Wish You Were Here

Chapter 18

You're lying on your back, your head on his chest, when your phone pings. You hold it up so both of you can see. The only person who hasn't checked in to message you about him is your betrothed friend whose engagement party is tonight. She's texted to ask if you're still coming, "With everything that's happened." You like that she hasn't bothered to ask if you're okay, knowing that you wouldn't be.

"Engagement party, huh?" he says, lowering the book he's reading. "What's the dress code?"

"It's themed," you tell him. "They met at a Star Wars original trilogy marathon, so it's an 80s party." The invitation came with strict instructions to dress in costume. You know the bride and groom are going as Leia and Han.

"That's cute," he comments. "Mind you, as someone who actually remembers the 80s, I guarantee it's not going to actually feel like the 80s in there."

You groan. "I don't want to hear that you remember the 80s! You are so fucking old."

He laughs, his chest moving underneath you. "Sorry," he says. "I'm actually kind of jealous. I'll take any excuse to dress up like Marty McFly."

You text her to tell her you're still coming. She immediately asks if you're bringing a date. You show him your phone screen again.

"She doesn't want me there," he says dismissively. "A bride should always be the center of attention at her engagement."

"You want to be Marty McFly, right? Do you have that red t-shirt with you?"

He scratches his head. "I think I left it in LA."

"I'm sure we can figure something out."

"Maybe," he says thoughtfully, "I go full Gene Simmons and paint my face so no one recognises me. That's 80s, right?"

You both start laughing at the image of him spending hours gently sponging black and white makeup across his face, posing for photos with his tongue out. But the more you think about it, the more appealing it is. There's a karaoke machine at the venue, and you know it's an open bar. You could easily see the two of you drunk enough to smash out a bad cover of I Was Made for Lovin You, headbanging and jumping around the stage, playing air guitar or whacking imaginary drums.

You sit up to look at him. "Do you have a leather jacket?"

He stays relaxed on the pillow, the grin fading from his face. "I'm not going," he says. "You know I can't. I have the play." When he realizes he's hurt your feelings he reaches for your arm, but you dodge out of reach.

"It's fine," you say. "I'll tell her I'm going by myself." You start typing a response to her text so you don't have to look at him.

"I'm sorry."

"No, it's fine. Really." Probably for the best, you think. He is right that the bride probably wouldn't like how much attention he'd get at her party, and you don't know enough people going – you wouldn't know if there is anyone who would take pictures of you without your consent. You lay back down beside him with your back turned, still texting your friend.

With being so distracted with everything else over the last few months, you had never gotten around to organizing something to wear to the party. But, inspired by the idea of him as Gene, you settle on a rocker groupie as your costume. You wear the leopard print skirt from the signing, with a black top and tights you've shredded with your cheese grater, blow dry your hair to give it maximum fluffy volume, and finish it all off with tall boots and bright lipstick. You send him a picture and he responds with a few fire emojis. Knock em dead, he says. You text back wishing him luck for his show. Not that he needs it. With rave reviews, weekend performances have been selling out even before you were photographed together.