by Kelly Rimmer
“I actually like my medical license, so no, probably not a great idea to anesthetize my own brother on his wedding day.”
Marcus is at the bar ordering, and Paul and I have taken seats looking out over the water, enjoying the view. It’s a beautiful afternoon. The sun is hitting the water just right, so the light is fresh and golden, but not blinding. I breathe it all in, then glance at Paul, who is now sitting with his hands over his stomach as if he’s seasick.
“You’re positively green,” I say. He gives me a pained looked.
“I just have this feeling she’s not coming.”
“She’s going to show up,” I laugh softly. “Do you really think she’d let things go this far if she was going to back out at the last minute? You did this last time too, I recall.”
“Yeah, I did,” he sighs heavily. “Distract me. Tell me what happened with Jess last night.”
I wince and scan the crowd for Marcus, hoping he’s about to return with beers so I can avoid the question. I find him at the bar, waiting behind a crowd of what looks suspiciously like a bachelorette party. He’s going to be a while, dammit.
Sometimes, I still can’t believe I ever let Jess convince me to lie to Paul. And then I can’t believe I didn’t come right out and tell him the truth about our breakup when it happened. The only reason I didn’t was that I felt like I should give Jess a heads-up, and I was too hurt, and then later, too angry to get in touch with her.
Now, I’m kind of torn. I probably could just tell him what really happened—except that it’s his wedding day, and I don’t want to complicate anything for him right now.
And so, yet again, I find myself lying to Paul.
“I was overtired. She was obviously having a moment too. We talked and cleared the air. Everything is fine now.”
“Hmm,” Paul says thoughtfully. He gets this intense expression on his face when he’s thinking about something really hard. After growing up with this guy, I know it well. And I’m not particularly thrilled to see it.
“What does hmm mean?”
“Hmm means I can’t believe she reacted like that. It’s almost like she overreacted. Which I don’t need to tell you, is not like Jess at all.”
“Everyone has bad days, right?”
“I suppose they do. Yes, that would explain it. Jess has been working very hard this week, preparing for me to go away, starting to get ready for when Marcus’s twins come. So that explains Jess’s odd behavior but . . . What about yours?”
“Me?” I blink at him.
“You seemed determined to embarrass her last night, unless I’m reading the situation incorrectly,” Paul says carefully. He glances at me, hesitating just a little. “Am I reading the situation incorrectly?”
I sigh.
“We have a complicated dynamic. She pisses me off like no one else. She always has.”
“Have you ever asked yourself why?”
Only every day for the last fourteen or fifteen years. “It’s . . . complicated.”
“So you keep telling me,” Paul chuckles. “Care to elaborate?”
“Remember when I lived here and we used to hang out all of the time? The six of us?”
“Of course.”
“Remember how Jess and I could never agree on anything? I mean, if I wanted pizza for dinner, she’d go out of her way to insist on Thai food. And if I wanted to see a film, she’d insist on going to a club instead.”
“Yep.”
“And remember that time when we got into an argument about coffee? She was actually trying to convince me she didn’t like coffee. As if I hadn’t met her.”
“Oh, I remember.”
“So last night was just the continuation of a messed-up friendship that’s been hovering around confrontation for what . . .? Fifteen years now?” I say, trying to reassure him.
“Fourteen years, eleven months, six days, and I’m going to go right ahead and guess about twenty-two hours,” Paul says. He’s not joking, by the way. To say Paul has a mind for dates would be an extreme understatement.
“See? We have a very long history of driving each other bonkers,” I mutter.
“Jake, we both know I’m not great at interpersonal relationships,” Paul sighs. “But even I can see through your bullshit. You were both on edge all night and you know it was bad for me to notice it. I have to assume there’s more to your recent history with Jess than I know about. Am I right?”
I blink at him. I was worried about what the others thought last night, but it didn’t even occur to me that Paul might guess the truth about my relationship with Jess.
“Uh . . .”
“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.” My once-clueless brother shrugs, but then pins me with a look. “But can I give you some advice?”
“Um. Okay?”
“Sometimes what feels like hate is actually disappointment.”
“Beer,” Marcus announces, sliding three mugs onto the table in front of us. Paul gives me a sage nod, and I open my mouth, then close it again and reach greedily for the beer.
“Beer,” I repeat weakly.
I don’t know when my little brother became so wise, but it seems that these days, he’s extending his IT-andnot-much-else genius status into whole new areas.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Jess
GOD, I HATE WEDDINGS. I hate them with the same intensity I usually reserve for people who walk too slowly on the sidewalk and those who chew food with their mouths open. I’ve been known to accept an invitation to a wedding but to skip the ceremony, turning up at the reception for food and booze and to party—because those things, I know how to handle. Unfortunately, that’s not an option when it comes to a wedding like this, given I’m in the bridal party. So, when the music begins, I hug Isabel, then pause to adjust the hair around her shoulders.
“You ready?” I ask her gently.
“I’m so excited,” Isabel whispers through a grin. “I can’t wait another second to marry him again.”
“Then let’s do this,” Abby laughs softly, and she steps out from behind the curtain to walk down the aisle. When I see that she’s more than halfway down, I step out to follow her.
There are ninety-six people here, including a bunch of my employees. Paul’s new development manager, Audrey, stands out among the crowd with her pastel-purple hair and a pink-and-white-polka-dot vintage dress. Frankly, I’m more than a little relieved she didn’t wear a cartoon T-shirt, given that’s exactly what she wears to the office every day. She’s on the aisle side of the back row beside a whole group of programmers, two of whom are typing on their phones. I pause at their aisle and death-glare them like a teacher on playground duty, and they slide their phones into their pockets.
Programmers, am I right?
Mitch is a few rows in front, and he gives me a very unconvincing leer as he scans his gaze over my dress. I roll my eyes at him, and he laughs.
But then I can’t avoid looking toward the front of the room. Paul and Marcus wait beneath an archway adorned with white roses. I know that Jake is standing between them, but I can’t bring myself to look at him, so instead, I offer Paul what I hope is an encouraging smile. He actually looks like he’s going to puke. I make a mental note to stand as far away from him as possible.
As I continue down the aisle, I hear movement from behind, and I turn just in time to see Isabel burst out from behind the curtain. She’s grinning, and she mutters an awkward “excuse me” as she sprints toward me. I laugh softly and step to the side to make room for her. She darts gracefully around Abby as if she’s playing soccer, and then she hitches her dress up and throws herself at Paul. He catches her, and her bare feet cross at the ankles behind his waist. As they start to kiss, the lights shine against the moisture on his cheeks.
“I love you,” I hear him choke.
“I love you too,” Isabel croaks back.
My eyes are suspiciously moist, but when I scan the crowd, I see that pretty much everyone is blinking away
tears. If I have to publicly display my shocking ability to shed tears for the second time in twenty-four hours, at least I’ve got company.
“Well, that was quite an entrance,” the celebrant chuckles.
“Sorry!” Isabel says as she slides down off Paul and straightens her dress, then rests her hand flat against his chest and gives him one last kiss. I hear her voice over the celebrant’s microphone as she whispers, “You just looked so nervous, like I wasn’t going to come out. And . . .” She turns back toward me and Abby and gives us a rueful smile as a blush creeps up her cheeks. “I know I didn’t do it right. Sorry, everyone. I just couldn’t wait to marry him again. I just can’t wait.”
Now, the assembled crowd is all chuckling softly. I laugh too, and then unthinkingly, I glance at Jake. He’s laughing, and he’s looking right at me. We share a smile that’s almost easy, and I skip ahead to catch Abby’s arm. We walk the rest of the way to the front of the room with our elbows linked.
But as we near the archway, I glance down at Abby’s hand, and I feel a little sick when I realize that her hands are almost as swollen as her feet. A tiny bit of my joy recedes.
Maybe I’ll ask Jake about that later. He’s no OBGYN, but he is a physician, so he might know whether this is normal pregnancy swelling . . . or something I really need to worry about.
I HATE ALL WEDDINGS, but there’s one kind of wedding ceremony I hate much more even than the others: the kind when I cannot fucking stop crying. Honestly, it’s like someone burst a dam in my brain this weekend because my tears just will not let up. I cry when Paul and Isabel exchange vows. I cry when the celebrant reads a poem about love. I cry when Paul surprises Isabel with a new wedding ring.
“Because this represents a new union between us,” he tells her unevenly. “We’re not in the old pattern anymore.”
And then I cry when she exclaims, “But I didn’t get you a new ring.”
And then I cry again when Jake quietly passes Isabel the ring Paul bought for himself.
When it’s finally, finally over, Isabel and Paul link arms and leave the room, Abby and Marcus link arms and follow them, and I can’t avoid Jake’s gaze any longer. He extends his arm to me, and I take it grudgingly. I forgot how tiny I feel standing right up against him. I forgot the way his scent seems to hook me in and pull me closer to him. I forgot how strong these stupid tree-trunk arms of his are.
I give his muscles a quick squeeze just to remind myself of that last one.
“Did you seriously just feel me up?” he asks me, irritation lacing his voice. I keep the ultrabright smile on my face as I nod to greet Mitch, then Audrey and her motley band of misfits, then I shrug.
“Like you haven’t checked out my rack in this awesome dress.”
Jake doesn’t reply, but when I glance up at him, there’s a red flush seeping under his skin and his jaw is set hard. So, we’re not quite ready for jokes yet. Fair enough.
Paul and Jake’s father, Martin, and his new girlfriend, Elspeth, are waiting in the foyer, along with Isabel’s massive family. She has at least four hundred brothers at last count, although when I comment on this, Jake snaps at me that I’m exaggerating. Okay, so it’s not quite four hundred, but there’s definitely at least five of them and when Isabel stands with her family, she almost disappears into the brawn.
There are seemingly endless hugs for the happy couple and Marcus and Abby are talking quietly to themselves, leaving Jake and me to stand in awkward silence as we wait. The photographer eventually calls us all to order, and then we spend another painful half hour posing for photos all together. Finally, everyone except Isabel and Paul are released to go to the reception.
I’m startled by the rapid transformation of the room where the ceremony took place. In the last hour, the staff set up round tables and centerpieces, and waiters are mingling among the guests with finger foods and trays of drinks. I snatch a glass of champagne from a passing waiter, down it, then immediately reach for another.
“Want to slow down there? We ruined the rehearsal dinner. I don’t think Paul and Isabel are going to be quite so forgiving if we ruin the reception too,” Jake murmurs, nodding toward the waiter as he also takes a champagne flute.
“I’m pretty sure you didn’t use to be this paternalistic, Jake, but you should keep it up,” I say pointedly. “Being an arrogant asshole really suits you.”
“I was just trying to . . .” He begins, then he groans and sighs. “Did we always bicker like this?”
“Not when we were fucking.” I shrug. “We could do that instead. Meet me in the restroom in five?”
He scowls at me, then shakes his head and walks off. I sigh and nurse the champagne while I scan the room for Mitchell. I find him seated at one of the round tables, chatting with Audrey. He must feel my eyes on him, because he looks up and meets my gaze.
Don’t even think about it, I mouth. He grins and winks at me, then goes back to chatting. I briefly consider warning him that she’s got a wicked temper and a third-degree black belt in judo, but then I decide it’ll be more fun for him to find out for himself.
Next, I see Abby sitting at the bridal table, her feet up on a chair as she promised me, and she’s talking quietly with Marcus. He’s holding her hand and smiling at her. My gaze drops to their entwined hands, and that reminds me that I was going to ask Jake for his thoughts on her swelling, but now I’ve gone and pissed him off.
I sigh and wander over to take my seat beside Abby, determined to get a feel for her well-being before I go another round in the ring with Jake.
“Beautiful ceremony,” Marcus remarks.
“Sure was,” I say, downing the rest of my champagne before I glance between them. “Is that the kind of relaxed feel you two will go for? Or are we talking about ice sculptures and pomp and circumstance?”
“Somewhere in the middle,” Abby says with a shrug.
“And by that she means, we’ll have ice sculptures, but they’ll be small ones,” Marcus qualifies. Abby thumps him gently. She seems in good spirits, so I relax a little.
“And when is the big day?” I ask. “Have you decided yet?”
“I’m thinking I want the twins to walk me down the aisle,” Abby announces. Marcus scowls at her and I can tell he’s genuinely pissed. I may have just inadvertently opened up a can of worms.
“We are not waiting that long,” he says.
“Um, we will wait that long if that’s what I want,” Abby snaps. “It’s my special day, remember?”
“Oh God,” I groan. “Don’t you two start squabbling too. Jesus.”
I take my empty champagne flute and leave them be.
After all, this is a wedding. There has to be a single guy here somewhere.
Other than Mitch and Jake, of course.
CHAPTER NINE
Jess
THREE HOURS LATER, I’m nicely buzzed, but just on the right side of “humiliate my friends and colleagues by making an ass of myself” drunk. Mitchell seems to have given up on Audrey, and so he and I have been dancing and laughing and doing what we’re actually particularly good at together—having a terrific time and forgetting all about our exes.
I’ve even managed to do a passable job of ignoring Jake all night, other than a few times when I caught myself looking for him. He’s been circulating the crowd, no doubt impressing every person he speaks to with his unique blend of humility, compassion and all-round amazingness. He also had an unfortunately long chat with Audrey. I couldn’t very well forbid him from flirting with her like I did Mitch, so instead I shot her my fiercest death glare and she immediately excused herself and went to the restroom. When she returned, I shot her a pleased, approving smile and ever since she’s been hiding in the middle of the programmer pack.
Now, I’m starting to get thirsty—proper thirsty, for water preferably, or at least something nonalcoholic. Most of the formalities are over, other than the triple chocolate and caramel wedding cake, but the night is still young—it’s only just passed ten. I
excuse myself, leaving Mitchell to dance alone—something the man is not afraid to do—and pad back to the bridal table. As I walk, I take a moment to appreciate just how unsore my feet are. Normally, I love expensive shoes—towering heels, razor-sharp stilettos, sparkly sandals are all totally my jam . . . But this barefoot thing does have its advantages.
As soon as I think about this, I realize I haven’t seen Abby for a while. I scan the room, my heart rate starting to accelerate. Marcus is easy enough to spot—having an animated conversation with Jake at the bridal table—but Abby’s chair is empty.
I walk briskly around the room, finally feeling a brief flash of relief when I see her sitting in a darkened corner by the kitchen. I make a beeline for her, scooping up two glasses of water from a waiter’s tray on the way. As I near her, I’m pleased to see she has her feet up on a chair, but the relief is short-lived because once I’m close enough to see her face, I know that something is terribly wrong.
In the last few hours, Abby’s face and neck have swollen up. Now, her entire body seems bloated, and she’s sitting in an odd position, her shoulders up and stiff, but her head slumped forward.
“Abby,” I say urgently as I pull up a chair beside her. She lifts her head and gives me a smile that’s visibly forced, even as she takes the water and sips at it cautiously.
“Hey there. Having fun?”
“Cut the shit. What’s going on?”
“Just a little headache,” she says, her smile slipping a tiny bit. Oh God, why did I drink that last glass of wine? I’m a ball of feelings right now, none of them good, and the wall between those feelings and the rest of the world feels dangerously fragile. Maybe it’s not even a wall. Maybe it’s a membrane, and maybe it’s straining under pressure.
“Why are you sitting like that?” I ask her.