LoveLines

by S. Walden

  I heard Nicki huff behind me, then mumble, “This is so not elegant.”

  “I love your hair, Bailey!” Reece shouted. “It’s gorgeous!”

  “I didn’t check to see if anything was set up!” I went on.

  “For heaven’s sake, Bailey,” I heard Mom say. “Get over here!”

  “You sound like you don’t give a crap about this wedding,” Reece replied, and I burst out laughing.

  “I know!”

  “You won’t even count your steps down the aisle?” he called.

  I shook my head. “Too busy looking at you!”

  The pastor cut in. “How about we get you two married already?”

  The wedding guests laughed.

  “Bailey Mitchell! Get your ass down here right now! I need to change your last name!” Reece said.

  I felt Christopher’s cool hand slip around my upper arm. “She’s coming,” he said.

  “I’m coming, Reece! I am! And I love you!”

  “I love you, Bailey!” Reece replied.

  Christopher pulled me along to the public access walkway that had been decorated with tulle and flowers—specifically ivory, white, and soft yellow roses. Beachgoers hung around observing the scene. Some even took pictures of me. I thought that was weird, but then maybe they were just as caught up in the moment as I was, so I didn’t mind.

  My feet struck the hot sand, and I begged for my flip flops.

  “I told you,” Nicki hissed.

  I slipped them on then clung to Christopher. Only then did my thoughts go to my father and how much I wished he could be here. The pang in my heart lasted only a moment. I knew what he would want. He would want me to celebrate today, not cry over his absence. Because he was up there celebrating even now, waiting to walk me down the aisle through Christopher. He was waiting to hear Tony at my reception, and dance with me through Reece.

  “Go on, Puddin’ Pop,” I heard him whisper in my ear. “Go on and be happy.”

  The girls had already walked down the aisle. I looked at Reece, who stood under the arbor, hands folded in front of his white cotton shirt. It was untucked, the way he wanted—the ends flapping in the breeze against his linen pants. He wore flip flops, a yellow boutonniere, and a smile.

  I turned to Christopher, who stood calm and stoic. He took his job seriously; he understood the magnitude of taking my father’s place.

  I squeezed his arm. “You ready?”

  He looked down at me and smiled. “Let’s get you married.”

  ***

  We sat on our couch, side by side, dunking chips in a Mexican seven-layer dip and watching a bad made-for-TV movie. Poppy begged at Reece’s feet, and he snuck her chips while I pretended to be oblivious. I took another sip of champagne when Reece said I wasn’t drinking enough.

  “You just want me drunk,” I said.

  “I want you hanging from the ceiling fan,” he replied.

  I laughed.

  “No, I know what I want,” he said.

  “What’s that?”

  “I want you completely naked wearing only your wedding veil.”

  “Now, that’s hot,” I replied, and took another sip.

  “You all packed?”

  “Yep.”

  “Erica’s coming to get Poppy tomorrow at nine?”

  “Yep.”

  “Got your passport?”

  “Yep.”

  “I’ve no idea why I’m asking you these things,” he said, shaking his head.

  I smirked. “Because I’ve changed. That’s why.”

  He studied my face. “You’re still the same Bailey, though. I don’t suspect you’ll start showing up late for work or tossing all your hand sanitizer.”

  “No,” I said. “I won’t do that. But I won’t freak out if I’m late. And I won’t freak out if I see you tossing my hand sanitizer.”

  “Why would I toss your hand sanitizer?”

  “I’m just saying.” I steered a chip in the dip and scooped up a heaping pile, bringing it carefully to my mouth.

  Reece looked past my face to the model boat sitting on the end table. It was complete. Reece and I built it together. We scheduled time to work on it, and we only talked about my father during our work sessions. When the time was up, we walked away from it.

  “I wish your father could have been there,” he said softly.

  “He was,” I replied, my mouth still full.

  “Huh?” Reece said, and then he nodded quickly. “Oh yeah. Okay, I gotcha. In spirit, you mean.”

  I smiled.

  “You have cilantro in your teeth,” he pointed out.

  “Is it sexy?” I asked, still smiling.

  “Terribly.”

  I laughed and brought my pinky finger to my mouth, using my nail as a toothpick.

  “Classy,” Reece said, and I smacked his arm.

  “And yes, my dad was there in spirit. I felt him walking me down the aisle. I felt him dancing with me. I heard him call me Puddin’ Pop.”

  “How’d you get that nickname?” Reece asked.

  “The obvious way,” I replied. “I’d make Jell-O Pudding Pops with Dad in the summer. It was our favorite dessert.”

  “That’s pretty obvious,” Reece agreed.

  “One time I tried to sell them, like you would lemonade,” I said.

  Reece laughed. “Why’d your dad even let you try. Talk about a waste of money.”

  “Because I was insistent. And I had to learn it on my own,” I said. “Boy, the look on my face when I opened that cooler the sixth time. All that melted goo. I think it was over a hundred degrees that day.”

  “Ha ha!”

  “Dad said it was so sad. He hung back watching the whole scene. When I gathered the cooler and my box of money—”

  “How much?” Reece interrupted.

  “Oh, about two dollars,” I replied.

  “Nice.”

  “I know, right? I thought I was rollin’. Anyway, when I gathered everything up and walked over to Dad, he said, ‘Well, Puddin’ Pop, you can’t win ‘em all.’”

  “And what did you make of that statement?” Reece asked.

  “Nothing at the time. Now I imagine Dad was trying to tell me that life would be tough—that I might stumble more than others because of my mental condition. That I might have to try a little harder from time to time.”

  Reece leaned over and kissed my cheek.

  “But he was hopeful, too,” I added.

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Yeah. He said, ‘You can’t win ‘em all, but you’ve gotta try.’”

  “Are you trying, Mrs. Powell?”

  “Every day of my life.”

  “I can tell.”

  “Are you happy about that?”

  “More than you know.”

  I blushed and hung my head.

  “So, you think you can let me do you in the airplane bathroom tomorrow on our way to Barbados? I’d really like to get in the club.”

  I laughed. Leave it to Reece to lighten what could have turned into a somber mood—one of the many things I loved about him.

  “Well?” he prodded.

  I thought of the perfect answer.

  “I can try.”

  “Your tan line is showing,” Matt joked, pulling on his wife’s bikini bottom. She swatted his hand.

  “Stop it!” she cried, blue eyes glued to the ceremony taking place down the beach.

  “Taylor, you could have gone, you know,” Matt pointed out, plopping down beside her on his stomach. “Does this make me look like a chick?”

  She glanced at him. He was propped up on his elbows, shoulder blades contracted and glistening a deep brown in the summer sun.

  “What are you talking about?” she asked.

  “Lying on my stomach like this. Is it girly?”

  She smirked. “Maybe a little. And I know I could have gone. Would’ve been weird, though. I don’t really know Bailey at all. I just hung out with her that one night.”

  “So w
hat? She invited you.” Matt rolled over onto his back and slipped on his sunglasses.

  “She just wanted a gift,” Taylor said.

  Matt snorted. “You’re such a pessimist. God, I love that about you.”

  Taylor’s blond hair whipped about in the breeze, and she smashed her sunhat on her head to keep the errant strands out of her eyes. She continued gazing down the beach. She couldn’t make out what part of the ceremony was taking place—she was simply too far away—but she gathered the vows had been said and rings exchanged when she saw Bailey’s arms shoot up and around Reece’s neck.

  “He’s gonna twirl her,” Taylor said softly. “I just know it. Go on, Reece. Just do it already.”

  Her words floated along the ocean breeze like an incantation, summoning Reece’s compliance. He picked up his new bride and twirled her in circles as the guests clapped and whistled.

  Taylor sighed.

  “Honey?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Why are you sighing?”

  “Isn’t it obvious?”

  Matt poked her upper arm. “You want a wedding like that?”

  “No,” Taylor lied.

  “Because I can make it happen. We can have a wedding like that if you want.” He changed his poking to a gentle rub.

  “And who would we invite, huh?” Taylor asked.

  “Lots of people. We have friends, Taylor.”

  She snorted disdainfully. They were quiet for a moment as Taylor watched Reece carry Bailey up the bank and disappear behind a tall screen of beach grass.

  “We have friends,” Matt repeated.

  “I know,” she whispered.

  She looked down at the plain gold band encircling her finger. She took it off when she went to work. She tried to convince herself that it was because she didn’t want any of the chemicals from the tanning solution to tarnish the metal, but it really had to do with her boss, Erica. She wanted to keep her marriage private from her employer. She wasn’t ready for Erica’s fifty questions about Matt. She barely endured the fifty questions about her school life and home life. And she certainly wasn’t ready for the judgment she’d face once her elopement came to light. She wasn’t a liar. It was easier to avoid questions than to concoct cheap fabrications.

  “What are you thinking?” Matt asked after a time.

  “I’m thinking that I would have loved a beach wedding,” Taylor replied.

  “Baby . . .”

  “It’s fine,” Taylor said. “It is what it is. Not like I have the right to feel sorry for myself.”

  She played with the corner of the beach blanket, pushing it under the sand then pulling it up.

  “We fell in love,” Matt said after a moment. “There’s nothing wrong with that.”

  Taylor nodded. She watched as a few wedding attendants gathered the folding chairs and hauled them away. She thought about Bailey’s new life as a new bride—the excitement of belonging to another person. Legally. Wholly. Unabashedly. She thought of her own new marriage and belonging to Matt wholly. But not unabashedly.

  There was her sister. Always her sister.

  “We’re gonna do it,” Matt said finally. “We’re gonna have the wedding we never did.”

  “Matt, it would be too weird,” Taylor argued.

  “No, it wouldn’t.” He sat up and slipped his arm around her waist. “I can’t have you pouting every time you see a wedding taking place.”

  She grinned. He squeezed her tighter.

  “So what do you think?” he asked. “Beach backdrop. You in a beautiful white dress. Music. Champagne. The whole nine yards.”

  Taylor kissed his cheek. “I think it’s a beautiful fantasy.”

  She hopped up and grabbed her bikini cover-up from the bag.

  “Taylor . . .”

  “Come on. We’ve gotta get going if we wanna make it to dinner in time,” she said.

  “We’re revisiting this topic, just so you know,” Matt said, hoisting himself up and helping Taylor fold the beach blanket.

  She ignored him. There was nothing to revisit. She married her sister’s fiancé. That meant no big wedding. No big to-do. No celebratory champagne. No white dress. Who was she to wear white anyway?

  S. Walden used to teach English before making the best decision of her life by becoming a full-time writer. She lives in Georgia with her very supportive husband who prefers physics textbooks over fiction and has a difficult time understanding why her characters must have personality flaws. She is wary of small children, so she has a Westie instead. She is the USA Today bestselling author of Going Under. When she's not writing, she's thinking about it.

  She loves her fans and loves to hear from them. Email her at swaldenauthor@hotmail.com and follow her twitter feed at @swaldenauthor. Visit her website at www.swaldenauthor.com for the latest information on her current and upcoming projects.

  Other Titles by S. Walden:

  Better (Too Good series, 2)

  Good (Too Good series, 1)

  Going Under

  Honeysuckle Love

  Hoodie