Mom ignores her, then parks her hands on my shoulders and plants a kiss on the top of my head. Karissa snaps her gaze up from the front of my hair. “Careful, there. Don’t want to knock a hair out of place. Just let me finish.”
Mom pulls away, scoffing. “I didn’t mess it up. I just gave her a kiss.”
Karissa shoots Mom a sympathetic smile. “Of course you didn’t mess it up. But we want the bride’s hair to be fabulous.”
“Her hair looks perfect,” my mom says, bristling, as Karissa silently returns to her work.
The suite goes quiet. Too quiet.
My friends know not to argue with someone who’s always right.
But my mother can slice through any silence with her voice. “Anyway, let me know what else I can do as the mother of the bride,” she says to the room. Then to me in the mirror, she adds, “Since, apparently, I can’t give you away.”
Again? We’re doing this again? “Because no one is giving me away,” I say calmly. I’m opting out of some rituals. “Just like I don’t have a dowry. Just like we both have engagement rings.”
“And I disagree. Your father and I should give you away. Wouldn’t that be fair? Aren’t you a feminist?” Mom asks, like feminist is the equivalent of a nose-picker.
But I won’t take her bait.
“Sometimes I am. Mostly on Wednesdays. On Wednesdays, we smash the patriarchy,” I say with a shrug.
Olive snickers.
Jillian reins in a laugh.
Emerson just smiles.
“But it’s Saturday,” my mother points out, flummoxed.
I sigh. “I know. It’s a saying. My point is, this is what I want.” I won’t let her win this battle. This is her tenth time trying. “I’m paying for the wedding myself. No one is giving me away. I’m an independent woman. I’m good with this, Mom. The only thing I want that I didn’t get is axe-throwing at the reception.”
She scoffs at me. “Who would do axe-throwing at her wedding?”
“Who wouldn’t? It’s crazy fun.” I had suggested it to Silvio for the reception, but he politely declined. He also politely declined my suggestion that we have a small wedding by the Pacific Ocean, then do bowling and sushi with our closest friends. But hey, I can’t complain about the Legion of Honor and champagne. Or a honeymoon in Dublin, visiting the countryside to take pics, rather than Kauai doing an adventure tour.
“I doubt it’s that enjoyable,” Mom says about the axe-throwing.
“We’ll go do it together sometime, Mom,” I offer as an olive branch. I’m in the mood to spread love, not spew snide. “I swear, you’ll enjoy it more than giving me away.”
“Fine. Don’t let me give you away. I’ll survive,” Mom says as Karissa runs a brush down my bangs, giving them a wispy look. “But I ask you this, darling—are you one hundred percent sure you want to marry Silvio?”
I flinch and hold up a hand to ask Karissa to stop. Then I turn around in the chair, eyeing the redhead who raised me. “Why are you asking this now?”
Olive wheels around from setting the smelly sunflowers on a table. “Yes, Mom. Why?”
My mother squares her shoulders. “It’s important to be certain. Isn’t that what you two preach in your yoga practice?” She gestures from Olive to me and back.
I answer in a rush. “It’s not a religion. We don’t preach it. Also, our brand is yoga that doesn’t take itself too seriously.” There Mom goes again, winding me up, getting me off-topic. “But why are you asking if I’m certain about Silvio?”
Her question irks me. Earlier this year, I’d asked myself plenty of times if he was the one, but that’s normal—it’s smart to make sure you’re making the right choice. I asked myself over and over if yoga was the right business for me before I launched my company. Natch, I’d do the same for marriage.
My mom scans my crew. “Do your friends think it makes sense to marry him?”
Ugh. Now she’s trying to throw me off via my friends?
Jillian cuts in firmly, handling Mom like she handles an out-of-line question from an unruly press gaggle. “We think Silvio is great.”
“We were just talking about what a sweetie he is,” Emerson adds. “How well he treats Katie.”
Skyler strides back into the suite at the tail end of that, water bottle filled and eyes curious.
My mom’s lips curve down. “Does he, though? Does he treat you how you deserve to be treated, honey?” She squeezes my shoulder again.
What is going on? Why the frick is my mother trying to dissuade me from getting married an hour before the ceremony?
“I don’t understand why you’re asking,” I say. Maybe my wedding reminds her of her own marital belly flops, the quartet of I dos that didn’t work out.
With a worried sigh, my mother clasps her hands, her fingers fidgety. “I’m concerned. That’s normal. It seems like it’s all happening too quickly. It seems like you might not really know him that well. Or yourself.”
What the hell? Just because we had a whirlwind courtship doesn’t mean I don’t know him well. I met him at a restaurant when our reservations were mixed up, and we dated for two months before he proposed.
Do I know him well?
As well as I need to.
I don’t believe you need to spend years with someone before you walk down the aisle.
Sometimes love happens quickly, even if you don’t like the same music, food, or wine.
Who cares about that stuff?
“That’s not an issue, Mom. I know he gives excellent foot rubs, he loves to snuggle, and he’ll probably take at least ten minutes to tie his bow tie even though he’s been watching YouTube tutorials for a week. His favorite book is The Little Prince, he loses track of time when he works on his murals, but he showers me with kisses when he comes home from his studio. And I feel like I know myself even better too, now that I’m thirty-five. I trust my instincts. I would love it if you would trust me too.”
By the end, my throat has tightened like a noose squeezing my neck, and tears sting my eyes but don’t fall. I can’t believe she’s doing this to me on my wedding day. Maybe this is another reason why I never imagined a wedding as a kid—because she’d find a way to ruin it with an ill-timed warning.
But screw it.
I’m not going to let her.
I suck in the threat of tears, swallow them down, and raise my chin. “I love Silvio and he loves me, but I appreciate your concern.”
“If you say so,” Mom says, letting the words hang in the air like a cloying, passive-aggressive-scented air freshener.
My friends step in like superheroes. Olive grabs my mother’s hand and escorts her out of the suite, and Jillian swoops in with a tissue. “Don’t let her get to you on your wedding day, or any day ever. She wants to be the center of attention, so she’s looking to make it all about her.”
I take the tissue and dab my cheek, but I don’t think a tear sneaked out. Ha. Take that, Mom.
“Coffee, yoga, and wine, coffee, yoga, and wine,” I say, repeating one of my favorite mantras as Olive returns, shutting the door loudly behind her.
“And tonight, there will be wine,” Olive declares.
Cheers erupt, and we sing an impromptu homage to wine.
That gets my mother out of my system.
When we’re done, Emerson sweeps a tinge more mascara on my lashes, I slide on some lip gloss, and Karissa declares my hair is fabulous. Skyler offers me a sip from the water bottle, but I decline.
“You’re ready,” Olive says.
I am so damn ready.
I look in the mirror, draw a deep breath, and catalogue the woman I see. Bold, honest, strong, outgoing. The dress is my best me too. A chiffon A-line, it swishes around my ankles, with cap sleeves showing off my arms. It’s simple, white, classy.
We’ll exchange our vows at five against the backdrop of the ocean and the Golden Gate Bridge, then we’ll head into the art museum for a reception, surrounded by more than seventy Rodins in the galler
ies.
No axe-throwing, but hey, I like art too, so it’s all good.
A deep, fortifying breath lets me put my mother all the way behind me.
Time to go.
My friends and I make our way through the Legion of Honor toward the lawn. But nature calls, and the last thing I want is to think about peeing while I’m saying my vows.
“Let me just pop into the ladies’ room,” I say to the bridesmaids when I spot the restroom.
Emerson slashes an arm in front of me like a human stop sign. “That one is too close to where the men are getting ready.” She turns me by my shoulders and ushers me down the hall the other way.
“We definitely don’t want to bump into them. Whatever would we do?” I ask in exaggerated horror. “You superstitious creature.”
She shrugs impishly. “I am what I am.”
“I’m not worried if I see him before the wedding. I don’t believe in all that stuff,” I say, as we reach the other restroom.
I stop with my hand on the door because faint voices carry from the end of the hall.
A man and a woman.
Sounding . . . worried.
They’re familiar, but muffled, so I strain to make them out.
“I tried,” the woman whispers.
“Of course you did,” the man says, gentle, caring.
Ohhh.
That’s definitely a voice I know.
I swallow roughly, trying to understand what they’re talking about.
Emerson asks me questions with her eyes, and I bring my finger to my lips.
Gathering up the skirt of my dress, I pad as silently as possible to the corner, where I can hear more easily.
“So what now?” the woman whispers.
“There’s only one thing to do,” he says.
The rustle of clothes. The sound of lips touching lips.
My skin crawls.
The hair on the back of my neck stands on end.
All the breath flees my lungs when I peek around the corner for confirmation.
It’s twenty minutes before my wedding, and the man who’s supposed to become my husband is kissing another woman.
2
Harlan
“Elvis Presley is in the house!” I shout as I crank up the volume to “Hound Dog,” and Abby lifts her chin to howl at the moon.
I clap, keeping rhythm as my six-year-old uses a wooden spoon as a microphone, crooning along with Elvis’s tune.
She breaks off to grab a rubber spatula from the flour-and cherry-covered kitchen counter. “You need a mic too, Daddy,” she says, thrusting it at me.
I take the instrument and we slide into our best imitation of The King as we wait for the pie to bake.
We finish our daddy-daughter duet as the timer bleats, and Abby points wildly to the oven. “It’s ready! We can eat it now.”
I laugh, shaking my head. “You know the drill. You’ve only made, what, ten million pies with me? We have to let it cool.”
“Ten million and fifty!” She bats her lashes. “But I was just hoping maybe this time.”
I ruffle her curly brown hair, chuckling at her attempt to make me bend. “Hope is a good thing, little bear,” I tell her as I turn off the timer. “But pies don’t cool with hope. They cool with time. Also, you know this pie isn’t for us.” I grab a Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer potholder, open the oven door, and slide out the cherry pie. I set it on a rack on the counter, then use my hands to direct the scent of sweet and tart fresh fruit and crumbly crust our way.
“It smells so good,” Abby says, bouncing on her toes as she inhales.
“Course it does. We made it. We rock. And your mom is going to love it.”
Abby arches a mischievous brow. “What if I eat it all first?”
I bend to drop a kiss onto her nose. “Then you’re going to have the biggest bellyache in all of San Francisco,” I tell her, then rub her tummy.
“Fine. I’ll wait. But I hope she lets me have some tonight,” she says with a touch of worry. “I really, really hope so.”
Ah, the dilemmas of youth.
I worry whether this city’s NFL team will offer me a contract next season and if I’ll even want it, whether my kid is making friends at school, and whether she’ll want to find a new gymnastics class, since she decided to quit the one she was taking.
She worries about pie.
It’s a fair tradeoff.
An hour later, we’re ready to go. I grab a pie box from the stash I keep, pop in the tasty treat, and tell Abby to find her overnight bag.
It’s bowling night with the guys, so I’m dropping Abby at her mom’s house. I don’t always bring pies, but Danielle and her hubs dig them, so I try to do so as often as I can. Also, it does not suck making pies with my little girl. Win-win.
Abby snags her panda backpack from the hallway and slings it onto both shoulders. “And now I am officially ready.”
I swing open the door. “Panda is on the back so it’s go time.”
On the sidewalk, Abby reaches for my hand. I take her little one in mine and we head toward California Street.
She looks up at me, concern in her hazel eyes. “Are you sure you have to go to training camp next week?”
Okay, not all her worries are of the sugar variety. This kid misses me when I’m out of town, and I sure as hell miss her.
I throw her a them’s-the-breaks smile. “I do. The Renegades won’t let me play if I don’t show up. But I’ll talk to you every day.”
“I know. I just miss you when you’re gone,” she says, matter-of-factly as we near the corner.
“I miss you too, little bear. Every day. And that’s why I always call you from training camp, and away games, and every night when I’m on the road,” I say.
She sighs, a little forlorn. “And I always can’t wait for your calls.”
Time to cheer her up. Remind her that we have a regular routine. That I’m around a helluva lot. Half and half—that’s how the time split works with her mom. “Did you know I’ve been calling you from every single training camp since you were born? Even when you were only eight months old?”
Her expression turns intensely serious. “I remember that.”
I bark out a laugh as we turn the corner. “You do not remember that. No one remembers stuff from when they were one. Or two, or three, or four, or five, for that matter.”
“Well, I’m six,” she says, like I don’t know her age. Like I need the reminder of how seismically my life changed that November day more than six years ago. When she was born, this little bundle of joy and chatter and brightness upended my days and nights, and I learned in an instant what it means to love someone so much it hurts. It hurts so good to love like this.
“I am well aware that you’re six and sassy. But still, you don’t remember me FaceTiming you from the Paleolithic era.”
She crinkles her nose. “What’s pale licks?”
“A long time ago. When dinosaurs roamed Earth.”
“Daddy!” she shouts in a fit of laughter. “I’m not that old and you’re not either.”
“Oh, I’m pretty old. In football years, I’m definitely a dinosaur. But not a T-rex, because they can’t do anything with their teeny arms,” I say, flapping my left arm like it’s as useful as a big dino’s, while holding the pie high in my right hand like it’s a football.
Abby’s eyes widen to pizza size. “Be careful!”
I thrust the box even farther away with my outstretched arm. “Did you or did you not see my one-handed, game-winning catch in the Super Bowl this year? My second Super Bowl win, Miss I Remember Everything.”
But she’s lasered in on the pie, and only the pie. Back to sugar worry. “I just really don’t want you to drop the pie.”
“And I really didn’t want to drop Armstrong’s thirty-three-yard pass,” I say, taking her back to that beautiful day in February. “So I didn’t.” I put her out of her misery, hauling the pie box back to my chest. “Better?”
A
long sigh of relief is her answer. “I’ve been waiting all day for that cherry pie. But it feels like I’ve been waiting a year.”
“I know what you mean, but it’ll be okay. Promise,” I say. Because kid time is eternity.
We weave past a goateed guy pushing a sleeping toddler in a jogging stroller.
The guy stops. “Taylor? Harlan Taylor?”
“That’s me,” I say, hoping he’s a fan, not a hater. We have our share of both in this city. Any team does, and you never know who you’re going to run into.
But the dad breaks into a wide grin, pressing his hands together in a prayer. “Thank you for that catch. But please re-sign this year. If we lose you to another team, I will die.”
He’s exaggerating, of course. But he sure does sound like he’d be devastated if I went elsewhere in free agency. But it’s not up to me. I have no idea if the Renegades will re-up with an ex-running-back-turned-receiver who’s nearing the end of his playing days. I’m thirty-six, already on the long end of a long career.
“I’ll do my best to make sure you live,” I tell the fan as I offer my free palm to high-five. He smacks back, then continues on his way.
Abby and I do the same.
“It’s weird that you’re famous,” she says, reaching for my hand and swinging ours together again.
I scoff. “I’m not famous.”
“Please, Daddy. Don’t be silly. You’re sooooo famous. All the kids at school say so.”
“I’m only kind of famous. And only locally. And only with sports fans.”
“That’s still famous, then,” she insists, and I can tell I won’t win this battle with her, so I relent.
“Fine. You win.”
“But you don’t seem famous when we’re at home,” Abby points out.
“Good. That’s how it should be.”
Soon, we turn onto Danielle’s block and head up the front steps to her Victorian home.
Abby pushes the doorbell, but Danielle’s already swinging open the red door, letting her in.
“Hey, cutie-pie,” she says, scooping up our daughter and peppering her cheek with kisses. Then to me, she says, “Hey, you.”
“Hi, Danielle. I brought you your favorite pie.”
A Wild Card Kiss Page 5