by Julia Kent
Me? I’d rather enjoy the marriage. Not the wedding.
It’s one day. One. All the time and energy we’re spending on a single day out of, say, the twenty thousand or so days we get in the rest of our lifetimes seems out of proportion. I love Andrew. He loves me. Can’t that be enough?
And yet… I want to enjoy this. Or maybe I want to want to enjoy it all. A hollow feeling, a hole where my giveashit meter is supposed to live, plagues me.
Feeling two contradictory emotions at the same time is so much harder than it should be. File this under Life is Not Fair, huh?
I walk into the living room and find Andrew’s vinyl collection. Open the turntable and put on a Joni Mitchell album. As she croons in the background, I make a latte with the machine Andrew got me for my birthday a few months ago, a masterstroke of Italian engineering that produces coffee so fine, it’s like it gives birth.
“Snap out of it,” I mutter to myself, taking my fresh cup to the small terrace off the bedroom, the ocean calm today, the sun hidden behind a thin layer of clouds. Not quite dreary, not quite sunny, the day is average. Mediocre. The kind of day that comes and goes in a string of similar days that never quite register, never etch themselves in memory.
I close my eyes and inhale deeply, bringing the saltwater air into me, searching for an answer to a question I can’t quite form.
And then it hits me.
Lonely. I’m lonely. How can I be lonely? I’m about to marry the most amazing billionaire CEO on the planet, a hot, devoted man who loves me more than I deserve. And --
Wait. Back up.
Where did that thought come from?
Bzzz. My phone vibrates on the nightstand. I ignore it. No one expects me at work until eleven; I’m staying late for a West Coast conference call tonight. Mom would just call and it would ring. Andrew’s working out with Vince, who is probably feeding him zebra blood mixed with coconut oil to ramp up his mitochondrial functioning — or something.
But it could be Shannon. I reluctantly pick it up. It’s a text from a number I don’t recognize.
Found your 1971 Yes album. Can you come to the store and check it out? Brady
If you call off a wedding, do you still get the groom a gift? Ah, etiquette.
Regardless, the fact that Brady got his hands on one makes me smile, and it gives me purpose today. Someone, somewhere, is available to spend time with me, even if it’s a shlumpy record store worker who smells like cotton balls and Speed Stick for Men.
Imagine Andrew’s face when he opens the album. Wedding or no wedding, I want to give this to him. Need to give it to him. He’s given me so much.
I check the clock. 8:22. I can be there at ten, I reply.
Great. I’ll be there, he replies. Three dots appear, and then he adds: Cash only.
Got it, I reply.
And I do.
After a shower, I take a detour to the main Grind It Fresh! coffee shop around the corner from Andrew’s place.
Our place.
In my mind, it’s his apartment. Not ours.
It’s unrealistic to hope that I’ll walk into the coffee shop and find Shannon working behind the counter, but some part of my brain sets me up for disappointment as I stand in line and look at the faces of all the workers. Sigh. Eight minutes later I have my breve latte and am nursing a bad case of nostalgia.
By the time I reach the record store, I’m deep in memory, recalling all the ways we combined Shannon’s Strawberry Shortcake dolls with her dad’s Star Wars memorabilia. Blueberry Muffin had the hots for Chewbacca. We used to draw pictures of what their kids would look like.
Mostly really hairy blueberries.
The door jingles as I open it, the familiar record store scent mingling with the freshly brewed coffee in my hand. Brady is at the counter and he looks up, face impassive.
“Hey.”
“Hey. How’s it going?”
“Dead.”
I look around. He’s right. No one’s here.
“It’s ten a.m. on a Tuesday. I’d imagine that’s the definition of dead for a store like this.”
“Pretty much. Just have to do all the eBay purchases today and deal with the teenagers when school lets out. Big Magic tournament tonight, too.”
I get the feeling being the recipient of that many words from Brady means we’re friends.
Or whatever passes for friendship in his world.
Reaching under the counter, he gently handles a large, flat package.
“I have some bad news,” he says as he slides it across the expanse between us.
“What?”
“There’s competition for that.” He points to the album. “Someone called this morning, right after I got off the phone with you. Turns out this has become extremely popular in the last couple of hours.”
“Oh, come on. You know that’s just a ploy to jack up the price.”
“Not a ploy. I swear. Some woman called and asked for the exact same thing. She said she was calling for her boss.”
“How much?”
“She’s offering more than you are.”
“How much?”
“That’s all she said. Her exact words were, ‘Whatever the other party offers, we’ll go higher.’”
“Brady, I wasn’t born yesterday.”
“The buyer is coming in right now, too. She said her boss insists that they have to win this purchase. When I told her you were coming in today at ten, she said her boss would come, too, so you could come to an agreement.”
“Come to an agreement? What? How is outbidding me at any price ‘an agreement’?”
The door jingles as I say that last part. I turn and see a very familiar face staring at me.
“Hey,” Brady says to the guy. “What’s up, Chris?”
Chris Steig. One of my dates from DoggieDate last year. I haven’t seen him since I ghosted on him at a microbrew pub.
That’s bad, right? Running into the guy you ditched for the man you’re about to buy a wedding present for in a used-record shop.
“Amanda?” His voice turns up, then down at the end, an emotional rollercoaster of judgment.
“Chris?” He seems pleased I remember his name. He looks even better than he did a year ago, hair grown out a bit and styled, with a shirt that looks tailored, nipped in at the waist on his long, lean torso. He looks good in that shade of blue, like Caribbean seas, and the black pants cut a nice tight figure.
Brady retreats behind a curtain that leads to the back of the store as Chris looks at me, eyes narrowed, sizing me up. “You shop here? Do you live around here?” It’s clear he doesn’t expect the answer to be yes.
“No. Looking for a collector’s item.” I tap the package on the counter. “How are you?”
“Better than the last time we saw each other.”
“About that – I’m sorry.” I reach up with my left hand to worry a necklace, deeply uncomfortable. I’m not the kind of woman who ditches guys on dates, but he doesn’t know that.
His eyes lock in on my hand.
“Is that an engagement ring?” One sandy-colored eyebrow goes up above the edge of his glasses, making him look young and cynical.
Which he has every right to be.
“What, this?” I rotate my hand to show it to him.
“Congratulations. Given the size of that diamond, I assume it’s the asshole in the limo?”
I deserve that.
“Yes. I mean, he’s not an asshole, but...yes. I’m engaged to him.”
“Let’s agree to disagree about the asshole part.” He looks at the package I’m here for and raises an eyebrow. “So, what are you buying?”
“A wedding gift for my fiancé.”
“Of course you are.”
“What are you buying?”
“Nothing important. A vintage Nintendo cartridge that pops up from time to time.”
We stare at each other. Under different circumstances, we could be boyfriend and girlfriend right now. If Andrew hadn’t i
nterrupted that date with Chris, who knows what might have happened? He’s well read. Cultured. Funny and geeky, working in high tech but with books and literature at the core of his technology efforts.
We spent, what – twenty minutes? -- together, and yet here I am, playing a dangerous game of what if? in my mind.
I can tell he’s playing it, too.
“How’s your dog?”
“Spritzy? He’s fine. How’s yours?” I give him a sarcastic look.
“Oh, it’s sad. She died in a freak accident.”
“Really? What happened?”
“A hawk appeared out of nowhere and kidnapped her.” He gives me a flat look.
“You googled me?”
“Last year? Yeah. Before our date. I never got a chance to mention it before we were rudely interrupted.”
“Andrew does have a way of – aaaahhhhhh!” I scream.
I was jokingly turning to look through the record store’s plate glass window, like we did the night of our date last year, only this time the joke’s on me.
Because there stands Andrew out on the sidewalk, wearing a suit, hands in his pockets, with the limo behind him.
Glaring at Chris.
“Jesus, Amanda. Do you have a fiancé or a stalker?” Chris mutters.
“What are you doing here?” I shout through the window.
Brady re-appears at the counter as Andrew walks into the store, eyes on Chris the entire time. Without even looking at me, Andrew’s possessive arm wraps around my waist, his breath heavy with tightly coiled irritation. “Hello.”
Chris ignores him and marches out of the store.
I punch Andrew.
“This is the part where you’re supposed to kiss me,” he says gruffly, like he’s the one who should be offended.
“Not when you act like some creepy over-possessive billionaire stalker. It’s like Groundhog Day meets Fifty Shades!”
Andrew’s eyebrows twitch. “I don’t see a problem with that comparison.”
“You just embarrassed me again with Chris!”
“Let’s talk about that word.”
“‘Embarrassed’?”
“‘Again.’ What were you doing with him again?”
“Nothing!”
The eyebrow goes up again.
“Are you seriously jealous now? You don’t trust me?”
“Of course I trust you. But you have to admit it’s a huge coincidence to swallow.”
“If you keep acting like a troglodyte, I’ll make you swallow your tongue. Now answer me – what are you doing here? This isn’t exactly the kind of place you frequent. Plus, weren’t you working out with Vince?”
He grimaces. “Vince had just launched into a conversation about how April the giraffe gave birth and ate the amniotic sac afterward, and as he itemized the nutritional value of the fluid, Gina texted me to come here. Vince had just started in on his connections to some zookeeper and black market rates for — ” He shudders. “Gina’s getting a huge raise.”
“Gina sent you? Here? Why?”
“To negotiate.”
“To negotiate what?”
Discomfort fills his features suddenly. “Um, nothing.”
And then it hits me.
“You’re the other bidder?”
His eyes fly wide open. “You’re the other bidder?”
“Oh, my God,” we say in unison.
“Of course it’s you! You told Brady you’d pay more than me no matter what?”
“Yes.”
“That’s not how you negotiate!”
“That’s how you win what you want.”
“But – but – this was supposed to be a surprise! Your wedding present from me!”
“Same here.”
“You were buying the same album for me?”
We look at each other, dumbfounded.
“This is like a bad Full House episode, only without kids,” Brady mutters. “I’d better call my boss and tell him there won’t be a bidding war after all.”
Andrew’s grip on me changes from primal caveman to a tender hold. “You wanted me to have this rare album?”
“Yes. I’ve been looking all over for it. You, too? It’s taken me so many hours and all these trips to record stores.”
His eyes go shifty. “Right.”
“So much effort.”
“Uh huh.”
“Gina’s done all the work for you, hasn’t she?”
He sighs. “It’s the thought that counts.”
I kiss his cheek. “It is. We really are soulmates, aren’t we?”
“We really are.” He’s distracted, though. I can tell.
“Nothing was going on with Chris,” I assure him.
“What? Oh. Right. I know.”
“That’s not what’s distracting you?”
“Nothing’s distracting me.”
“Andrew. I can tell. What’s wrong?”
“This means buying you the album isn’t a surprise. I have another idea, but it’s risky.”
“Idea for a wedding present?”
“Yes.”
“Define ‘risky.’”
“I’m not sure you’ll like it.”
“If it’s something that comes from the heart, then I’m sure I will.”
“It’s big.”
“How big?”
“Really big. And if you don’t like it, we can’t easily take it back.”
“It’s your call.”
His face lights up. “Really?”
“Of course! Gifts are as much about the giver as the recipient. Isn’t that the point of giving gifts? You do it from the heart.”
“This would definitely be heartfelt. But what if it’s life altering?”
“A life-altering gift?”
“Right.”
“Now I’m intrigued. Pretty much the only life-altering gift you could give me is a baby.”
I can hear him blink, it’s so quiet.
“Do you want that as a wedding present? A baby?”
“No,” I say, laughing. “How about for our one- or two-year anniversary, though?”
His grin is mixed with a little bit of relief.
Less than I’d expect to see, though.
“Sounds good. I’ll hold you to that. Instead of paper, you get sperm.”
“You are so romantic.” I laugh. “Why are you so serious? What’s so monumental about this gift you’re thinking about giving me?”
He kisses the tip of my nose, then taps it. “You’ll see.”
Someone behind us clears his throat. “If you two are done talking about paper and sperm, can we get this transaction over with? My boss just called. I have to set up a kids’ Minecraft birthday party in the game room.”
I look at Andrew. “If you’re getting me something else, then I’m the one buying the album.”
“Fine. You won.”
Shock floods my body.
“Say that again.”
“You won.”
I grin.
He grins back.
We both won.
Chapter 18
It’s surprisingly simple to get married privately in Massachusetts. You get a marriage license at your town hall. No blood test required. You can go to a regular ordained minister or your local justice of the peace – or you can fill out a special form making someone legally able to perform your marriage ceremony. It’s like being minister for a day, and for our secret wedding, Andrew has asked his brother Terry to fill that role.
Here we are, ready. License? Check. Officiant? Check. Bride and groom? Check.
Ten paparazzi stalking us to catch pictures of our wedding that they can sell to go viral online?
Check.
Plan A: Make Terry the official “minister” and get married at an undisclosed location whenever we want. All our close friends and family can be there. Andrew’s even suggested that we get married at celebrity chef Consuela Arroyo’s secret restaurant, a fitting place to hold a gathering of fifty or sixty peo
ple, most of whom crashed his proposal there anyhow.
Plan B: Call Terry one day, get married at our apartment, and sneak off before any paparazzi can even get a whiff of it.
I don’t like either plan.
The plan I do like is the one that doesn’t involve a wedding or an elopement. It involves a properly cooked filet mignon and a rooftop solarium off Congress Street. Andrew is taking me to Consuela’s secret restaurant, a bistro so hidden that even Jessica Coffin hasn’t eaten there.
That might have more to do with Consuela’s deep disgust for Jessica, but whatever. Any activity that involves people I trust, privacy, good food, good wine, and Andrew is one I relish.
Oh, and not being called a jailbird’s daughter helps.
I haven’t been left alone, but the torrent of constant attention has died down – slightly. Two major gossip sites, collectively responsible for more than thirty million page-views a day, abruptly stopped covering us.
One ten-minute meeting between Andrew and their parent company’s CEO that same day was just a coincidence.
Three other major lifestyle blogs jumped at Anterdec’s offer to buy them out, provided they scrubbed all details about us from their site. Once Katie Gallagher explained her ability to dig into all aspects of monetized content online and to use Anterdec’s leverage to get the false reports about us removed, Andrew gave her the green light to ‘wow’ him.
“Who knew all those years writing cheesy keyword articles for $25 each on topics like ‘Tea Tree Oil Cures for Plantar Fasciitis’ and ‘Top 10 Baptist Churches Near Sheboygan, Wisconsin’ would pay off?” she said to me, the gleam in her eye less disingenuous and more scheming than I’d noticed before. “I know all about the lifestyle blogs, which ad networks they use, and I can track all their parent companies to get this paparazzi gossip stuff shut down. Fast. Some of those content writers from back in the day still hold grudges against some high level directors and major media networks. This is going to be so much more fun than wedding planning!”
Turns out Katie’s one of those people who become self-destructive without a mission.
Corporations love people like that.
And corporations always have lots of available missions, so the feeling is often mutual.
Bzzz.
You ready? Andrew texts.
I’ve taken the day off to spend with Mom, who is doing just fine. While she hates to cook, she loves to bake, and Jay, the security guard assigned to her, is being carbed up daily by her endless supply of chocolate muffins.