by Sarina Bowen
“Do you think…” I take a breath. “…I’d make a good nurse?”
There’s a second of silence, and that’s all it takes for me to back-pedal. Frantically. Like I’m in a kayak that just got too close to a waterfall.
“Forget it,” I blurt out, ducking my head as I quickly start folding again. “Don’t answer that. That was a dumb question. I don’t know why I was even considering—”
A firm hand clamps over mine, stilling my nervous movements. “Oh hush, baby-cakes. You just caught me by surprise. I think you’d make a fabulous nurse.”
I bite my lip and meet his eyes. “Really?”
“Absolutely. Why? You thinking of applying to nursing school?”
After another beat of hesitation, I offer a jerky nod. “I started looking into it after Jamie was in the hospital this spring,” I confess. “I told you about the nurse that was taking care of him, right? Bertha? Well, I had coffee with her in the hospital cafeteria a couple of times when I was in Toronto, and she kind of gave me a whole rundown of the process.”
“Wow. So this isn’t just a random thing. You’re really considering it.” Dyson releases my hand and resumes his napkin folding. “Where were you thinking of applying? San Francisco?”
I shake my head. “I’m looking everywhere. You won’t believe how expensive nursing programs are now.”
He snorts. “Oh, I’d believe it. You think the student-loan fairy just floated down from the money tree and paid off my debts? Think again, sweetie pie. My bank account hates me. It’s hard to look this good when you’re this broke.”
I can’t help but laugh. He really is one of the best-dressed, most fashion-conscious guys I know. But I had no idea he was still buried under a mountain of loans.
I am, too, but at least all the money I owe isn’t to the government. My parents are the ones who fronted my college tuition. And who paid for the start-up costs of my failed jewelry business. And for the business cards for this new event-planning venture. There’s no deadline for me to pay them back, but every time I accept another handout from them, it chips away at another piece of my independence.
Not to mention my self-esteem.
Fuck. No wonder my family thinks I’m a screw-up. I am a screw-up. My bachelor’s degree in Art History was supposed to set me free, but it just ended up being an albatross around my neck. It didn’t open a single door for me, didn’t get me a single job offer. A position at a museum or in academia now requires more than a measly bachelor’s degree. You need a master’s or a PhD, and I can’t exactly afford to go back to school for another hundred years.
Besides, lately I’ve been wondering if I even belong in a creative field. I’ve tried and failed at so much shit, but this nursing thing… It feels right. When I think about doing it, it’s like my entire being just…centers. This is the first time I’ve ever felt that way.
“Did you consider any Canadian schools?” Dyson asks.
“No, why?”
“They’re cheaper. I didn’t know that when I was applying, but I work with some nurses who studied in Vancouver to save money.”
I make a mental note to investigate.
“And listen,” he says gruffly, “if you’re really serious about nursing, then I’m more than happy to sit down with you and tell you all about it. The good, the bad and the disgusting bedpans.”
I giggle.
“Seriously, babe, this job can be gross sometimes. But it’s super-duper rewarding, too. It’s the best decision I ever—oh sweet Jesus of Nazareth, who is that? And what are those?”
My head swivels to the other side of the tent, and I immediately let out a strangled shriek.
Oh hell no.
4 We’re Number One. Or Two
Blake
Cheezus. This is going to be a nice party. As I carry two giant balloon bouquets down the sloping lawn, I like what I see. There’s a long line of tables for the buffet, ensuring good access to the chow later. And some dudes in white shirts and black vests are setting up what could only be a generous bar.
“Check it out,” I say to Granny Canning. “They’re putting down a dance floor right on the lawn.”
“I’ll bet you like to boogie.” She gives me a wobbly smile. “I’m saving a dance for you, hot stuff.”
“Awesome. You stay cool, GrannCann.” I lead her over to a nice wicker chair facing the lawn. “I gotta deliver these babies.”
“What about my luggage?” she asks. “I think I left it in your car.” She covers her mouth to smooth over a little belch.
“I’ll take care of it. Don’t you worry.”
“Thank you, honeybuns!” she calls as I walk away.
The babes. They all dig me.
“BLAKE RILEY!”
A shriek cuts through the air, its pitch as high as a dog whistle. “Whassup, J-Babe! I got your balloons and your grandma. What’s next on my list?”
She marches across the grass on those long legs, her soft hair bouncing on beautifully tanned shoulders. Jessica Canning is a vision of sexiness in her sleeveless dress and perfectly pink lips.
Her face is a little red, for some reason. But hey, nobody’s perfect.
“What the hell are those?” She points up into the air.
I look, too. “You know, now that you mention it, that cloud does kinda resemble a camel.”
“No, those!” She points nearer to my head.
“Balloons, duh.” I admire them. “The white you ordered turned out really boring in person, though. You shoulda seen it. Just…whiteness on white ribbons. So I dressed ’em up a little. It’s sporty, you know? Aren’t they perfect?” I’d bought fifty Mylar balloons in the shape of those big foam fingers you see at hockey games. “This is a sporty wedding. I saw those puck-shaped chocolates you got, and the hockey-themed wedding website. So these fit right in.”
They’re bright blue and say WE’RE #1 down the finger.
“N-no you don’t,” she sputters. “No fucking way.”
“Language, Jessica!” Cindy Canning chides, gliding up to where Jess and I stand facing each other. “What’s the matter, honey?”
“Those are not the balloons I ordered.” Her pink, pouty lip sticks out, and I want to give it a nibble. But I’m sensing now isn’t a great time.
“Well, they sure are shiny,” Cindy says. “They’ll do, honey. Let’s not get all stressy.” Cindy waves at her mother-in-law. “Thank you for picking up Nana at the airport, Blake.”
“Don’t mention it. We had a little scare there when the airline couldn’t find her luggage, but I calmed her down. I’m good at that. Right, GrannCann?” I call over my shoulder.
“Everything is fine!” Granny yells. “Hi, Cindy! Let me see that dress. Lace, honey? That’s very mother-of-the-groom.” She cackles.
Cindy’s eyebrows lift. “Blake, is it possible that my mother-in-law has been drinking?”
“Well, she was pretty stressed out. I bought her a couple of beers while the airline guys ran around and found her luggage.”
“Oh dear,” Cindy says, marching off to check on Granny.
That leaves me and Jess alone, and she’s staring at me like she wants to rip off my clothes. Or just rip something. I’m not quite sure which.
“Those blue fingers have to go,” she hisses, low and threatening. “Where are the rest of the white ones?”
I shrug. “Didn’t need ’em, so I gave them to a kid who was having a birthday party. Man, that kid was stoked. Said he was going to try that thing where you hold ’em all and jump off the roof of the garage.”
“You gave away my balloons?” Jess’s face falls.
Oh hell. The thing is, the Jess I met in Toronto this spring had a wicked laugh and a naughty sparkle in her eye. I thought she’d think these balloons were funny. They are funny. But the poor girl just can’t appreciate a joke right now, and that’s my bad. I should have known not to mess with a chick’s color scheme. My sisters would probably castrate me for less.
“Don’t b
e mad, Jessie. I’ll go back to the store.”
“They require twenty-four hours notice,” she whispers, her face reddening further.
I’m starting to feel uneasy for her. Apparently I’m not the only one, because a slender guy with a wave of perfect hair scurries up and starts waving his hands near her face.
“Breathe, sweetie pie. Give me some deep yoga breaths. Fainting would wrinkle your dress, and we can’t have that.”
“There aren’t breaths deep enough,” Jess insists. “If I’m jailed for murder, will you visit me?”
“Yes, baby,” the guy coos, kissing her cheek. “Especially if the jumpsuits are salmon.” Then the guy extends a hand to me, but laughs when he realizes I can’t shake it because I’m holding something like a hundred balloons.
“I’m Blake Riley,” I offer.
“Dyson Hart.”
“Dyson, like the vacuum?”
“That’s right.” He gives me a sidelong glance. “Want a demonstration?”
“Dyson,” Jess snaps. “What did we talk about?”
The guy chuckles.
“Blake, this is Dyson. My boyfriend.”
Dyson chuckles again, and she elbows him. He holds out his hand. “Nice to meet you, hon.”
Jess sighs. “Okay, so we have half as many white balloons as we need. I’ll just make do.”
“What about these blue babies?” I look up at them glinting in the sunlight.
“They can go…by the port-a-potties,” she grumbles.
“All right.” If it’ll cheer her up, I’m all for it. “Then it’s a real shame that some of ’em don’t say, We’re Number Two.”
Dyson lets out a loud laugh-snort and holds up a hand, which I try to high-five. But we get tangled up in the balloon ribbon, and Jess has to free us. She does this while rambling on and on about how difficult I am and that she’s never planning another wedding again as long as she lives.
I’m obviously going to have to calm her down with some nookie later. This much stress isn’t good for anyone.
Jess
“So tell me about Blake,” Dyson orders, licking his lips. “Why are we trying to make him jealous?”
“We’re not,” I snap. “You’re just the buffer.”
“Uh-huh,” he says with a wink. “I’d let Blake buff me.”
I clamp my jaw shut because the urge to spill my guts is strong. But I’m saved from that disaster by the appearance of my brother, the groom.
“Wow, look at all this.” Jamie looks so handsome in his suit and tie that I have to restrain myself from running over to ruffle his hair. There’s a smile on his tanned face, and now I know why I’ve been working my ass off these past few weeks.
“You look so amazing,” I tell him, my throat closing up a little. “Wes is a lucky man. I hope he knows.”
Jamie grins. “He does. Hey there, Dyson. How are you?” My brother holds out a hand for Dyson to shake.
My friend hesitates for a second, a hurt look in his eyes. Then he pulls a startled Jamie into a full-body hug. “I’m so happy for you,” he says shakily.
Jamie shoots me a confused look over Dyson’s head. “Thanks, man. I appreciate it.”
Dyson pulls back with a shuddering sigh. “I’ll just…go powder my nose,” he mumbles, walking off toward the main house.
“Is he okay?” Jamie asks, pointing over his shoulder at my crazy friend.
“I’ll check on him in a minute. But in the meantime, is there anything you need? Guests will start arriving in an hour. Is Wes here? Is he dressed? I should really check on the musicians.”
Jamie puts his hands on my shoulders and looks me right in the eye. “Calm down. You’re making me tense.”
“I am?”
He gives me another big, baby-brother smile. “You did a great job out here, Jessie. It’s going to be a terrific party. I love the menu.”
We’re having barbecue—brisket and ribs, corn salad, two different kinds of slaw on the side.
“And those balloons by the bathrooms are hysterical.”
Sigh. “I just want you to be happy.”
“I am happy. So stop freaking out and have a glass of wine or something, okay? You deserve it.” He squeezes my shoulder one more time, then walks away to greet our grandmother, who has been relocated to a shadier spot and handed a cup of strong coffee.
Right. I need to calm down. And I’ll do that, just as soon as I check on the musicians I’ve hired. Jamie is right—I’m so tense about the wedding that I hardly recognize myself. I know I need to relax, but I can’t seem to do it. It’s too important to me that my family thinks I’ve done as good a job as anyone could.
They think of me as their hot-mess kid. But now I finally know what I’m supposed to be doing with my life. And when I tell them after the wedding, they’ll still roll their eyes.
Ninety minutes later I’m still a wreck, but it isn’t my own fault.
A couple hundred guests, including some of the most celebrated athletes in the NHL, are seated in tidy rows of wooden chairs on the lawn. My older brothers have just finished seating Nana and the rest of my siblings in the front row.
In the back, under the tent, I stand with the grooms and my parents. A pair of musicians up front play the first descending chords of Pachelbel’s Canon in D on an electric cello and an electric guitar.
It’s go time. But there’s just one problem. Blake Riley—Wes’s best man—is missing.
This is both horrible and unsurprising. In between murderous thoughts, my palms sweat around the bouquet of daisies I’m clutching. If Blake actually shows up now, I’m going to hurl it at him. My mind is a continuous loop of, Where is he? Where is he? Where is he? and Why me?
Beside me, Jamie smooths down Wes’s lapels, then cups his fiancé’s chin in his hand. “You look awesome. You know that, right?”
Wes gives him a shy smile and then takes a deep breath. He looks nervous, the poor sweetie. Wes doesn’t enjoy attention unless he has a hockey stick in his hand. “I’ll be fine,” he says, his voice gravelly. “Can’t wait to be married to you.”
“Tomorrow we’ll be on our way to the beach,” Jamie whispers.
“Can’t wait for that either,” Wes agrees.
“Our baby is getting married,” my mother says with a sigh. “Does this mean we’re officially old?”
“If we are, don’t tell me,” my father grumbles.
I turn my head for the hundredth time, looking for the jerk who’s supposed to walk me down the aisle. And lo and behold, his enormous form is standing fifty yards away, talking to a middle-aged woman in a beige dress.
My blood pressure spikes. Does he not see that there are two hundred people waiting for him? I’m about to go stomping up the hill and drag him bodily down it when he finally starts moving in my direction.
Relief is like a cool breeze on my face. He puts his arm out, and the woman takes it. They make their way down to where I’m standing. When they’re only a few paces away, I open my mouth, ready to chew Blake a new one. But Wes looks over his shoulder, does an enormous double take, and then says the last thing I’d ever expect him to say.
“Mom!”
We all stare at the newcomer for a second. She and Wes have the same coloring, I suppose. Brown hair and attractive features. But where Wes is a little dangerous looking, this woman seems to have been constructed at a country club by parts procured in a fancy department store. Her dress is prim, and there is a perfect strand of pearls around her neck.
“Hello, Ryan,” she says quietly. “I hope you don’t mind that I came.” Her eyes look a little shiny as she blinks at him. “You look very dapper, dear.”
His mouth opens and then shuts again. Then it opens once more. “Where’d you leave Dad?”
She lifts her chin, and it almost looks defiant. Almost. “He’s on a golf weekend in West Palm.”
“Ah.” Wes’s face shuts down. “You didn’t tell him you came, did you?”
Slowly she shakes her head.
/>
Wes inhales deeply. “All right. Well. This is Jamie—” He lays a hand on my brother’s arm. “And Cindy and Richard and Jess.”
“We’re so glad you made it,” my mother gushes. “Maybe we should change our processional a little bit? Would you like to walk your son down the aisle?”
Both Wesleys shake their heads at the same time. “Please carry on,” Mrs. Wesley stammers. “I’m just happy to be here.”
Wes clears his throat. “Mom, we’ll talk more later. We have to, uh, get this show on the road before Jess here bursts a vessel.”
“Let’s find you a seat, Ang,” Blake says, offering his arm.
She takes it, and they walk off slowly until Blake points at a vacant seat near the front and walks her to it.
We all stare after them.
“Wow,” Jamie whispers as she sits down.
That’s pretty much the only word on my mind, too. I’d just spent the last three months in anguish over the fact that Wes’s family wouldn’t show up for his wedding. I had my mother call the Wesley household in Boston. The calls were never returned. I wrote a personal letter, which was ignored.
And Blake Riley just waltzes up with Mrs. Wesley and plunks her into a rental chair. Unfuckingbelievable.
“All right!” Blake booms as he rejoins us. “Let’s get hitched! Give ’em the high sign, J-Babe!”
He’s right, of course. The musicians have been playing Pachelbel for longer than Pachelbel was alive. I wave to the minister, and she steps gracefully out from the sidelines to take the podium. The musicians segue smoothly into the Bach piece I chose for the processional, because my brother insisted that the wedding march is only for chicks.
Then my father puts an arm around Jamie’s shoulder. “Let’s line up, shall we?”
Jamie nods, and the two of them step out of the tent and wait for the rest of us.
Blake reaches out to grab Wes’s shoulder. “I’m proud to stand up for you, man. Let’s do this thing.”
Wes flashes him a grateful look. Then my mother takes Wes’s hand, kisses him on the cheek and says, “Ready, honey?”
He smiles back, and the two of them line up behind Jamie and my dad.