Sarah Dessen by This Lullaby (v5) Page A

out the revolving doors, looking irritated.
    “Nice,” he yelled, coming around the van. “Real classy.”
    “Get in or walk home,” the keyboardist snapped. “I mean it.”
    Ted got in, the horn sounded one more time, and then they waited. No Dexter. Finally, after what seemed like a bit of bickering from the front seats, the van chugged away, taking a right onto the main road. The turn signal, of course, was busted.
    Back in the hotel, the cleaning crew was at work on the reception hall, clearing glasses and pulling off tablecloths. My mother’s bouquet—eighty bucks of flowers—sat abandoned on a tray table, still as fresh as when she’d first picked it up at the church over nine hours earlier.
    “They left you,” I heard someone say. I turned around. Dexter. God help me. He was sitting at a table next to the ice sculpture—two swans intertwined and quickly melting—a plate in front of him.
    “Who did?” I asked.
    “Chris and Jennifer Anne,” he replied, as if he’d known them forever. Then he picked up a fork, taking a bite of whatever he was having. It looked like wedding cake, from where I was.
    “What?” I said. “They left?”
    “They were tired.” He chewed for a second, then swallowed. “Jennifer Anne said she had to go because she had an early seminar tomorrow at the convention center. Something about achievement. She’s very bright, that girl. She thinks I might have a future in the corporate and private leisure activity sector. Whatever that means.”
    I just looked at him.
    “Anyway,” he went on, “I said it was fine, because when you showed up we’d just give you a ride.”
    “We,” I repeated.
    “Me and the guys.”
    I considered this. And I’d been so close to being scot-free, home by now care of Jess. Great. “They’re gone too,” I said finally.
    He looked up, his fork midway to his mouth. “They what?”
    “They left,” I repeated slowly. “They beeped the horn first.”
    “Oh, man, I thought I heard the horn,” he said, shaking his head. “Typical.”
    I looked around the mostly empty room, as if a solution to this and all my other problems might be lurking behind, say, a potted plant. No luck. So I did what seemed, by now, inevitable. I walked over to the table where he was sitting, pulled out a chair, and sat down.
    “Ah,” he said, with a smile. “Finally, she comes around.”
    “Don’t get too excited,” I said, dropping my bag onto the table. I felt tired in every part of my body, as if I’d been stretched thin. “I’m just getting the energy up to call a cab.”
    “You should try some of this cake first.” He pushed the plate at me. “Here.”
    “I don’t want any cake.”
    “It’s really good. It doesn’t taste chalky at all.”
    “I’m sure it doesn’t,” I said, “but I’m fine.”
    “You probably didn’t even get any, right?” He wiggled the fork at me. “Just try it.”
    “No,” I said flatly.
    “Come on.”
    “No.”
    “Mmmm.” He poked at it with the fork, gently. “So tasty.”
    “You,” I said finally, “are really pissing me off.”
    He shrugged, as if he’d heard this before, then pulled the plate back toward himself, dipping the fork in for another bite. The cleaning crew was chattering away in the front of the room, stacking chairs. One woman with her hair in a long braid picked up my mother’s bouquet, cradling it in her arms.
    “Da-da-da-dum,” she said, and laughed when one of her coworkers yelled at her to stop dreaming and get back to work.
    Dexter put down the fork, the tasty, non-chalklike cake gone, and pushed the plate away. “So,” he said, looking at me, “this your mom’s first remarriage?”
    “Fourth,” I said. “She’s made a career of it.”
    “Got you beat,” he told me. “My mom’s on her fifth.”
    I had to admit, I was impressed. So far I’d never met anyone with more ex-steps than me. “Really.”
    He nodded. “But you know,” he said sarcastically, “I really think