She sighs with relief. “The Gilbert wedding,” she tells me. “I don’t know how to handle this bride. She’s so demanding and needy.”
The bitterness burns hotter, becoming resentment. I’ve already taken care of more than half of the tasks associated with the event—cashed in favors I would have preferred to have saved in my arsenal for when I get a last-minute wedding or a bride who changes her mind or a dozen other possible scenarios. I drop my pen and lean back in my chair. “This job is hard and stressful and time-consuming, especially in the spring and summer. It rarely fits into a nice and tidy forty-hour week, and you end up taking your work home with you and forgetting what weekends are.”
Selena tilts her head, pursing her lips. “Are you saying I don’t work hard enough?”
Yes. “No. I just don’t have specific advice to give you about a bride who is expecting a lot. These people hire us and pay a lot of money to receive the day they’ve been dreaming of for years. Are their expectations ridiculous and unrealistic? Sometimes. But it’s not our job to say.”
“You’re saying this like you don’t think I already know that. Look, you might be the it wedding planner in Chicago and Catherine’s favorite, but I know what I’m doing. You don’t need to talk to me like I’m brand new. I wasn’t looking for a pep talk; I was looking for advice on a bride who calls me ten times a day.”
I stare at Selena, uncertain what to say. She came in here seeking my advice, and I didn’t call her a fraud or point out that I’ve done over half of the work. I simply told her it was time to hitch up her big girl panties—but in much kinder terms.
She leaves before I can say more. Likely, it’s better this way, but a sense of regret and anguish lingers even after I’ve left the office and headed in the direction of Grammy’s.
An hour later, I pull into Grammy’s, a bottle of Merlot tucked under my arm and a bag in my hand. I knock twice, then use my own key when she doesn’t answer. The scents of homemade barbecue sauce, tangy and sweet, and fresh lavender, clean and sharp, mingle together. It smells of Grammy, of entire weekends spent canning jams and jellies, of the week before Christmas when we baked every bookmarked recipe in our family cookbook, then shared them with the entire neighborhood. The weeks I was stuck in bed with tonsillitis and the weeks after while I was healing from the tonsillectomy and Grammy and my brother made honey-and-vanilla ice cream and strawberry popsicles. Jars of fireflies and chasing wild bunnies. It smells like my childhood. Yet as I stand in the entryway, I don’t feel the pull to step in farther. For ten years, this was where I lived, yet it’s never been my home. Maybe that’s because as hard as Grammy tried to make us feel welcomed and accepted, sleeping in the living room and constantly trying to keep our things in a minimal space prevented it from ever feeling permanent. I never faulted her; even then I wasn’t upset with her that I always felt like a guest—I just was.
I set my purse and small overnight bag on the chair in the living room and pass through the small kitchen, the scent of freshly cut lavender growing stronger. There’s a white vase that’s been around much longer than me sitting in the middle of the dining room table, packed with fresh sprigs of lavender. I set the bottle of wine next to it and continue to the back door, where the door is open but the storm door is shut, providing me with a view of the backyard. Grammy’s yard is three times the size of her small house, a retreat from the city and all the gray hues. Back here, everything is green and colorful and alive. A tall wooden fence surrounds the entire perimeter, adding to the exclusivity. Before I’d moved in with Grammy, I’d watched The Secret Garden, and this hideaway reminded me of every scene. When I’d told my dad about the comparison, he’d come over and hung swings from the giant paper birch tree that sits near the back. Grammy claims that tree is older than all of us combined, and I don’t doubt it. As kids, we’d crowded around the trunk, holding hands to see how wide it was, and never could reach.
“You got here earlier than I expected,” Grammy says, startling me from my thoughts. I glance to the left, where she’s kneeling on a padded gardening board, tending to her tomato plants.
“I told you I was going to be here early.”
“I know, but you’ve been so busy I didn’t expect you until dinner. I know what this season brings for you.”
The storm door closes with a snap behind me, and I head out past the covered patio and into the sunshine, over to where Grammy is. “If this heat continues, you’ll have tomatoes in just a couple of weeks.”
Grammy laughs. “I’m hoping you’re right. I’m tired of store-bought tomatoes. They don’t have any flavor.”
“Can I help?”
She shakes her head. “I’m just out here killin’ time.” She pulls another weed and drops it into her bucket, then stands. “You want to see where I’m going to plant the new grapevines?”
I nod. While the house never felt like home, for some reason I’ve always felt like I’ve belonged out here. I don’t have Grammy’s green thumb or patience, but I’ve always loved watching things grow and picking them once they were ready. Everything, that is, except for the patch of gooseberries at the very back of the yard. Those vines are “as evil as sin,” as Grammy says.
Grammy and I wander through the yard, her showing me new additions and changes, taking our time and sometimes just standing quietly for several moments before moving to the next thing.
“We should get inside. Your brother and Kim are going to be here soon.”
I raise my eyebrows and nod. “How are things going with them? I haven’t heard from him in a while.” My brother met Kim only weeks before my breakup with Gabe. I know very little about her and have only met her a couple of times, but she seemed nice even when I was at my most skeptical and negative point.
“Real good. They get along well, and he’s happier than I’ve ever seen him.” I appreciate her telling me this without following it up with a look of guilt or fear. Felicity still looks like she’s being tortured anytime we discuss another couple.
“She seems nice,” I add.
Grammy nods. “She is. I think these two might end up married.” For some reason, that additional tidbit feels like the release of a switchblade. The pain hits me in the chest, knocking the air out of me. I hide my surprise and the moisture that stings my eyes by pulling open the fridge and extracting a large plastic pitcher of iced tea.
“Would you like some?” I ask, holding the jug up.
Grammy nods. “You know, Graham across the street has a grandson close to your age. He already has a couple of kids, but Graham mentioned he’s getting a divorce. Maybe we could set something up?”
I nearly drop the glass I just filled as I turn to face her, shaking my head. “Grammy, I’m fine.”
“I realize you’re fine for now, but I know you. You need someone in your life. You need someone to spend time with and make sure you’re not working your life away. I know you said you’d rather not date anyone with kids, but at your age, that’s going to become tougher and tougher.”
I place a hand across my chest as though to protect the area that feels maimed. The comment about my brother getting married was just the initial wound; now she’s expanding it—twisting the blade.
“I’m enjoying this time right now. I’m really loving spending this time with Felicity and the kids and learning more about myself. In fact, I began a blog and have been sharing some experiences with others so that other single women will feel empowered and have a sense of comradery.”
“A blog?” Grammy asks. The question draws her eyebrows high, exposing the wrinkles age and the stresses of raising two grandchildren likely created.
“Yeah, like those sites you visit when you’re looking up things for your plants.”
Grammy’s brow furrows with disapproval and confusion, but before she can voice her opinions, there’s a knock at the front door. Without hesitating, I set my glass down and go open it, finding Brandon and Kim on the other side carrying a large bowl covered in saran wrap and a
pie. Overachievers.
“Hey, sis,” Brandon says, stepping inside and hugging me. “How are you doing?” He pulls away from me, looking me over before waiting for my response.
“I’m well. How are you?”
“You look well.” He sounds surprised to admit this, and I realize I should have made more of an effort to come and see them both after my breakup with Gabe.
“Hi…” Kim’s word hangs in the air, stretched like one does when they’re silently conveying pity or sorrow.
“Hi, Kim.” My tone is extra chipper in an attempt to make up for her lack of one. “It’s so great to see you.”
She smiles, glancing at Brandon before tipping her chin with another look of compassion.
“I brought some wine,” I say. “Why don’t I open it?” I head to the kitchen with the others following me.
“Brooke was just telling me about this new blog she started,” Grammy says while I dig through a drawer in search of a bottle opener.
“A new blog?” Brandon asks. “What are you blogging about? Weddings? Parties?”
“Being single,” I tell him.
They’re all silent for several beats. I find the bottle opener and raise it victoriously, turning to find them all staring at me with concern rounding their eyes.
“It’s called Tales of Being Single, and it’s a way for me to begin new experiences as a newly single woman, and I’m sharing them with others.”
Brandon gives a side-eye to Kim.
“Why are you doing that?” I ask.
“Doing what?”
“You’re looking at Kim like I’m two fries short of a Happy Meal.”
Brandon laughs. “Sometimes we all have ideas that are all foam and no beer.”
I shake my head. “This doesn’t need to be an award-winning idea. It’s for me and whoever wants to follow along. There’s no measure of success or failure, which actually makes it a really great thing. I can’t do badly at it, and if someone thinks I am, it doesn’t matter.”
“But you don’t want to share your life on the internet, sis. There are crazy people out there.”
“I use the internet. Grams uses the internet. You use the internet. Kim uses the internet. It’s not like I’m giving them my home address or telling them where I work. I’m just sharing about things that I’m experiencing as a single and independent woman.”
Brandon scrunches his nose, looking to Kim again before his glance finds me. “You aren’t going to shave your head or buy a bunch of cats or anything, right? I mean, you’re already weird enough by being a vegetarian.”
My jaw drops open, and my blood pulses, hot and angry in my limbs.
Brandon starts laughing before I can start yelling. “I’m just kidding. We love you and your lentil-eating self,” he says, coming forward to hug me again. “And we support you for this blog even if we think it’s crazy.”
“I’m not looking for your support,” I say indignantly. “I didn’t come asking for anyone’s opinion. I was simply sharing a new venture I’ve started.”
Brandon nods, looking to Grammy. I reach for a wineglass and fill it full before grabbing the chilled salad bowl I’d seen in the fridge.
“We know that,” Grammy says. “We just want you to know that we do support you.”
“We were so shocked to hear about Gabe,” Kim adds. “I guess we shouldn’t have been. After all, you guys were together for so long, and you never got engaged or even discussed marriage or kids…”
My phone beeps an alarm for an incoming text from the living room, and I suddenly become eternally grateful for my eccentric and demanding boss. “Sorry, but I need to check that. It’s likely Catherine.”
I excuse myself and grab my purse. My heart rate accelerates rather than calming as I see a message from Levi.
Levi: What do you call a bunch of naked studs?
Me: The art museum?
Levi: Good guess. But no. My bar.
I receive a picture of the empty space, completely stripped, revealing the joists and insulation.
Me: Wow! That was fast!
Levi: I don’t typically move this fast, but sometimes things just work out and it feels right.
I stare at his message for several seconds, debating if I’m imagining the innuendos or not.
Levi: However, if you haven’t been to the art museum, you really need to go.
Me: I’ve hosted some art exhibits there. I love the art museum.
Levi: Good. I’m glad to hear you’ve crossed the Indiana border a few times to see the better side. ;)
Me: What are you doing at the bar? Anything you need help with? I’m willing to enter a pit filled with vipers if it comes with the excuse to leave.
Levi: Meeting with my mom?
Me: Dinner with my family.
Levi: Bad?
Me: Usually very good, but tonight is bad. They might be wondering if I’m an alcoholic if things continue.
Levi: They want to set you up on blind dates, don’t they?
Me: That was mentioned. There’s also an abundance of sympathy and a surprisingly high dose of honesty being shared I’m not appreciating.
Levi: I do own bars. I can help you achieve this alcoholic façade.
Me: Bars? Plural?
Levi: You’re definitely sober if you caught the S.
Me: Tell me about it.
Levi: I can call and say I need your help. You don’t even have to come. Just use it as an excuse to duck out.
Me: I’d feel like a jerk. I’ve been a bad sister and granddaughter lately.
Levi: How is that?
Me: I’ve been absent a lot.
Levi: If that’s the measurement, I’ve been a bad son for most of my life.
Regret has me flinching.
Me: I don’t mean it is for you or anyone else. I just try to visit them once a week or so.
Levi: Well, if you decide you need an out tonight, let me know.
Me: What are you doing at the bar?
With it all torn up, there can’t be much to do.
Levi: I’m not at that location, but another one. Want the address?
Is he flirting with me?
Am I just reading into it because I want him to flirt with me?
“Brooke, honey, I picked up one of those frozen veggie burgers for you. Did you want some bacon for the top? I also have some mayo and some potato salad, too,” Grammy says from the kitchen.
“I don’t think she eats bacon,” Brandon reminds her, trying to sound clueless about my diet for her benefit. Twelve years, and she still occasionally offers meat.
I glance to the kitchen, where my brother shrugs. I laugh, shaking my head. “I’ll be good, Grammy. Thanks for picking up the veggie burgers. I appreciate it.”
“It was no problem, sweetheart,” Grammy tells me as she starts frying chicken.
Me: I have to get some rest. Tomorrow Felicity and I are going to try Buti yoga.
Levi: For the blog?
Me: Yup.
Levi: Hope you guys have a good time.
Panic contracts my heart. Is he saying good-bye? Should I have said something flirty?
“Brooke!” Brandon calls. “Tell her it’s Friday night and you’re done working.”
“I’m almost done.”
“Your version of ‘almost’ can take up to ten hours. I’ve seen it firsthand.”
Flustered, I type out a quick message to Levi.
Me: I’ll call you on Monday so we can set up some times and dates to get together. We have a lot to cover.
“Brooke!” Brandon calls again.
“I’m just—”
“Making excuses. I know.” My brother grips my phone and silences it before dropping it into my purse.
23
“You’ve only been gone for one day, and I already don’t like it. Are you sure you don’t want to come back tonight instead of tomorrow?” Felicity asks as I drive us to the yoga studio the next morning. When Dan announced he had a late meeting on Monda
y, we’d changed to the Saturday morning class. Though it’s creating a lot of extra driving, I don’t mind. It feels like we should be going to yoga since it’s my day off and I didn’t have to scrub makeup off my face or change out of work clothes.
“Are you allowed to do yoga? Did you look it up?” I ask as I turn closer to the studio.
“Theo was heartbroken that you couldn’t read books with him last night.”
“Buti yoga is more strenuous. You need to look it up before we get there.” I tap her leg to gain her attention.
“Seriously, Brooke, I don’t know why you feel like you’re intruding on us. You are my family.”
I sigh, realizing she’s not going to drop her side of the conversation until I acknowledge her. “I miss story time at least three nights a week with work, and I’m glad you don’t feel like I’m in the way, but eventually you will. I’m not saying I’m moving out tomorrow or next week. I just want to give you guys some time so you’re not always having to consider me and my feelings.”
“Even when you’re not staying under the same roof as me, I think about you and your feelings. You’re being ridiculous.”
“Says the pregnant lady who won’t admit she’s pregnant.”
The Fallback Page 15