Page 128 of A Really Bad Idea

CRYSTAL

With a large piece of wood between my legs, I stroke the base, eliciting a deep groan from inside.

No, not that kind of groan and definitely not from that kind of wood. I’m not that kind of girl. Not that I’m opposed to sex. On the contrary, I quite enjoy it. I just don’t believe in sleeping around. If I slept with every guy I went out with, I’d bed fifty different men a year.

The wood in question is my cello, which I am playing during the cocktail reception at an upscale wedding.

On an estate just outside New York City, serenading wedding guests with a John Legend ballad, I scope the area for any available bachelors.

There’s a handsome fair-haired groomsman wearing a midnight-blue tux, standing by the caviar. I push my shoulders back, tilt my head, and give him my best smile, all while stroking the neck of the beautiful piece of maple and spruce nestled against the fabric of my long navy dress. His shoulders swivel in my direction. Excellent body language. Good signals. So far, it looks like I’ve hooked myself a—

No, wait, a woman in a Givenchy dress has just approached, wrapping her arms around his waist, like a homesteader in the West, staking her claim—burying his stick in her land, if you will.

As a single woman in New York, I’ve found all the good men are taken. And, if they’re not, it’s because they don’t want to be…by anyone.

The only way to find an available man anymore is through online dating. My apps of choice are Match or Bumble, my days filled with swiping right and adding men to my Hive. Problem is, I end up with more duds than studs. You know how people say there are plenty of fish in the sea? At thirty years old, I’ve realized, if they’re still swimming, they’re there for a reason. That reminds me, Plenty of Fish is another good app.

The more I talk about the havoc of dating in the big city, the more my best friend, Naomi, begs me to move out to the West Coast. She thinks I need a reboot, and living with her will do the trick.

“Excuse me,” a voice croons from just above where I’m sitting.

I look up to see an attractive man with a boyish grin and a double-breasted suit.

I bat my lashes as he leans down to speak in my ear as I play, “I hope I’m not being too up-front when I say, you are a very beautiful woman.”

As far as opening lines go, I am totally okay with being told I’m beautiful. What comes out next is usually the issue.

I mouth the words, Thank you, and give a slight shoulder shrug to show a bashful quality. Not that I’m bashful, but playing coy never hurt anyone.

He leans a touch closer, pulls a card out of his pocket, and holds it up between us. “I’d love if you could provide some private entertainment this evening. I’m in room seven on the third floor.” His voice is smooth, suave, and making my stomach turn.

With a swift motion, as not to disrupt my music playing for too long, I take the card and place it in the Campari cocktail in his other hand. I am no man’s entertainment.

He stalks off with a sneer, probably to find his next target of the night.

I heard on the radio that men like going to weddings because the women are all starry-eyed and filled with romance, so it makes for an easy lay. I might be looking for romance in my life, but I don’t give in that easily. In fact, my criteria are quite specific. If he doesn’t measure up, I won’t settle down.

Been there, done that, and it left me with a broken heart and an annulment.

Looking around at the reception, I see people who are dressed up, here to celebrate the love of a man and a woman. I know it’s total cheese, but I love weddings. Not just weddings. I enjoy every party I am invited to, and I show up with a pretty dress and a gift off the registry. I don’t roll my eyes at having to participate in bridal shower games where you have to cover yourself in toilet paper, and I am genuinely happy to learn the sex of your baby when you open a giant box, and a bouquet of pink or blue balloons come flying out.

I love seeing the groom tear up when his bride walks down the aisle or that first dance when it’s just the two of them in their own bubble. I can picture them now, huddled up in the bridal suite, whispering promises of forever to each other and planning their glorious—

“I can’t believe you wore fucking sneakers to our wedding!”

My internal thoughts of romance are interrupted by the sound of a screeching woman bellowing louder than the music. My hand almost stops playing when I regain my professional wits.

“All you care about is this perfect wedding. You don’t give a shit what I want!” a man’s voice echoes.

The voices are coming from the open windows of the bridal suite that overlooks the veranda. All the guests’ eyes and ears are trained on the source of the outbursts.

The man continues, “You wanted the ice sculptures, the band, the seventeen bridesmaids, and the horse-drawn carriage. I gave you whatever you wanted. All I wanted was to wear an awesome pair of Jordans with my suit! Don’t you even care about what makes me happy?”

Stomping feet—I assume, garnished with three-thousand-dollar Christian Louboutins—are creating a new tempo for the cocktail hour that is supposed to be reserved for love ballads.

“You ruined my wedding!”

“It’s my wedding, too!”