How to Make a Wedding

by Cindy Kirk

  “Need help with that?”

  Jack’s spine stiffened even though he was kneeling down. Who knew spines could do that? But apparently spines could because his did, right then and right there, making it painful and awkward to stretch for more apples. So he gave up trying and straightened, dread and nervousness filling up every crevice of his insides because he would know that voice anywhere. Only this time, it rang with a definite chill. That same sound haunted him at night when he lay awake with nothing on his mind except time and emptiness. It taunted him from its place in the crowd as he stood onstage and pretended to be a songwriter. It jabbed at him in his dreams that played out like real-time memories on repeat. He’d listened to her early messages so often he could recite them on command.

  Jack, where did you find that napkin? It wasn’t yours to take.

  Jack, where did you get those lyrics? And don’t even think about telling me it’s just a coincidence.

  Number one, huh? I hope you’re proud of yourself, Jack.

  How do you live with being so dishonest, Jack?

  She’d said so many other things in those first few months, but these were the questions he remembered the most. Because these were the ones he wished to undo. The ones he wished to deny. The ones he asked himself daily.

  Yes, he was proud of his career. But no, he wasn’t proud of the way he got here. For every second of every day, his regrets were many. Still, regret did nothing to prepare him for what he was sure to face when he locked eyes with April for the first time in three years. Wanting to get it over with, he inhaled all the air around them and slowly turned around.

  Nothing prepared him for her smile. Or for the fact that three years had done scrawny, short, wispy April Quinn a whole lot of favors.

  April kept the smile pasted on her face, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of seeing any other emotion. Maybe he felt guilty. Maybe he felt remorseful. Maybe he felt bad that his career took off instead of hers, which would have been justified.

  But she wouldn’t let him see her feeling anything except happy. Happy, happy, happy. Despite the past two days spent doing every freaking thing possible for the Sister Bride from Hell, Jack Vaughn was going to see her happy. So she smiled. The sweetest, kindest, Southernmost, fakest smile she could muster. And she kept it there while his mouth opened and closed, the famous singer-songwriter at a sudden loss for his own words.

  Imagine that.

  “Um, I think I can manage it myself. But thanks.”

  An apple dropped from his hands and rolled across his foot before it disappeared under a black Volvo. April nearly laughed at the awkward picture it made, but then she saw Jack wince and saw him shift and saw an embarrassed flush as it made its way up his neck, and then she felt . . . sorry for him? Frustrated, she straightened her shoulders and demanded indignation to return. Like an obedient puppy she’d been carrying around for three solid years, it did. With a little added anger to make things interesting.

  She held that smile in place and said, “It looks like you’re handling things really well, so okay then.” She didn’t even try to mask the sarcasm in her voice. It was bound to come out eventually anyway. “It’s great to see you, Jack. Can’t wait to hear you perform at the wedding.” She turned to go, bitterness perched like a devil, wings flapping wildly as it shouted obscenities from its spot on her left shoulder. If she weren’t such a nice girl she would probably encourage it to keep going. Instead she slapped it away, then stomped on it for good measure to make sure it was good and dead.

  Sometimes it was such a pain to be naturally nice.

  “April, wait.”

  Sometimes it also sucked to be such a slow walker. She turned back around and worked up that smile again, but even she could feel the way it faltered.

  “What? Do you need something else?”

  She expected him to stutter; what she got instead was a wry grin. “Why’d you stomp your foot like that when you walked away?”

  And just like that the tables were turned. “I didn’t stomp my foot.”

  His grin only deepened. “Oh, but you did. Kind of an odd display of anger in the middle of all that smiling you did, in my opinion.”

  So he’d seen through her façade. Now she was ticked off. “No one cares about your opinion, Jack.”

  He shrugged, arrogance practically dripping from that wavy head of gorgeous hair. Wait. She didn’t just think that. His hair was disgusting. Even worse than that tan, chiseled face. April gave herself an internal beat down for noticing.

  “Actually, quite a few people care about my opinion nowadays, if you want the truth.”

  And finally, there was her opening. “As if you would know anything about the truth. Good one, Jack. You’re so hilarious.”

  She should have felt better at the way he blanched. Swallowed. And looked instantly sorry.

  But she didn’t. Instead, she watched him nod and offer the first admission of wrongdoing she’d ever heard him say. “You’re right, and I deserved that.” He looked over her shoulder for a long minute, locked in a faraway stare. Finally, he looked her in the eye. “I’ll see you at the wedding, April. Thanks for your offer to help.”

  And with a sad smile, he climbed inside his car, leaving a pile of mutilated groceries on the pavement behind him. April stared after him until his car disappeared, slowly beginning to realize they now shared the same raw emotion.

  Just like that flash of a smile Jack had just given her, sadness wrapped its arms around her and squeezed tight.

  “You said what?” It was the third time in two minutes Kristin had asked that same question with that same horrified lilt on the last word, and April was more than sick of it.

  “I told him he was just so hilarious. That he wouldn’t know the truth if it bit him on the butt.” Maybe she hadn’t exactly worded it that way, but that’s what she meant. If he was a smart guy, he would figure it out.

  Her sister ran the pad of her index finger across her eyebrow to wipe away a phantom drop of nonexistent sweat—there’s no reason to sweat when you’re not doing anything but giving orders to your personal slave of a sister—and glared at April. “Why would you say something like that? I need him to be in top form for the wedding, not worried that you’re going to have some meltdown in front of everyone while he’s up there trying to sing. For once in your life, think of someone besides yourself, April.”

  A harsh laugh escaped before she could stop it. “Oh that’s rich coming from you. Think of someone besides myself? Kind of like you were doing when you asked him to sing in the wedding in the first place? Who were you thinking of then, Kristin? Who were you thinking of then?” April hated the way her voice had risen to such a high pitch, but there was no stopping it. Hysterical and whiny were sometimes her thing.

  Like self-righteousness and arrogance were sometimes Kristin’s thing. “I was thinking of you. It’s way past time to put this whole grudge thing you’re holding against Jack behind you. It isn’t healthy. It isn’t smart. And unforgiveness isn’t good for the soul. Plus it causes wrinkles.”

  “It does not cause wrinkles, and I’m twenty-two. Hardly at a place in life where I need to worry about them.”

  “Sure, you say that now. But someday you’ll thank me when you’re in your forties and still look like you’re twenty-eight.”

  April rubbed the space between her eyebrows, trying and failing to figure out how a conversation about Jack Vaughn’s jerkiness had headed south on a path that practically waved a pink banner endorsing Botox injections.

  “Can we get back to the subject at hand, please?” she asked her sister.

  “Sure. You need to forgive Jack.”

  “This has nothing to do with forgiveness. This has to do with ethics and morals and taking things that don’t belong to you.”

  Kristin sucked in a breath. “April, it was a song. You don’t even know if he took it on purpose, and besides, it’s not like he robbed a bank or something.”

  And this was the response
her family often gave, much like the jingles statement her sister had made yesterday. It was only a song. A song that just happened to be the song that skyrocketed Jack’s singing career. And sure, maybe she was jealous. Maybe she was angry. Maybe she was even a tad bit vengeful. But deep down, all she really wanted was an apology. Nothing elaborate; nothing grandiose. But it’s hard to move on and really make peace when an offense has never been addressed in the first place.

  But it was pointless to talk about it with her sister. She didn’t understand. In fact, no one really did.

  “You’re right, at least he didn’t rob a bank.” Sometimes it was easier to smooth the waters than to walk through a rising current of lectures. Today, April decided to aim for calm.

  Kristin lowered her mascara wand and smiled at her through the bathroom mirror. “I’m glad you’re finally coming around.” She’d been practicing her wedding makeup for well over an hour—applying and removing and switching up color pallets only to apply and remove all over again. They were currently on round four, and in April’s opinion every single application looked the same. “And I’d like to hear your thoughts on that eventually, but first tell me what you think of this look.”

  “I think it’s perfect,” April said on a sigh, swallowing any hopes for an understanding conversation.

  “You’ve said the same thing about all of them,” Kristin pointed out. “I need your opinion, April. I’m not just doing this for the fun of it. I have less than seventy-two hours to find the right colors. How am I supposed to do that without your help?”

  “Maybe Mom can help you when she comes tomorrow.”

  Kristen just looked at her. “Dear Lord, is that tomorrow?”

  “Yep.” April picked up a tube of lipstick and pulled off the cap. Gold. Gold looked good on her. “I’m sure she’ll be ready to give you all sorts of opinions, especially when she sees the church.”

  Both girls grimaced. “She’s going to hate it. Every bit of it. She wants a high-society wedding on my very tiny budget. Even what they’ve chipped in isn’t going to give Mom the showpiece she’s dreamed of.”

  April rubbed her lips together. “Whatever. She’s still mad at me for working at a bar and trying to make it as a songwriter instead of marrying a doctor. We’re both huge disappointments.”

  At that, they laughed. “They’ll deal with it eventually,” April continued. “Besides, if you want my opinion, they should be proud to have two daughters who make their own way instead of becoming clones of their parents. At least we’re not spoiled rotten. Or, at least one of us isn’t.”

  Kristin jabbed her in the side. “Very funny. But speaking of opinions . . .”

  Now that she was in a slightly better mood, April tried to focus once again. “Okay, what color is this? Purple? Violet? Mauve? I don’t remember what you told me.”

  “It’s a pale wine.” Kristin fluffed her hair and shook it a little, then turned her face from left to right, examining and critiquing her image from every angle. “I think I’ve narrowed it down to this one or the nude theme. Which one did you like better?”

  If she’d had a coin in her hand, April would have flipped it over and called out the lucky answer. As it was, she had nothing in her possession right then but an old hairbrush and her sister’s well-used tube of L’Oréal lipstick. Neither one was all that flippable. She came up with an answer anyway.

  “I say go with the nude. It’s safe, it’s classic, and it goes with everything. Plus I don’t have time to see anything else. I have to get to work.”

  Jack started sweating when he hit the parking lot. He hadn’t been here since he walked out three years ago—his last night on a job that had opened more doors than he ever thought possible. Since then, life had been a whirlwind of opportunity and introductions and press junkets and travel on his rapid rise to stardom. He wouldn’t trade a minute of it. Wouldn’t change it for the world.

  Except now he felt like he was walking into a time warp of delayed disaster—the whirlwind of fun quickly morphing into a hurricane of impending doom.

  April still worked here. He’d found out that awesome piece of news earlier when he called in to check on the performance he was set to give an hour from now. And presently, he was begging his Maker that tonight might be her night off. And begging wasn’t an exaggeration. The words please, I’ll do anything you say had gone through his mind at least a million times in the last hour, coupled with the phrase I’ll even start going to church.

  Not that he shouldn’t have been doing that already, but still.

  It took less than two seconds to realize all that begging was for nothing. The door had barely shut behind him when he saw a familiar apron skimming the thighs of a not-so-familiar set of legs that would have sent any red-blooded American male’s pulse racing. He remembered those legs from three years ago, and from the five minutes he’d spent alone with them in a parking lot yesterday. April had changed in a lot of ways, all of them favorable. All of them positive. All of them pretty darn good.

  His eyes traveled upward until they connected with hers. He swallowed and took an involuntary step backward; the scathing glare she nailed him with wasn’t so favorable. He guessed some things hadn’t changed after all, despite a hot set of legs.

  Jack squared his shoulders and walked forward, thinking he was Jack Vaughn. Jack Vaughn didn’t cower. Jack Vaughn didn’t worry about what other people thought. Jack Vaughn certainly wasn’t intimidated by a waitress in a bar, especially not one who just dropped a tray of beer all over an unsuspecting dude’s lap. When the man looked up and sent April a murderous look, Jack forgot his hesitation and moved forward to help.

  “I’m so sorry,” April was saying. The horror in her voice tore at him a little. “I don’t know what happened, the tray just tipped before I could stop it.” She set the now empty tray on a nearby table and yanked a few napkins out of a metal holder, using them to pat the guy down. Jack didn’t think she realized how inappropriate she was being, but he didn’t stop her.

  “Lady, quit pawing at me.” The customer ripped the napkins from her hand and used them on himself, swiping at his shirt and pants and leaving a trail of paper napkin dust all over himself. “Look at me! I’m a mess!” He flung his hands in the air and stood, pushing his chair back in the process and creating the beginnings of a small scene. “This is going to cost you.” He pointed a thick finger in April’s face, a gesture that made Jack’s blood simmer. “I want to see your manager right now.”

  April nodded. “Okay, I’ll—”

  Jack couldn’t take watching anymore. “Hey, man, I’m pretty sure that was an accident. Why don’t you let the girl get back to work, and I’ll buy another round for your table?” Jack fished a hundred dollar bill out of his wallet and handed it to the guy. “And maybe this will replace the pants.”

  Just as he hoped would happen, the guy blinked at him, his jaw dropped just enough for Jack to know he’d been recognized. This was the best and worst part of fame—the worst when people wouldn’t leave you alone, the best when it could be used to help out a friend.

  Although in this situation, he used the term friend in the loosest way possible.

  “Are you Jack . . . ?”

  “Sure am. And I need to get ready to sing.” He offered his hand, hoping it would seal an end to the situation. “So are we good here?”

  The guy shook his hand and nodded, all traces of anger diminished to the point that Jack doubted he would even remember tomorrow. “We’re good. But I will take you up on that round.” And with that, the guy smiled.

  Jack laughed and assured him he would place the order, then turned to face April. If he was being really honest, he was rather proud of himself. It wasn’t just anyone who could diffuse a situation like that. It took someone special to swoop in so quickly and rescue a woman. It wasn’t just any day that—

  “I didn’t need your help, Jack, and I darn well don’t appreciate it.” If anyone had been standing behind him, they would see his self
-congratulatory thought bubble leak, deflate, and float to the ground. “Next time you want to throw your weight around, do it at the expense of someone other than me. Got it?”

  And with that, April snatched up her tray and marched away, leaving Jack Vaughn—the Jack Vaughn with the really cool career—wondering what the heck just happened.

  His eyes had been on her all night, but she had made it a point not to look at him. Not when she served customers, being careful to hold the tray steady to avoid more accidents. Not when he walked by at the exact moment she dropped a pen while taking an order, nor when he picked it up and handed it back to her. Not when inspiration struck and she jotted new lyrics on a receipt a customer had left behind. And not when he took the stage just after nine o’clock to begin his scheduled performance.

  Definitely not then.

  Of course, by that point it was easy to avoid eye contact. The place was so crowded that April could barely see three feet in front of her, never mind the stage. Jack Vaughn was popular, it seemed. More popular than even she had guessed. So popular she suspected they broke the fire code one hundred people ago.

  That made her even madder. Didn’t the guy care that they could all die in a fire if . . . if . . . something she couldn’t think of went wrong? Didn’t he care that people were sweating, that all this body heat had upped the temperature in here at least ten degrees? Didn’t he care that it now smelled bad in here all because he had chosen tonight of all nights—the last night before her weeklong wedding vacation—to need an ego boost offered by nearly four hundred screaming fans, several of whom clearly forgot to wear deodorant?