For WMC Day. For those who still love it. But especially for B, who just can’t quit it

And obviously I don’t own any of it. Except for the parts that I do.

*****

Coming to groggily, I found my head on a surface that was only semi-soft.

“Damn, Claire,” I mumbled, rubbing my cheekbone as I sat up on the bench next to her. “Have you been running sprints or something. What’s with the protruding thigh muscle?”

“What’s with the need to start a war instead of getting out of the lion’s den?” Claire returned. “You should be glad I have these muscles. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have been able to drag you out of there.”

“Florrick,” I growled again. “What did she do to me?”

“Nothing,” Claire responded. “I did it.”

“You?” I questioned, turning to look into her sincere face. “You knocked me unconscious? Surely, you know that’s not good for my health.”

“Better for it than staying in there,” Claire returned. “I mean, who are these people? A succubus, a sociopath, more than one possible killer. Lindsay and Cindy are friends with a bunch of virtual nutjobs!”

“There are definitely some strange things happening in OCNA,” I acknowledged, trying to wrap my aching head around all that I’d heard.

“Do we tell them?” Claire asked.

“I don’t know,” I shook my head. “What do you think?”

Claire didn’t look anywhere close to an answer when the door opened, and we both looked back to see which of the OCNA crazies had followed us outside. Thankfully, it was a familiar face staring back at us.

“Hey,” Cindy interrupted. “Linds and I have been looking for you.” She leaned back inside to call to Lindsay, and, a moment later, they both stepped outside.

“So, quite a party,” Lindsay said, glancing to Cindy.

“Yeah,” Cindy grinned. “Interesting crowd.”

Holding my head, I tilted it up as much as I could. “I would like to say again how sorry we are about all of this.”

“Why?” Lindsay said with a sincere look on her face. “This is the best party ever.”

“Really?” Claire returned. “Even though no one you know is here?”

“Yeah,” Lindsay replied. “I mean, I was a little disappointed at first, but…”

“These people are awesome,” Cindy chimed in.

“Really?” I asked in confusion.

“Yeah, I mean, did you meet them?” Cindy countered.

“We met them,” Claire returned.

“So you know how cool they are then,” Cindy declared, as if it were an obvious thing.

“We know that…” I started to say, but didn’t know quite how to finish. All I knew was that we didn’t know anything, and yet we knew way too much. “Yeah,” I decided it was easier to just abandon the argument. “They all seem pretty cool.”

“We’re going to go back in,” Lindsay said, putting her hand on Cindy’s waist and directing her to the door. “Are you coming?”

“Jill got an accidental knock to the head,” Claire lied, and I slid a glance her way.

“Are you okay?” Cindy asked.

“She’s fine. We should probably just sit this one out,” Claire answered for me, waving them off. “You have fun.”

Lindsay opened the door for Cindy, and glanced back. “Thank you guys. These are our people,” she grinned, before disappearing inside.

“Their people are nuts,” Claire proclaimed as soon as the door clicked shut.

“Well, at least they have people,” I shrugged. “Better than no one.”

“And they have us,” Claire replied. “And we have them. No matter how many more people they have.”

“I never doubt that,” I replied.

Claire lifted two champagne glasses from the bench on the other side of her. “Here,” she said, pushing one into my hand. “I ran back in for these once I got you outside.”

“So, you put my head down on the bench?”

“There’s champagne, Jill,” Claire breezily replied. “Don’t over-think things. To Lindsay and Cindy,” she lifted her glass.

“To Lindsay and Cindy,” I lifted mine. “And to OCNA.”

“To OCNA,” Claire agreed.

Clinking our glasses together, we toasted all of the lovely – albeit insane – couples inside. But our friends the most.

 

 

 

 

For WMC Day. For those who still love it. But especially for B, who just can’t quit it

And obviously I don’t own any of it. Except for the parts that I do.

*****

We knew better than to stop again, but it was easier said than done. In the center of the room, as we snuck behind the redhead in the wheelchair, she did a sudden spin that took her wheel directly over Claire’s foot.

“Ahhhh,” Claire cried out, reaching down toward the appendage.

“I am so sorry.” The redhead stopped turning instantly, reaching for Claire. “I never do anything like this. I just wanted to prove to them that I could maneuver as well in this chair as anyone on foot.”

She motioned to the fake-Italian and real-Brit, who waved conspiratorially.

“Well, you certainly do know how to take someone out in it,” I joked, and Claire shot me an evil eye as if I’d stomped her myself.

“What can I say?” the redhead returned. “Taking people out is kind of my specialty.”

“Barbara,” the younger feline-woman appeared out of nowhere. “You told them?”

“Yeah,” I joked. “She’s obviously a superhero.”

“Barbara!” the feline-woman exclaimed. “Seriously? All that talk about secret identities…”

“Helena,” Barbara stated firmly.

“And secret lairs…”

“Helena…”

“And masks…”

The redhead’s eyes widened with every word, but she didn’t bother trying to cut Helena off again.

“And you’re just going to tell everyone at a party that you’re a superhero?” Helena finally finished herself.

I felt my mouth fall open, and glanced at the real-Brit and fake-Italian, both of whom looked as if they were fish out of water as well.

“Spent too much time in the kitchen again, didn’t you?” Barbara asked.

“What?” Helena returned.

“You know,” Barbara verbally nudged. “Making muffin tops.”

“Oh,” Helena glanced around. “Oh! Right! Muffin tops. Wooh, way too much time in front of a hot oven. I don’t know what I’m thinking.”

“You don’t look like a baker,” the real-Brit declared.

“Thanks,” Helena flashed a dazzling smile, before glancing at the stern redhead and turning shamefaced. “I mean, you don’t have to look the part to make a kickass bakery item. Right, Barbara?”

“Right, Helena,” Barbara almost smiled, and the feline-woman finally succeeded in winding her way onto Barbara’s lap.

“We’ll just leave you all to it,” Claire said hastily and we were off again.

Turning toward the door, Claire and I bore down on it, like bulls running at red. Until someone stepped into the path.

“Alicia Florrick,” I growled.

“Were we finished?” she countered.

“Just say yes, Jill,” Claire instructed.

“No, we weren’t,” I replied.

I opened my mouth to launch into my opening argument when I felt an acute knock from behind.

Then, there was nothing.

 

For WMC Day. For those who still love it. But especially for B, who just can’t quit it

And obviously I don’t own any of it. Except for the parts that I do.

*****

“Okay,” I said, pulling Claire through the throng of women and trying hard not to make eye contact with any of them. “Just keep walking until we hit the door.”

“Do Lindsay and Cindy know that these people are all insane?” Claire returned sharply. “Or do they pretend to fake sanity really well like everyone else on the Internet?”

“Good damn question,” I responded low. “We’ll discuss once we’re outside.”

Claire nodded in agreement, and we continued to push through the bodies.

“Um, excuse me,” a powerful voice rang over the din of voices.

Trying hard not to look, I did so anyway. Straight into the dark eyes of a tortured soul.

“Could you clear this table?”

“Regina, they are not servants,” the wavy-haired blonde with her admonished.

“They’re not?” Regina returned. “How can you tell?”

“Because most people aren’t servants,” the blonde declared.

Regina shrugged indifferently. “Everyone looks like a servant to me.”

“I’m sorry,” the blonde started, but she was distracted by two women to her left.

Heads together – one blonde, one nearly black – the two women whispered back and forth, casting sidelong glances at the woman who had first called us to a stop.

The curly-haired blonde turned to face them, crossing her arms over her chest in a defensive pose. “Okay, what is it with you two?” she demanded. “You have been talking about us since the second we walked in here.”

Knowing they were caught, the two whispering women sat up straight and looked at the blonde full-on, with the occasional glance to the dark-eyed woman behind her, who stared right back at them as if she could crush their hearts with her bare hand.

“So, you must be the weaker one,” the black-haired woman stated. “What’s your backstory? Abusive parents? No parents? What, did your parents drop you on the side of a highway?”

“Whoa,” the wavy-haired blonde put her hand up to stop the words. “What are you doing?”

“Profiling you,” the other blonde chimed in. “Well, more her really,” she jutted her chin toward the dark-eyed Regina, who remained unperturbed.

“What about me, Dear?” Regina asked the blonde profiler.

“What happened to you?” the blonde returned with interest. “Because, let me tell you, the way that you look at people, the way that you talk to people, you read sociopath.”

“Watch it,” the wavy-haired blonde jumped to Regina’s defense.

“Oh please, Emma,” Regina murmured. “You called me that yourself. I want to hear more. Please, go on.”

The shiver that went down my spine seemed to pass through Claire as well, and she reached out for my arm. Even the two women who’d called her out looked at each other uneasily.

“Have you ever killed anyone?” the black-haired woman asked.

“Maybe,” Regina returned. “Have you?”

“Only when we’ve had to,” the blonde profiler responded, reaching for the black-haired woman’s hand for comfort.

“The same could be said for me,” Regina returned easily.

“Who’d you kill?” the curly blonde glanced back at Regina.

“Emma, we’ve got plenty of time to get to know each other,” Regina grinned in a way that didn’t bring even Emma much comfort, before looking back at the profilers. “Anything else?”

“All I know,” the black-haired woman said, standing strong as she stared the woman down, “is that we have met some of the sickest people on this planet, and you, you are something special.”

“Why thank you,” Regina returned. “But you really don’t know the half of it.”

“I really don’t know the half of it,” Emma plopped into the seat beside Regina.

“I really don’t need to hear anymore,” Claire declared and pulled me, once again, toward the door.

 

 

 

For WMC Day. For those who still love it. But especially for B, who just can’t quit it

And obviously I don’t own any of it. Except for the parts that I do.

*****

“Oh, hi again,” Claire said as she came to a halt a few feet later and released me.

I turned to find the blonde named Lu standing before us. Though, there was something different about her. I just couldn’t put my finger on it.

“Have we met?” Lu asked, and Claire laughed.

Partway through her chuckle, both Claire and I became aware that the blonde was serious. Even though we had met her only moments before at the door.

“We were at the front when you came in,” I reminded her.

“No, you weren’t,” the blonde returned. “I was already here when you two came in.”

Squinting hard, I tried to determine if she was for real. Obviously, she was wrong, but she seemed dead-set on her story.

Before I could launch into another, well-deserved debate, the blonde’s easygoing date, Jordan, came breezing up to us. “Hey, Baby,” she threw at the blonde, whose eyes narrowed in response. Then, Jordan turned to us. “Hey again,” she said, sipping at her drink.

“So, you remember us?” Claire questioned.

“We did just meet,” she replied, glancing at the blonde. “What’s with these two?”

The blonde’s mouth fell open slightly, but, for a moment, no sound came forth. “I don’t know these two,” she responded finally. “And I don’t know you.”

“Oh, come on,” Jordan groaned. “I know we’re two very different people. I know I annoy the hell out of you sometimes. But you still love me. Admit it.”

“I don’t love you,” the blonde replied. “I don’t even know you.”

“Baby, come on.” Jordan grabbed the back of the blonde’s neck and pulled her into a lip-lock that lasted approximately three seconds before a sharp voice intruded on the intimate moment.

“Brooke? What the hell?”

Whirling toward the angry tone, I peripherally saw Claire’s head spin too, and we stared upon a woman with shoulder-length dark hair and an incredible amount of attitude.

“It wasn’t me, Sam,” the blonde replied quickly. “I was just standing here.”

Sam stepped toe-to-toe with Jordan, and putting her hand gently on my arm, Claire pulled me a step back from the possible throw-down.

“Why are you kissing my girlfriend?”

“Your girlfriend?” Jordan replied. “Your girlfriend? Um no, this one’s mine.”

“Oh, I will cut a bitch,” Sam responded and the blonde, who apparently wasn’t the one named Lu, but one named Brooke, stepped forward and put her hands on Sam’s shoulders.

“Come on, Sammy. Relax, I think she honestly thinks I’m someone else.”

“I don’t care if she thinks you’re a Playboy playmate,” Sam pushed toward Jordan, who looked less than worried as she took another drink. “She just had her lips on my girl.”

“I love it when you call me your girl,” Brooke returned.

Snapping right to attention, Jordan took a step forward. “What in the hell is going on? Did she hit you over the head or something?”

“Jordan?” a voice snapped from behind them.

All heads whirling the opposite way, we saw the blonde. Again. Or the other blonde. Shaking my head a little, I tried to reconcile the blonde and the blonde, who clearly didn’t know each other, but looked freakishly alike.

“What’s going on?” Lu’s eyes were glued to Jordan.

“Lu?” Jordan breathed.

“Yeah,” Lu replied, her eyes drifting to and locking on her twin. “Wow,” she breathed.

“Wow,” her twin replied.

“Wow” the feisty Sam added, looking between the blondes.

“Wow,” Jordan said, backing away from Sam and Brooke slowly. “Sorry about that. You see how it could have happened. Have a good time. I love your gloss, by the way. It tastes really good.”

Jordan backed into Lu, and rotated with an anxious smile.

“Hey,” she said slowly. “I’m so glad you’re back. “

“What are you sorry about?” Lu crossed her arms. “What did you do? Why do you know what her lipgloss tastes like?”

“Oh, Lu,” Jordan sighed. “Look at her. Obviously, I thought she was you.”

“She looks a little like me,” Lu conceded.

“A little?” Jordan argued. “You two were clearly switched at birth.”

“Our dresses aren’t even the same,” Lu returned.

“They’re close enough,” Jordan shrugged.

Looking between the two women, I could see the small differences between their just-above-the-knee black dresses, but it was with my fashionista’s eye. Not any non-fashion-savvy person could be expected to notice the differences. At least when the dresses weren’t side by side.

“You are so full of it,” Lu ground out. “You are totally commitment-phobic.”

“I am not!”

“Yes you are!”

“Hold up,” I said over them. Though it was the last thing I wanted to do, I thought someone needed to inject some reason into the situation.

“Jill, stay out of it,” Claire sing-songed beside me.

“I wish I could,” I returned, before facing the arguing couple, turning specifically to Lu. “I’m not getting behind anything that just happened here, but you do look exactly like this girl, and most people wouldn’t be able to tell the difference between your dresses.”

“Okay, sorry,” the other blonde cut in from behind me. “But this is Chanel, and that is clearly off a rack.”

“Okay, Princess,” Sam grumbled, as if annoyed that her girlfriend was throwing around label names. “They get it. You like designer clothes. That’s doesn’t mean hers is off the rack.”

“Actually,” Lu glanced down at herself. “It is off a rack.”

“See,” Brooke smiled, and Sam rolled her eyes harder than a teenager.

I’d said my piece and didn’t know what else to say. Beside me, Claire looked as if she wished I’d never opened my mouth in the first place.

Rounding on Lu with a conciliatory expression, Jordan spoke softly. “I downed this drink really fast, and we know that sometimes drinks don’t do well with me. Remember when we both thought I killed Pollack?”

“Yeah,” Lu returned grudgingly.

“Remember how we found out it was a mistake?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, so was this,” Jordan slid her arms around Lu’s waist with a smile.

“Okay,” Lu grumbled.

“Maybe we should just…” I tugged Claire’s arm, and she followed me away.

“Nice work… Sir,” Sam called at our backs.

Claire’s eyes turned to me. “What in the hell was that about?” she asked.

“I’m more concerned with the murder suspect,” I stated, leading Claire to the door through which I’d seen the two women disappear when we first came in. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

Claire nodded in agreement, and we pulled the door open together.

But it wasn’t a door out. It was a door in. To a utility closet. Where the auburn-haired woman, who’d lost her glasses along the way, and the petite blonde, previously in pink, were in the process of retrieving clothing from every available surface and pulling it hastily on.

“Oh my God!” Claire yelled. “We’re sorry.”

“Oh, hey, ya’ll,” the petite blonde returned. “Thanks for the invite, but we gotta run. Big case back in LA.”

“Well, don’t let us bother you.” I tried to close the door.

“Don’t be silly,” the blonde returned. “It’s no bother at all. This is Sharon. She doesn’t really speak unless spoken to.”

“It’s nice to meet you,” Claire said, staring at a spot on the back wall of the closet.

“It’s very nice to meet you,” Sharon returned with quiet strength. “Now, would you leave us alone so that we can get dressed?”

“Absolutely,” I said and pulled the door closed.

“Sharon, that wasn’t at all hospitable,” the blonde chastised.

“In case you haven’t noticed, Chief, I’m a little naked here” was the last thing we heard as the door closed.

For WMC Day. For those who still love it. But especially for B, who just can’t quit it

And obviously I don’t own any of it. Except for the parts that I do.

*****

Resigned to making the best of the wedding/OCNA party, Lindsay and Cindy started making the rounds, meeting the other members of their support group. Penis-happy as I was made, even I had to admit what an incredibly tempting group they were.

How hot these women were together! Why would anyone choose not to acknowledge them?

Claire and I made the rounds as well, and that’s when things started to go awry. More so than they had already.

Not long after Lindsay and Cindy split from us, a new couple came in.

“Sorry, we’re late,” the tall blonde said. “Jordan has no sense of timeliness.”

“Actually, I can be perfectly timely,” the tall blonde’s darker-haired partner responded, tipping onto her toes and thrusting her hands into the back pockets of her jeans in a casual manner that seemed to drive the blonde crazy. “Lu here is the one who wanted an orgasm before we left.”

“Oh my God,” the blonde returned. “Do you have no filter at all?”

“Yeah,” the darker-haired woman returned. “I like to keep it in the off position.”

The blonde rolled her eyes and the darker-haired woman seemed particularly proud of herself.

“You’re not late,” Claire assured them. “The party’s just getting started.”

“Oh, cool,” the relaxed dark-haired one said, sliding her arm around the blonde’s waist. “So, which two are you?”

“Which what are we?” I asked in confusion.

“What are your screen names in group?” the blonde asked.

“What?” Claire’s eyes went wide. “No, we’re not… I’m married. Jill’s…” Claire cast her eyes to me, “well taken care of. We’re not um…”

“We’re not an obvious couple nobody acknowledges,” I finished for her, and Claire nodded her agreement.

“Right, of course,” the darker-haired one said, and slid her arm from the blonde’s waist to pull her away by the hand. “Let’s get a drink.”

“You would at least think they would acknowledge it,” the blonde whispered as she was led away.

“Hey,” a voice called before I could explain to the woman that Claire and I were not a couple, obvious, unacknowledged, or otherwise. “Come here a sec.”

Turning to find the woman in the leather jacket, the possessor of the strange seductive aura, standing alongside a striking blonde and beckoning us forward, I moved toward her on automatic, Claire right at my side.

“Yes?”

“I’m Bo,” the woman put her hand out.

I took it and felt a jolt of electricity from fingertips to naughty bits. Suddenly, I wanted to fall into the woman’s arms, build her a house, and dump Denise. Hold up a second, my mind supplied fuzzily, did that mean Denise and I are an OCNA?

“This is Lauren,” the woman said, sliding her hand from mine. “Could you go get us some drinks.”

“Sure,” Claire was the first to respond and started a direct line for the food table.

“No,” the blonde named Lauren reached out to stop Claire’s mission, and turned her eyes to the brunette in leather. “Bo, that is so wrong. You can’t misuse your power like that. We can get our own drinks.”

“But I’m happy to do it,” Claire responded, and I felt a surge of anger break through the haze on Claire’s behalf.

“What power?” I demanded, grabbing Claire to keep her from running off.

“It’s nothing,” Lauren tried to minimize the bizarreness of the situation.

“You weren’t saying that last night,” the dark-haired seductress replied.

“You should go.” The blonde’s words were almost a warning. “She’s hard to resist.”

“What are you saying, Lauren?” Bo turned to the blonde, and Claire was suddenly released from the hold the strange woman had on her, “That you would resist if you could?”

“No,” Lauren replied. “I knew what I was getting into. Dyson is what you really want. I’m more of a consolation prize. But, you’re a succubus and I can’t help wanting you, so I have to take what I can get.”

Turning to Claire, I found her wide eyes already staring at me. ‘Succubus,’ we mouthed in unison.

“It is not like that,” Bo stated emphatically.

“Really?” Lauren tossed back. “Because it often feels that way.”

“Well, is there someone you’d rather be with?”

“I don’t know,” Lauren shrugged, but her face remained pained. “Sometimes I think Kenzi and I would make a cute couple.”

Bo, the succubus, gasped, and I reached out for Claire’s hand, wondering if we might all be sucked into some supernatural portal. She lunged at Lauren, her hands thrusting into the other woman’s hair and pulling her head back just enough to make sure she had her full attention.

“Dyson could never replace you,” Bo said softly, her lips hovering over Lauren’s. “I wouldn’t want him to.”

“Dammit, Bo,” Lauren murmured and, suddenly, they were kissing. Really kissing. Like all out, explicit, never-to-be-seen-on-network-TV tongue dueling.

“We’re just gonna…” I heard Claire start to say, and then, against my will, I was dragged off.

 

For WMC Day. For those who still love it. But especially for B, who just can’t quit it

And obviously I don’t own any of it. Except for the parts that I do.

*****

“How did this happen?” Lindsay continued her interrogation, after we’d explained that we didn’t know any of the people in the room, but that they all received invitations and were all ready to celebrate their marriage.

“I don’t know…” I tried to explain. “It makes no sense. We had almost all of the email addresses we needed, but we had to get a few. So, when you were out interviewing witnesses, we got on her computer.”

“You got on my work computer while I was out?” Lindsay cut in. “Did Tom allow you to do that?”

“Lindsay, please,” Claire stopped her. “We’re trying to work this through.”

“So,” I continued. “While we were there, we forwarded your email lists to my computer. Then, we went upstairs to send out the invitations…”

“But Denise interrupted us,” Claire reminded me. “So, we had to send it fast. Now that I think about it, didn’t we send two different lists from Lindsay’s computer?”

“Yeah,” I nodded. “Standard contacts and some weird acronym.”

“What was it?” Claire wondered aloud. “CNOA?” She shook her head. “ONAC?”

“OCNA?” Cindy asked, her face suddenly as disbelieving as Lindsay’s.

“That’s it!” Claire said, her face falling as she turned to me. “Oh, you don’t think we accidentally sent the invitations to the wrong list.”

“You sent invitations to our online support group?” Lindsay asked sharply.

“Wait, you’re part of an online support group?” I asked.

“Yes, okay? And it’s none of your business,” Lindsay seethed.

“Come on, Linds,” Cindy said, cooing in a way that made Lindsay soften instantly. “Everybody’s already here. We may as well tell them the truth.”

Looking very much like she didn’t want to, Lindsay finally sighed. “We’re part of a support group, okay? We share virtual space with women like us.”

“Lesbians?”

“You really don’t think we could find other lesbians in San Francisco?” Lindsay returned sharply.

Putting her hand on Lindsay’s arm to calm her hot-headed soon-to-be-wife, Cindy smiled softly. “Not just lesbians. Other women in the same very special circumstances we’re in. You know, OCNA…”

When neither Claire nor I picked up on the inference, Cindy sighed almost as deeply as Lindsay had.

“Obvious couples nobody acknowledges,” Cindy explained.

“Oh, right…” Claire nodded.

“Sorry,” I cut in. “We are so sorry. It was an accident.”

“Well, maybe it’ll be good to meet some of these women. Find out how they deal with the situation,” Lindsay finally warmed up.

“So far,” Claire started slowly. “Two of them made out in the middle of the room, two disappeared behind a closed door, the cat-like woman keeps trying to mount the woman in the wheelchair…”

“And one tried to pick a fight with me,” I felt it imperative to add.

“I don’t think she was trying to pick a fight, Jill,” Claire soothed. “I mean, she was telling the truth. She probably did get an invitation.”

“Still…” I pouted. “She’s so defense-lawyery.”

“So, what do we do now?” Cindy asked, grinning over at Lindsay in a way that put Lindsay right back into happy-mode.

“We celebrate,” Lindsay responded and kissed her.

It was a sweet moment. Everything seemed to be working itself out.

But we would soon discover there is a lot of drama in OCNA.

 

 

For WMC Day. For those who still love it. But especially for B, who just can’t quit it

And obviously I don’t own any of it. Except for the parts that I do.

*****

Claire and I made it to The Box about thirty minutes before Lindsay and Cindy were supposed to arrive. And, no, the appropriateness of the venue name was not lost on us. We just didn’t realize how appropriate it truly was until we walked in and saw the slew of women loving women – dressed to dazzle – leaning against walls, tables and each other.

Looking to Claire, I could feel the panic setting in.

“Did they double-book?” Claire asked me in a strained voice.

Shrugging helplessly, I looked around at the guests. They were smiling, visually-pleasing, and just as clueless as we were.

One domineering-looking woman with long auburn hair and black-rimmed glasses grabbed the petite blonde next to her and laid a kiss on her that would stop criminals. Holding tight to the pink lapel of the blonde’s jacket, she pulled the blonde off and they disappeared behind a door.

Clearly, they weren’t an inappropriate crowd. Just not the crowd we’d invited.

“Hello, uh… people,” Claire finally spoke. “I’m Claire. I’m not sure what’s going on. We booked this venue for our friends’ wedding party, and we’re not sure what happened.”

“You’re Claire?” a dark-haired woman with a smaller, leather jacket-clad companion stepped forward. “Of Jill and Claire, the party hosts?”

“Yes,” Claire responded in confusion.

“Then you invited us.”

“We didn’t invite you,” I returned, feeling suddenly as if I were standing in a courtroom.

“Yes, you did,” the woman returned. “Come celebrate the wedding of Lindsay and Cindy. We got an invitation.”

“So did we,” a classy redhead  backed the brunette up from her state-of-the-art wheelchair, though she struggled to be heard past the lithe brunette attempting to climb feline-style into her lap.

“We did too,” a woman with a British lilt chimed in.

“Indeed,” the buxom woman beside her added with a sexy Italian accent. “And we traveled a long way to help you celebrate this great love.”

“You don’t have to fake the accent, Sophia. I know you’re not Italian,” the British woman seemed to be reminding her.

“But they didn’t!” the Italian accent gave way to punchy English.

It might have turned into a fight, if the woman who’d spoken first didn’t reach across the space between them and caress the other woman’s cheek. “Please, just be yourself,” she said softly. “I love who you are.”

The fake-Italian lunged at the other woman and planted their lips together, and Claire and I lost the attention of the majority of the room. The brunette with the attitude, though, stood steady, staring me down with a steely glare.

“What’s your name?” I challenged her.

“Alicia Florrick.”

“We don’t even know you,” I argued.

“See,” the smaller brunette purred, rubbing against the combative woman’s side unashamedly. “This is why I told you we needed to get out of town. No one even knows you here. No one cares who your husband is.”

“It is a nice change.” Alicia smiled, but it was directed solely toward the other brunette, and I knew that I’d lost her too.

The only members of the crowd not watching the fake-Italian and real-Brit make out in the middle of the room broke off into their own conversations and groups, as if none of what was said had any impact on their abilities to have a good time.

Claire didn’t seem that upset about it. She actually seemed almost amused. I, however, felt as if I’d just been beaten at trial, and it annoyed me to no end.

“What kind of people show up at a party for people they don’t even know?”

“Free booze? Lady-love? What’s not to like?” a cocky, and second leather-jacket clad, woman responded.

Something about her was inherently mesmerizing to a point that I was almost willing to let her get away with anything. But then the blonde beside her drew her attention, and I was released from the spell.

“This is bad,” Claire stated beside me, and I started to nod in agreement.

Before I could get in the first full bow of my head, though, I heard footsteps and turned in sync with Claire to find our gorgeously-dressed, height-disproportionate friends behind us. Both were smiling, even as they looked up and surveyed their unknown guests.

“Hey,” Cindy said first. “I thought we were just going out for a nice dinner.”

“Yeah, that wasn’t really true,” I returned. “It was more of a surprise party. For all of us, apparently.”

Turning back toward our guests, I gestured to the happy couple. “Hey everyone, this is Lindsay and Cindy.”

The announcement broke through the murmur of the room, and the strangers put on bright smiles. “Surprise!” many of them shouted, now that they knew that this was, in fact, the party couple.

Turning back around, I was met with the slowly fading smiles of two sets of lips, the furrowing of Cindy’s forehead and Lindsay’s one raised eyebrow.

“Who are these people?” Lindsay asked in her low ‘I mean business’ voice.

Aside from Alicia Florrick, whom I yearned to knock down a peg or two, I couldn’t answer her. But, thankfully, Claire spoke up first.

“Surprise,” she exclaimed.