by Becky Monson
I take a deep breath and walk out the grand door and look across the street at the Lava Java. I haven’t been back since Logan kissed me on Monday—only four days ago. Without realizing it, my hand moves to my mouth and my fingers lightly touch my lips as I remember what happened on the sidewalk across from me not that long ago.
I had half expected to get a text from Logan, but I didn’t get anything. No grand adventurous ideas, no “Hey, sorry I kissed you on the corner of Church Street—that was weird. Amiright?” Nothing.
That kiss had been weird. It was out of the blue, totally unexpected and thoroughly . . . thoroughly . . . strange. It was also spine-tingling, mind-numbing, and knee-weakening. I try not to think about it too much because my mind seems to run off when I do.
My brain runs off in a lot of directions when I think of Logan. Like, what was that kiss all about? It felt like it had been a long time coming for him. First kisses can sometimes be awkward and fumbling, like my first with Nathan was—there was way too much tongue on Nathan’s part. But that kiss with Logan seemed planned. Or at least like it had been thought about.
And what did it mean? Has he always had a thing for me like Thomas said? Then why was he so standoffish? Why did he always seem so annoyed when Nathan and I were together? Even as I think this, though, I can hear Logan’s voice in my head saying “boundaries.” Is that what that was?
Deciding I don’t want to go home right now, to ponder over my already packed suitcase—there’s been too much pondering on that as it is—I take a deep breath, and looking both ways for traffic, I cross the street.
Before I can let myself think too much about it, I open the door to the coffee shop and walk in. The coffee aroma does weird things to my stomach. Butterflies spin around—and it’s a combination of the good and bad kind of butterflies, mixed in with some nausea. I have no idea what I’m going to say to Logan, but I feel like I should say something.
But the butterflies were for naught, because Logan’s not here. At least he’s not at his normal table. I walk over to it to verify. I’m not sure why—it’s not like he’d be under the table or something. Then I turn and go around the corner to the tables in the back to see if he’s there, but there’s no sign of him. No laptop sitting on the table, no messenger bag on the seat.
Why is there a sinking sensation in my stomach over him not being here? Did I really want to see him? The answer is . . . kind of. I kind of want to see Logan. I’d like to ask him what that kiss was all about. What he was thinking.
“Looking for Logan?” someone asks from behind me. I turn around to see Denise the barista standing there with a rag in her hand.
“Um, no,” I say shaking my head vigorously. “I was just—”
“Not here,” she says, obviously not believing me. “He hasn’t been in since Monday, actually.”
“Oh,” I say with a nod. “Well, I wasn’t looking for him anyway, so I’m glad he’s not here.”
I really hope I’m never required to lie for a life-saving reason. I’d surely die.
“Sure,” says Denise, not even trying to keep the sarcasm out of her tone.
“Okay. Well, thanks,” I say and then, pulling my shoulders back in a pseudo-confident manner, I turn and walk toward the exit.
Once outside, I grab my phone and think maybe I’ll send him a text. Just a “how are you?” or “what are you up to?” But none of that feels right.
As I consider my options for what I could say to him, my phone beeps and my heart starts pumping, wondering if it’s Logan. But my stomach does a little sinking thing again when I see it’s Nate.
Nate: Two days!
He’s added some dancing lady emojis for emphasis. Nate is big with the emojis. Every text he sends is full of them. And lots of exclamations points. He’s an energetic guy—at least from what I gathered when we Skype. He’s fidgety, but not in an annoying way, more of an endearing way. Like his energy could be contagious. I’m not lazy, but I’ve never been one to be called over-energetic. I’m not really an emoji kind of girl either. I gave them up a while ago when I accidentally sent a laughing emoji to a friend who’d texted me to tell me she’d broken up with her boyfriend. It was Bree, and it could have been Freudian. She really does make the worst choices with men.
Despite that, I text back a smiling face because I have no words to say. Two days seems like too soon and too long. I’m torn between wanting to get this done and wanting it to take as long as possible for it to happen.
~*~
“As your new brother, my first task is to tell you your hair color is dull,” Thomas says with a quick chin dip toward my head.
We’re sitting at a round table at what was supposed to be my wedding venue, watching my father and Miranda—his new wife—walk around talking to people. There are a lot fewer people in attendance than Nathan and I had planned to invite. They ended up using the smaller upstairs ballroom, rather than the larger, grander one on the main floor. So at least the whole time I haven’t been comparing or wondering where I would have stood or been, since it’s different.
My friends are all here, everyone came to be here for my dad’s and Thomas’s mom’s wedding, but also to support me through my “darkest moment,” as Thomas keeps calling it.
It hasn’t been a dark moment, though. It’s been . . . well, good. My dad is beaming and Miranda seems so smitten, she actually looks like she’s glowing. I suppose I have found myself comparing—not for what might have been, but rather for what wasn’t meant to be. My relationship with Nathan was never like theirs. I was never smitten with him the way Miranda appears to be with my dad.
“Hello? Holly? Is this thing on?” Thomas pretends to tap an imaginary microphone in his hand.
I take a deep breath. “You told me my hair color was dull the other day.” I reach up and grab a tendril of it, wrapping it around my finger.
“Yes, but that was when we were just friends. Now we’re related, so I have to say it more. It’s the sibling code,” he says.
“You’re my stepbrother. And how would you know what the sibling code is? You’ve never had a sibling.”
He tilts his head to the side. “Help me out here, Quinn. Isn’t being straightforward the sibling way?”
“Sometimes,” Quinn says, her eyes briefly glazing over as she probably thinks of her sister Tessa, who most definitely tells it like it is. “But you’ve always been that way.”
“Yes, but that’s because I think of you all as family,” he bobs his head around the table. “Except for you,” he says to Bree. “You’re like the relative I can’t get rid of.”
“Wow,” says Bree. “Thanks, Thomas.” She raises her champagne glass in his direction. “I’d say the feeling is mutual.”
“And how’s my favorite table?” my dad asks as he and Miranda approach.
Responses from “good” and “great” to “awesome” (Alex), and “I’ve been better” (Thomas), erupt from the table.
Miranda walks up behind Thomas and puts her arms around his shoulders, laying her cheek against the side of his head. She closes her eyes as she gives him a squeeze and Thomas reaches up and wraps his arms around hers. It’s the perfect picture moment. Thomas is a mama’s boy, through and through. Even though he’s also close to his dad—who happens to be sitting at a table across the room from us with his wife. Yes, Thomas’s dad is here to see his ex-wife marry another man, and everyone is all smiles and happy about it. What a world we live in.
I doubt my mom would have wanted to be here. At least, not how she was when I was younger. Well, she might have come to sabotage in some way, but I don’t know the person who’s sitting in the jail cell any more than I do a stranger on the street.
My dad walks around the table to me and I stand up and go to hug him. We’ve hugged dozens of times already today, but I find my eyes getting a little misty with this one. I’m not sure if it’s all suddenly hit me now that I’ve watched my dad happily walk around the room with Miranda on his arm, or the burst o
f love I felt for him when he approached the table. When I pull my head back, I see his eyes are also a little damp.
I lean in to whisper in his ear. “I’m so happy for you, Dad.”
“Thanks, darlin’,” he says, giving me another tight squeeze. He pulls back and looks me in the eyes. “You ready for your big trip?”
“Sure,” I say, but I can tell instantly by the expression on my dad’s face that he thinks I’m lying. He’s got his I-don’t-believe-you smile on his face.
“Got that pepper spray?” he asks with a wink.
“Packed and ready to go.”
He pulls me in for another hug. “I want you to be happy,” he says in my ear. “I want all of this for you.” I know what he means by all of it—love, happiness, marriage to the right person. Even though I had my reservations about him getting married and all of it happening so fast, Miranda really does seem to be the right person for him. But I will punch her if she hurts him. This is probably something I should have told her before they got married, and it’s certainly not appropriate right now. I’ll just have to hope. By the love in her face as she looks at my dad, I don’t think I have to worry.
“I am happy, Dad,” I say, pulling back so he can see my face—see the sincerity in my eyes. Because I am happy for him—happy he’s getting all he deserves. He’s a good man, my dad. A great one.
“Darlin’, I’m sorry I won’t be here to send you off Sunday,” my dad says, his smile taking on a regretful tone.
“Dad, I’m pretty sure I can make it to the airport,” I say and give him a wink. “Besides, I’m not asking you to hold off your honeymoon so you can send me off on what was supposed to be mine.”
He chuckles, his head moving slowly back and forth—giving me that what-am-I-going-to-do-with-you smile. It’s not one he’s given me often since I’ve rarely been one to deserve such a look. “I sure love you, kid,” he says.
“Love you too,” I say, and then give him another hug for good measure.
Chapter 21
“Are you gonna throw up?” Quinn asks, a real expression of concern on her face.
It’s two in the afternoon on Sunday and we’re in a bathroom at the airport waiting for Nate’s flight from L.A. to get here.
The station was unable to connect his flights, so Jerry had to get him a flight on another airline. It’s also possible Jerry said that because it saved the station money. That’s what Quinn thinks, at least. Jerry is definitely the type to cut corners. I made sure to double check that we had first class seats when he told me we did—I wouldn’t put it past him to try to pull one over on me. But he came through. He also got us separate rooms at the hotel, and when we got to the airport, Quinn handed me an envelope of cash to use for the trip.
Now we wait for Nate. The other Nathan Jones that’s going with me on what was to be my honeymoon. Number Two. I’ve been so nervous I haven’t even had time to think about the wedding that wasn’t. I figured on the actual day I would have had thoughts like, “Right now I’d be walking down the aisle,” or “Right now we’d be dancing our first dance.” But I didn’t think much about it. Plus, Quinn kept me busy most of the day yesterday. I think she had it planned all along, but it wasn’t necessary since I haven’t been thinking about the first Nathan much at all.
My mind is not on my canceled wedding as we wait for Nate’s plane to get here. It’s not even on work, crazily enough. Nate’s set to arrive in fifteen minutes, and then we have to grab his bag and go check in for our flight. Then we have to do a quick interview with Quinn—after Joe, the cameraman who’s with us, gets footage of us meeting for the first time. All in the name of entertainment.
So, yeah. I might throw up. I also might run screaming out the building, take the next flight to India, and live out my days there. I could probably find a job fairly easily; they have lots of call centers, and Indian food is my favorite. I’ve also heard the shopping is excellent. I’d miss my dad, of course, but never being found again seems like a good option right now.
Or I could suck it up and just do this trip.
I sigh as I stare at myself in the mirror of the airport bathroom, with its cream-colored tiled walls and warm overhead lighting. My hands are grasping tightly onto the edge of the beige laminate counter.
Quinn reaches up and rubs slow circles on my back. “You’ll be fine, Hols. Everything’ll be great.” She’s wearing a charcoal gray pantsuit, and her hair and makeup are all done up. She’s camera ready. I, on the other hand . . . my hair would not cooperate, and my eyes look glossed over like I didn’t get any sleep. Which I didn’t.
“I might not be fine. I might end up floating down the Nile wrapped in a rug,” I say, feeling my stomach do a little flipping thing. I let go of the counter and stand up and face her.
Quinn regards me as if I’ve lost my mind, and I realize I never told her about Jim and his crazy stories. “You won’t even be near the Nile.”
I bat a hand at her. “It’s still possible.”
She puts a hand on my shoulder. “You’re going to be fine,” she says, her voice taking on a very mom quality. “And if I know you, you’ve got a can of pepper spray packed.”
“Well, of course.” I also considered bringing a Taser, since I read online you can pack that as well. But I don’t own a Taser, and by the time I thought of it, Amazon Prime couldn’t deliver it fast enough. The pepper spray will have to do.
Quinn chuckles. “See there? You’re covered.”
“Yeah, but I can’t bring it on the plane. I had to pack it,” I say, sounding whiny, even to myself. “What if he tries something on the plane?” My eyes go wide at the possibilities. Before I can even stop myself, in a split second my brain has taken off on a scenario where I end up being pushed out the emergency exit, falling to my death. These little anxiety-ridden brain tangents seem to be happening more and more lately. I blame Jim.
“Maybe he will try something on the plane,” Quinn says giving me an insinuating double eyebrow lift. “Ever heard of the mile-high club?”
“What? No,” I say, scrunching my face. “Have you ever been in those tiny bathrooms? How is that even possible?”
“Oh, it’s possible,” Quinn says.
“Did I hear mile-high club?” I hear a familiar voice behind me and see Quinn’s face morph from surprised to a bright smile.
“You found us,” Quinn says loudly, and I turn around to see Bree standing there.
“Well, you texted where you were,” she says, holding up her phone as proof.
I look to Quinn, who shrugs, and then back at Bree. “You came to see me off?” I say, feeling a sudden overwhelming love for Bree.
“Wouldn’t miss it,” she says. “Thomas and Alex are here too.”
I’m having all the warm fuzzies right now as I wrap my arms around Bree. We aren’t huggers, my friends and me, but my nerves have made me all kinds of sappy, so a hug is in order. I feel Quinn’s arms wrap around me from the back and now we’re in some kind of hug sandwich.
After a few seconds of the sandwich hug, we let go of each other. Bree starts messing with my hair, tucking it behind my ear. “You ready to meet hottie Nate?”
“No,” I say emphatically.
“Oh, come on,” she says. “You’re going to have so much fun.” She gives me the same insinuating eyebrow lift that Quinn was giving me only a minute ago.
“You guys,” I roll my eyes. “Do you know me at all? I’m not really the ‘having fun’ type,” I say.
“Hols, you’re lots of fun,” says Quinn.
“Name the last time I was a lot of fun,” I say, glancing from Bree to Quinn, taking a challenging stance with my hands on my hips.
They both appear to be contemplating this, as Quinn puts an index finger to her chin. “Well, I always have fun with you,” Quinn says and Bree nods her head in agreement.
“You’re both biased.”
Quinn pulls her phone out of her purse and looks at the time. “Okay, you ready?”
; “No,” I say, now honestly contemplating moving to India.
The main door to the bathroom inches open. “I didn’t come all the way here so you could hang out in a bathroom,” Thomas yells through the crack.
“Shut up, Thomas,” Bree yells.
“Come on,” Quinn says, wrapping a hand around my upper arm and tugging gently.
Bree grabs my bags and we exit the bathroom to find Alex and Thomas there. Joe, the cameraman, is off to the side leaning against a wall, fidgeting with his camera equipment.
“You ready for this?” Alex asks when he sees me. He puts an arm around me and gives me a side hug. The question is rhetorical. He knows I’m not.
“What are you wearing?” Thomas asks, an expression of disgust on his face as his eyes travel from my barely made-up face down to my black flip-flops.
“What?” I look down at the black T-shirt and olive green jersey knit pencil skirt. “What’s wrong with my outfit?”
“You could have at least tried,” he says, his face changing from disgust to disappointment.
“I did try,” I say, feeling defensive. “And I’m flying overnight to Europe. I was going for comfort.”
“Maybe a little too comfortable,” he says, his nose scrunching up like he’s smelled something stinky.
“You look great, Hols,” says Bree as she gives a side-glare to Thomas. Alex and Quinn chime in with words of affirmation.
Thomas sighs. “Fine. Whatever. Can we get this dowdy princess off? I was promised lunch.”
Bree hands bag duty over to Thomas who surprisingly makes no argument as he takes them from her. Quinn and Joe start walking ahead of us, their heads close as they discuss where we’re going. The rest of us follow along after them.
“You can still back out, you know,” Alex says as he sidles up next to me.
“No, she can’t,” says Bree, who’s on my other side.
“She’s right,” I say. I briefly imagine going back to work tomorrow and seeing the look on Marie’s face. No, if I ditched out on this vacation, I’d have to go into hiding for a week, and then spend that week making up stories about the trip. And since lying is not a talent of mine that would never work. There’s also the tiny fact that parts of my trip will be detailed on the news as I’m supposed to send pictures to Quinn. I’m sure Marie will be watching since she’s been so thrilled about this entire thing.