, honey, it’ll be someone else,” says Iris, shaking her head.

“This argument sounds mighty familiar,” I say, rolling my eyes at both of them.

“You guys are tight-asses,” Iris proclaims. “I need a cigarette.”

“Hold on, I’ll join you in a minute,” I say, looking over her shoulder at Mark, who is now engaged in an animated conversation with Ty and his big Afro.

Iris huffs, tossing her head in frustration.

“Oh, come on, I’m not standing around with my thumb up my ass until that dork notices you.”

“What dork?” asks Genna.

“Mark’s here,” I tell her.

“Mark who?” she says loudly.

“Shh!” I hiss, and Iris cackles.

“Remember? Mark Chaplin? The massage therapist?” I say.

“The one who was really good in bed?” Genna asks, eyes wide. “Wasn’t he an asshole or something?”

“Of course he was an asshole. Jordan dated him,” Iris says.

Genna and I both look at her.

“Excuse me, I think you’re the one with the asshole fetish, hon.” I say.

“Yeah, one word: Frank,”

Iris just shakes her head.

“I’m going for a smoke. Screw you both."

Genna turns back to me.

“Well, where is he?” she asks excitedly.

“He’s over there in the brown jacket, talking to the dude with the ‘fro.”

Genna squints in his direction.

“That’s Mark?” she asks, looking puzzled.

“Okay, I know. He’s not George Clooney.”

“No, he’s kinda cute.” Genna said. She looks at me, then back over at Mark. “He’s
cute in that nerdy sort of way that you go for.”

“Yeah,” I agree, smiling wistfully.

“So are you going to talk to him?”

I hesitate. “I think so. I’m nervous, though.”

“Have some more wine."

“Yeah, liquid courage. That’s what I need.” I look around for the waiter. “Where’s your man?”

Genna shrugs.

“I dunno. Maybe refilling his tray. Do you want me to go get you a glass?”

“That’d be great,” I say, still not wanting to move.

“Okay, I’ll be back. Deep breaths."

I watch Genna’s retreating form, chewing my nails, then turn and pretend to study the giant stone vagina.

“Well, how are you doing, young lady?”

I turn, startled, to stare into the big red face of the Skipper.

“Good,” I manage to gasp.

“Oops, sorry. Didn’t mean to frighten you there,” he chuckles, and reaches out to squeeze my forearm. I look down at his hand, wondering why I’m being groped by the doppelganger of a dead sitcom star.

“Oh, that’s okay, you didn’t,” I say, laughing artificially along with him.

He studies me, his eyes narrowing.

“You don’t remember me, do you?”

Oh good Lord. What a time for one of these. I try to force another weak smile, knowing for sure that at least I’d never slept with the guy.

“Um,” I fumble. Okay, elderly artsy guy, I think, searching for a possible connection. “Do you-know my mother?” I ask.

He looks vaguely insulted. “Ed O’Malley,” says the Skipper. “I monitored the Stone Sculpture class last spring.”

“Oh! Oh, I’m sorry.” Okay, now I’m remembering him. He used to leer at me creepily when I would go in to check on the Wednesday night Stone class. “I, uh-I guess I just didn’t recognize you without your safety goggles.”

The Skipper coughs out a loud, wheezy laugh, and I fidget with my glass uncomfortably.

“I was actually working on this piece during that time,” he says, gesturing toward the giant stone vagina. So this is his work. That makes sense.

“Yes, it’s very nice,” I say robotically.

The Skipper rubs his chin and looks at his masterpiece, then at me.

“You all by yourself tonight?” he asks my breasts.

I open my mouth to answer, scanning the room for Genna or Iris. They’re nowhere in sight.

“I’m here with some friends and my boy-“

“Jordan?”

Suddenly Mark is standing next to the Skipper, smiling at me with wonder and amazement.

“Hi,” I squeak.

Mark doesn’t answer right away; he just stands there for a moment in his brown corduroyed glory, his eyes crinkling up as he takes me in, grinning with approval. I
stare back at him paralyzed.

“Wow,” he finally says, shaking his head slowly. “It is so good to see you.”

He then grabs me by the arms and pulls me into an embrace like we’re best friends. He feels warm and surprisingly familiar. His neck smells of soap and water, and as my cheek brushes his shoulder, I catch a faint whiff of cigar.

He lets go after a moment and I take a step back, awkwardly tucking a strand of hair behind my ear.

“You look beautiful,” he tells me, and takes both of my hands in his. I can hear the blood pounding in my ears.

“Yeah, you look, uh-you look great.” I stutter. I notice that his hair is different-it’s shorter on the sides, and he’s got the top gelled up 1950’s hipster style. The lines around his mouth and eyes have deepened slightly, but it flatters him in that irritating way that it does with most men. He’s also traded in his fashion victim black horn-rims for smaller eyeglasses with angular, wire frames. It’s a definite improvement.

“So, what’s up? Do you have work here?” he asks me. He’s still clutching both of my hands in his, giving me little squeezes every few seconds.

“No, not this time,” I say, trying to breathe through the fluttering in my stomach. “I haven’t submitted anything in a while-I’ve been so busy working.”

“Still at the Art Guild?” he asks.

“Doing the starving artist thing, yeah.” I say. I suddenly realize that I’m giggling after every sentence. Jesus, I sound like a total bimbo.

“You two old friends?”

Mark and I both turn, surprised. Oh, the Skipper. He’s still here.

Mark purses his lips and narrows his eyes, pondering Skipper’s inquiry.

“Old friends,” he says, nodding at me slowly. “I guess you could say that, yeah.”

“That’s one word for it,” I agree, feeling my cheeks grow warm.

The Skipper smiles uneasily in response, gives me an odd little wink, then turns to slowly wander off, red-faced and sweating.

“Anyway,” I say, shaking my head. “What are you doing here?”

“I came out to see Tyler Dutton’s work-he’s a client of mine.” Mark says, gesturing towards a stained glass fixture hanging from the ceiling on the other side of the room. Oh, Afro Boy. Damn, it’s a small city.

“I brought my sister with me,” Mark went on. “That’s her-the one in the green over there,” he nods at the pale redhead he had been standing with earlier. “She’s staying with me for the holidays.”

He turns to me again, and that damn grin is back.

“What?” I ask, regarding him warily.

“You’re still gorgeous,” he says, unblinking.

“Thanks,” I mumble. “It’s been a long time, hasn’t it?”
Mark doesn’t respond, he just cocks his head to the side and continues studying me.

Christ, either the wine is distorting my take on the situation, or he really is genuinely glad to see me. Normally running into ex-boyfriends is not a pleasant experience.

“We should have dinner sometime,” he says decisively. “Are you seeing anyone?”

My heart drops down somewhere into my lower intestine.

“Not at the moment,” I tell him, my voice wavering. What the hell am I doing? This is Mark Chaplin, for Christ's sake. This man completely devastated me when he left. I can’t go through this again.

Excerpt from chapter one of the novel Thanks, That Was Fun by Andie Ryan. All rights reserved.