by Julia Kent
“You look great, Carrie.” Jamey is standing a step behind me, Champagne flute in hand. The ushers are all wearing navy blue blazers and tan trousers, with coral-colored neckties patterned with scallop shells. Jamey has his Ray-Ban Clubmasters on, so I can’t see his eyes. “I love your hair in that relaxed style.”
“It’s not relaxed,” I snap. “It’s falling down. It’s a mess.”
“Well, whatever it is, it suits you.” His voice is soft and sincere.
I open my mouth to say something bitter and sarcastic, to give him a piece of my mind, to make him sorry he ruined my life.
And I close it again. Is my life really ruined?
“Thank you,” I say instead. “You’re looking pretty snappy yourself.”
I glance around, confused. Did I just say that? It sounded very much like normal polite conversation between friends. Couldn’t have been me.
He leans forward, obviously relieved. “Frankly,” he whispers, “the whole clamshell theme is a little bit overdone. Right?”
“They’re in the centerpieces,” I whisper back conspiratorially. I can’t resist. “There are chocolate shells in the swag bags.”
He holds up his paper cocktail napkin, printed with Jenny and Aiden’s names and… yep. Clamshells.
“Etsy,” we say at the same time.
An unexpected giggle bursts out of me. It feels familiar and good.
“I saw Ryan this morning, out for a run,” Jamey says as we wipe our eyes. “You know, I always thought there was a spark between you two. Very hot… but isn’t he kind of young for you? I mean, what do you talk about?”
I start to object, because Ryan’s only six and a half years younger, actually six years and five months, and while that’s a big difference it’s not that big, but we’re interrupted.
“We talk about politics,” someone interjects. “Global warming. JD Vance’s memoir, net neutrality, Amy Schumer’s latest tweet. When we’re not in bed, that is.” Ryan is standing next to me, glowering, his shadow stretched out over the space between me and Jamey as if it seeks to intimidate. “When we’re in bed, which is most of the time, we don’t talk much.”
“So,” I squeak, “you’ve met, right? At O?” Of course they have. I’m just babbling again. Ryan is touching me for the first time since I fell asleep against him last night, naked and stunned, connected and overjoyed. My heart pitter-patters in my chest, pushing against the body-shaping structure of my dress, as Ryan becomes my world once again, consuming me.
“We’ve met,” Ryan says, holding out his hand. “How’ve you been, Jamey?”
I do a little double take when I actually look at Ryan. He’s wearing a lightweight tan suit, cut for his body, and a crisp white shirt with a light blue tie. His hair, still damp from the shower, is brushed back. He smells like limes and basil. He smells like masculinity. 10.5, headed for 11.
“Never been better, actually.” Some weird tension crackles in the air, which is impossible, right? Because Jamey is gay, so it’s not like there’s any competition between the two men. What would they compete over, anyhow?
“Oh, I’m sure that’s not true.” Ryan looks at me with such unabashed sensuality that even Jamey blushes. “Anyone who’s ever dated Carrie knows that time spent with her can’t be surpassed by anything.”
Jamey’s eyes narrow but he says nothing, looking at me as if this is my fault. As if I’m supposed to step in and fall all over myself to stop Ryan. As if I’m responsible for whatever comes out of my fake boyfriend’s mouth.
As if everything is my fault.
“I really do wish you the best, Jamey,” I whisper, trying not to die inside. Two voices scream inside the echoing cavern of my mind, one telling me to give Jamey my full blast of anger, the other practically begging me to just give in and smooth it all out by sacrificing my dignity.
Or maybe by keeping my dignity. Smoothing it out wins.
Ryan squeezes me, just hard enough to make me gasp. He gives Jamey a dead-on, laser-focused stare.
“Too late, C-Shel. He already had the best.” Then he kisses me on the cheek, pulling me even closer. My pushed-up breast smashes into his chest and the heady scent of his aftershave, soap, and the radiating, pure, righteous fury on my part that is fueling his words all fill my senses.
Unsure and reeling, I act on impulse, standing on tiptoe and turning my face toward his until we’re kissing, his mouth angry, but not at me.
For me.
It’s refreshing to have someone feel something for me.
The kiss is everything I’ve wanted from a partner, a soulmate, a live in-the-flesh man who desires me so much he’ll slide his hand up my back, tangle it in my hair, kiss me breathless and ignore the uncomfortable sounds of people we’re offending by this wild display of naked passion.
I break away, panting, my lips raw.
Because what’s the point? This isn’t real. Last night wasn’t real.
Nothing is real.
Jamey’s feelings for me weren’t real. I mean, he thought they were, but they weren’t. Ryan’s anger might be, but the affection sure isn’t. It’s all an act.
And I’m tired of acting.
“You blew your chance, Jamey. Thank you for that.” Ryan sticks his hand out again while his other arm grips me. Surprised, Jamey takes the handshake out of instinct. I watch Ryan grab hard, his forearm muscles flexing, part of his tattoo peeking out from under his shirt and bulging as his jacket and cuff ride up slightly.
“Uh, hey, man, my pleasure.” Jamey looks confused, but he quickly covers it up, smile tightening to one of irritation, jaw grinding as he realizes what Ryan’s doing.
“Actually,” Ryan says loudly. “The pleasure will be all mine.” He winks. “And Carrie’s, of course." The look he gives me sucks all the air out of my body.
What is he doing? It’s too much. He’s pretending and I’m not, and the pain, oh the pain. My dress is too tight. The world is too heavy. Nothing allows me to breathe because I can’t inhale in a world where what happened last night isn’t real.
“Wedding party!” Jenny’s mom shouts. “Wedding party to the terrace, please, for photos!”
Saved by formalities.
She deftly removes beer bottles from the hands of two ushers and shoos them toward the photographer. Coming to a halt in front of me, her navy blue chiffon sleeves fluttering in the breeze, she frowns.
“Carrie, what has happened to you? Your lipstick is all over your face and your hair is falling down, and we haven’t even started yet! We need to fix you.”
“Someone sure does,” I say under my breath. “Good luck with that.”
She glances at Ryan. “And her lipstick is all over your face, too.” She hands him a tissue from her bag. “Jamey, they’re waiting. Get over there,” she continues, undeterred from her task of rounding everyone up. “You look very handsome, darling. Remember your left side is your best.” She adjusts his boutonnière slightly and moves on toward the photographer’s assistant. They bend their heads together, Jen’s mom gesturing in my direction. The assistant nods, looking concerned.
With a small eye-roll, Jamey sets off toward the groomsmen, who are being pushed and pulled into alignment for the camera.
“I’d better go,” I tell Ryan. “Are you okay just hanging out for a while?”
“Sure,” he says, “I’m fine. I think I’ll get one of those local IPAs from the bar.”
“The wedding’s supposed to start soon. After that, I’ll be a lot more free.”
“No worries. The reception’ll be fun.”
And then he meets my eyes.
For the first time all weekend, it’s like we’re really looking at each other. I mean, not in a fake-boyfriend, fake-girlfriend, performing-for-an-audience kind of way, but like we’re completely alone. All the breath goes back into my body. All of it. Every bit of oxygen in the whole, wide world.
Ryan leans toward me and softly, gently, his lips meet mine. Not rough and hard, not muscular and g
roping, just… us. A kiss that connects us and holds us together in time, because that’s what we both want. What we both choose. A kiss that lingers and breaks apart slowly.
Different. New.
I muster up my courage. “Ryan, we really need to talk — ”
“Um, excuse me, you’re Carrie, right?” The photographer’s assistant, clearly embarrassed, looks like she’s contemplating a career change. Taxidermy, maybe — something where the subjects stand perfectly still and exhibit no emotions whatsoever.
I can’t answer her because I have forgotten my name. She soldiers on.
“The bride’s mother asked me to, um, see if you, um, need any help with photo prep?”
I stare at her blankly.
“Um, makeup? Hair?” she tries. “They’re shooting the bridesmaids next.”
Ryan’s lips brush against my jaw light, light and feathery, enough to make me shiver and smile. “It’s okay. We can talk later. I know you have wedding responsibilities.” He eyes me appreciatively, his whole face smiling, eyes shining. “Go be the best maid of honor ever.”
“That’s not exactly a goal of mine,” I admit, but laugh.
“You can’t help it, C-Shel. Like I told Jamey, you’re the best.” He’s standing so close to me, a few inches taller, the sun high in the sky. When he looks at me like this, his body shielding me from the wind, I feel so safe. Impossibly comfortable and filled with potential.
Maybe — just maybe — these feelings are real?
“Stop,” I protest. “You don’t need to flatter me.” I can’t let myself dare crack open the vault of repressed emotion that allows me to function on a day like today. After opening myself up last night in every possible way — no matter how deliciously toe-curling — I need a little restraint.
His smile fades, replaced by an even hotter contemplative look. “Not flattering. Just telling the truth, Carrie.”
The photographer’s assistant clears her throat.
“I’ll see you at the ceremony,” he says. “I’ll be in the back, on the bride’s side. Ignore me until the reception.”
Before I can say anything, he turns and leaves, long strides eating up the ground beneath his feet. My heart plays a tambourine in my chest as I reconcile the friends we were with the… whatever we are now. My belly tightens, tingling as I remember his hands on me last night, my legs around his hips, how he sighed against my neck, how his kisses went on and on and on until I floated away on the feeling of endless connection with Ryan.
Right or wrong, we crossed a line last night. Watching him dance in front of all those women, with his body over mine as he dipped and stroked, teased and moved in the moonlight until I couldn’t stand it, couldn’t keep pretending, made my flight instincts kick in. I fled.
And he followed.
Making love — can I call it that? — wasn’t what I expected after I ran back to the room. But now it’s all I can think about. Ryan’s mouth. Ryan’s hands. Ryan’s naked body, so strong and powerful over mine, the interplay between our unclothed skin so new, so hot, yet holding so many questions.
It was real for me. Was it fake for him? How could it be so perfect if it was just pretend?
Funny how he looks like the perfect Instagram man, unposed, the light slightly off, and yet he is perfect.
In every way. I couldn’t wish for better.
RYAN
For once, I don’t hate Jamey.
Just this one time.
He focused me, gave me an excuse to approach Carrie and touch her, feel her. Gauge her. This morning, I was up and out the door long before she woke up. Went for a run, but before that, I spent entirely too long watching her sleep, hair mussed, lips red from so much kissing.
Never enough kissing.
The reality of what I did last night — what we did — still hasn’t seeped into the marrow of my bones where it should reside, permanent and lasting. Instead, it floats like tiny hairs on gooseflesh, rising to the occasion but unsure what to do next.
She’s torn away from me by the photographer, ready to be paraded around and admired the way she should be, though today she’s a backdrop. An extra. Part of the pretty scenery that showcases Jenny and Aiden.
At our wedding, Carrie will be in the spotlight, front and center.
Sweat breaks out on my forehead and palms.
Our wedding.
Where did that thought come from?
“Doing okay there?” Chloe asks, walking up to me as Nick holds her hand, fingers threaded intimately. He’s using his other palm as a visor, watching the wedding party as they walk carefully up a sand dune, trudging to the top as the wind sweeps Jenny’s lace veil like a kite tail, licking the heads of the groomsmen.
“I’m fine. Why?” I ask, struggling to keep my voice even.
“You look so serious.”
I break out a sexy smile. You know, the kind I’m paid to flash. “This better?”
Chloe frowns. Nick drops his hand and gives me a neutral look. “Weddings make people re-evaluate their lives.” He turns to look at Chloe, who meets his gaze. She’s focused and ready, attentive yet contemplative. Even more than usual.
And very clearly trying to read Nick’s layered statement.
“Weddings make women go crazy,” I say, trying to lighten the mood.
Nick laughs, but he still looks at Chloe. “All the details take over, but underneath it all, you’re promising forever to someone.”
“Forever,” she whispers.
They share a smile that makes my chest hurt. A deep breath just pushes the pain around, the buttoned business shirt under my suit jacket straining, my tie trying to kill me.
Everything feels tight. Close. Claustrophobic.
“Excuse me,” I tell them, turning and walking away before Nick or Chloe can respond. I need air. Ignore the fact that I’m on the beach and a giant breeze is blowing.
I need space.
From my own emotions.
As I guzzle unsweetened ice tea from a big glass dispenser with lemon, lime, mint and cucumber slices — an entire produce section — floating in it, I look up just as the sun hides behind one of the rare clouds in the sky, making the line of men and women in the wedding party stand out against the clear, cerulean sky.
Carrie’s on the very end, her skirt elegant, angled just so, laughing with such unrestrained joy I damn near can’t stand it. She’s captivating, a vision of pure abundance and love, her raucous, unremitting happiness the closest I’ll ever come to seeing heaven.
Assuming I make it there.
A man could die in the middle of watching her laughing on the wind and be complete.
But I want more.
“Food’s getting set up,” Zeke says, suddenly appearing behind me, offering up a craft beer from some brewery in Maine.
“You’re drinking already? The wedding is about to start!” As I judge him, I realize he’s onto something.
He smirks. I take the beer and drink half. Why not? Liquid courage might come in handy later.
As I finish my guzzling, the back of my neck tingles. A drop of ice-cold water from the bottle’s condensation drips on my wrist. I don’t react.
Zeke’s staring at me.
“What?”
“You did it, didn’t you?”
“Did what?”
“Got laid.”
I stare back.
He chuckles, a deeply annoying sound that makes me want to break the bottle and slice his vocal cords. The noise reminds me of being bullied, of the grunts of derision kids made on the playground, the mocking huff of someone judging you for being earnest.
Real.
Yourself.
“You did, didn’t you? You’re looser. Distracted, but all that tension you’ve carried in your shoulders is gone.” Wink. “Drained right out of you.” He lets out a low whistle. “Carrie any good in bed?”
The smell of beer and shock fills my nostrils as I grab Zeke’s shirt collar, in his face, whispering in a deadly rasp, “Y
ou don’t talk about her like that.”
We’re frozen, eye to eye, toe to toe. I’m a big guy. Zeke’s a big guy.
Big guys can do a lot of damage to each other.
“I’m not your enemy, mate,” he says in a controlled voice, the tone we reserve for the angry husbands who discover their wives are frequenting O.
“And I’m not some wuss you make fun of, dude. Lay off.”
He holds his palms up, eyes round, the skin across his forehead folding with real emotion. “I’m sorry. I am. Crossed a line.”
I let go of him.
“You did.”
“You’re really in love with her, aren’t you?” He asks with a tone of what I swear is reverence. Impossible.
“Yes,” I confess.
“Man.”
“I know.” As we stand down from nearly shredding each other, we go back to that easy friendship that comes from giving no fucks. I’m done. I just don’t care anymore about pretending when it comes to my feelings.
“Must be nice.”
“It’s not. It’s torture.”
Suddenly, in the distance, the entire wedding party leaps in the air, squealing and shouting. Giggles and good-natured male laughter fill the air, carried to us by a thick breeze.
“I mean it, Ryan. Sorry. Good for you.” He seems dejected.
“Why are you acting like we’re at a funeral and not a wedding?” I’m calming down. Zeke’s not my opponent. Jamey isn’t either. No one is, really.
Aside from me. I’m my own biggest obstacle.
A quick head shake and he’s back to grinning. “I’m not at a funeral or a wedding. I’m at a wake.”
“A wake? For who?”
“For your poor cock. Paying my respects, because it’s about to get tied down, and once you’re tied down, might as well be dead.” He salutes my crotch by touching the mouth of his beer to his forehead.
“You are so fucking weird.”
“As long as I’m fucking at all, mate. Call me whatever you want.”
Carrie makes her way toward us slowly, stopping to chat with the other wedding party members, then with Jenny’s mom and dad.
“You gonna tell her? Or did you already?”
“Tell her what?”