Thank You For Holding: On Hold Series Book #2

by Julia Kent

  “The truth about how you feel.”

  “I will. I just…”

  “What?”

  “Need to make sure she feels the same way.”

  “You are a wuss, Ryan. Have you seen the way Carrie looks at you? Of course she feels the same way. What more do you need? A billboard in Times Square?”

  “I know. I guess. I — ”

  “She fucked you, right?”

  I bristle. “We didn’t fuck.”

  “I thought you said…”

  “We made love.”

  I deserve his groan. I do. Even having this conversation with Zeke would have been impossible a few days ago. Who opens up to an asshole like him?

  Me. I’m that desperate. Not desperate enough to talk it out with one of my sisters, but spilling my guts to Zeke is damn close.

  “You’re together, then?” Zeke asks, stuffing a giant bacon-wrapped shrimp in his mouth. The reception has been moved outdoors, with no need for a tent. He’s filching food before it’s officially set up, but Zeke clearly subscribes to the idea that it’s better to ask forgiveness than permission.

  “Together?” Even my own voice sounds idiotic.

  “Real boyfriend and girlfriend? No more of this fake shit?” Smugness radiates from his pores. “I knew this would work.”

  “Knew what would work?”

  “Convincing you to be her pretend date.”

  “You give yourself way too much credit. I was already thinking about offering. Besides, we’re still not together.”

  “Oh, please. You’re together. People like you don’t just have a fun fuck and then walk away from each other. You’re not pretending, and Carrie sure as hell isn’t playing some game. I’ve seen how she is with you. This is real, Ryan. Better like the taste and feel of her, because that’s all you’re getting for the rest of your life.” He drinks more beer, then shakes his head at me. “Sad bastard.”

  “You’re wrong.” But he’s right.

  “We’ll see.”

  The string quartet plays a sprightly tune meant to get guests to herd themselves to the actual wedding ceremony. I put my empty glass on a tray and head over to the very last row of chairs, taking my place on Jenny’s side.

  Zeke follows me.

  All I can say about the forty-minute wedding ceremony is this: good thing Jenny and Aiden aren’t Catholic. Forty minutes of listening to them read vows to each other was more than enough.

  Add in the fact that Aiden is a linguistics professor; the recitation of his vows in Gaelic, some clicking language from Africa, and Aramaic was overkill. Just rent a plane with a banner like the rest of us.

  While the foreign languages went over my head, so did the rest of the words. I just watched Carrie, sweetly smiling, crying on cue, and supporting Jenny through the ceremony.

  I just want Carrie back in my arms.

  Weddings should be special, but they’re not. Not to me. With four older sisters, I’ve been a junior usher, an usher, the guest book person, and worn a tux for too many fancy occasions. Caught two garters, too — both before I’d ever even kissed or been kissed.

  The fast track to the reception is much appreciated by everyone but the parents, and soon people make a beeline for the food and alcohol.

  More guests fill in the giant courtyard, holding glasses of Champagne and tea, milling about the food and beginning to sample. A small band, led by a jazz saxophone, plays smooth melodies, completing the Cape Cod wedding feel. Hours of fun and celebration extend before us, unstructured and unscheduled. Weddings are about love.

  “Zeke!” Eileen van Donner says his name like she’s having an orgasm. “I thought I saw you here. Can you spare a few minutes away from your friend to reconnect with me?”

  “Reconnect?” Zeke makes it clear he understands that word is code for sex. “I would love to reconnect with you, Eileen.” He winks at me. “Ryan’s not able to reconnect. Ever. He’s on perma-hold.”

  He leaves.

  I drink beer.

  I look for Carrie, finding her in a group congregated around the bridal party table. Jenny and Aiden are nowhere to be seen, but the rest of the bridesmaids and ushers are eating appetizers and drinking, looking a bit dazed from the wedding.

  “Hey, beautiful,” I say to Carrie, who gives me a bright-eyed look, then drops her eyes as she drinks from a Champagne flute.

  Jessie is next to her, giving Carrie a jealous look. “You have a brother?” she asks me.

  “Four sisters. I’m the baby.”

  “All the good ones are taken,” she grumbles.

  Bzzz.

  I jump, my hand grazing Carrie’s ass as the unexpected call comes in on my phone. “Excuse me,” I say, just as Jamey takes the microphone and calls the guests to come for the best man’s toast. I give Carrie an apologetic shrug and look at my phone.

  Mom.

  An uneasy feeling starts in my gut. Why would Mom call me so soon after our last conversation? As the guests find their places at tables, I find a quiet spot to talk, half-jogging out of the courtyard and into an empty hallway indoors.

  “Hello?”

  “Ryan? Sweetie? It’s Mom.” Something about her tone makes me go cold.

  “I know, Mom. I have caller ID. Is everything okay?”

  “It’s your father.”

  “What’s — what’s wrong?”

  “He’s fine,” she assures me. “He just… I think you need to come visit sooner rather than later. We were looking at old photo albums today and he didn’t recognize you once you were out of childhood. Kept pointing at pictures of you when you were in high school and calling you Milt.”

  Milt is my uncle. Dad’s brother. I look nothing like him.

  “Oh.” My hand shakes as I run it through my hair, shoulders hunching. Of all the times to field a call like this. Jamey’s voice floats through the air, his toast about to start. I hear people moving chairs, instruments being tuned, the rush of the ocean and the beating of my own heart, steady but fast, over it all, under it all, merged in between.

  “I know you’re busy, Ryan, but — he recognizes Dina, Ellen, and Michelle. Tessa mostly, too. And this is the first time he couldn’t place you in a picture as an adult.”

  “It’s that bad? Really, Mom?”

  “He’s fine most of the time! And maybe I’m just being an alarmist. Next week he sees his doctor for a full evaluation. Sometimes these problems with memory turn out to be a side effect of medication. Maybe it isn’t inevitable.”

  Inevitable.

  A group of giggling women walk by, two of them familiar. One waves, fingers waggling, her look a come-on.

  Gia. Gina. Twins. That’s right — the ones with Zeke in the elevator the other night. Instead of flashing my professional smile, I turn away, ignoring them.

  “I planned to visit in a month, Mom.”

  “Ellen told me about grad school. That would be perfect.” I can feel the relief and expectation in Mom’s voice.

  I go silent.

  “Don’t be mad at her, Ryan. She’s as worried about Dad as I am, and thought I should know what you’re planning. I’m so proud of you.”

  “Don’t be. Not yet. I haven’t gotten in.”

  “You will. That’s what you do, Ryan — you pick something you want and you don’t let anyone stop you. You’ve been like that since you were a little boy.”

  Mom’s words make me blink.

  You pick something you want and you don’t let anyone stop you.

  If I don’t go to California, I won’t be able to help with my dad. If I go, I lose Carrie.

  If I ever had her in the first place.

  “This is too much,” I mutter. In the distance, Jamey’s voice carries on the microphone system, his best man toast in full swing, people laughing at appropriate intervals. Music swells and someone announces the bride and groom as Mr. and Mrs., the air ripe with a song I recognize converted into a slow jazz tune for the first, symbolic wedding dance.

  “I’m sorry
. But I need to turn to you and tell you these things about Dad,” Mom says.

  “I didn’t mean — it’s okay, Mom.” I sigh. “Tell me what you want me to do.”

  “Can you call Dad? Do that Timeface thing with him on the computer? Last time you were home you set it up for us, but then Dad fiddled with the computer and I think he broke it.”

  “Facetime, Mom. It’s called Facetime. And yes, I can. I’ll make more of an effort. Get Jane over to the house and she can fix it.” Jane is my eleven-year-old niece, Ellen’s daughter, and girl coder extraordinaire.

  “Jane’s here baking cookies. I’ll ask her.” Mom gasps. “Ryan! I completely forgot you’re at that wedding. How is Carrie? Am I going to meet her someday?”

  I happen to walk past a big picture window where I can see the entire wedding reception. Carrie’s under a tall canopy with the rest of the wedding party, everyone’s attention on the bride and groom as they dance. She’s whispering something to Angela, both of them holding Champagne glasses, and then they laugh.

  Carrie scans the room.

  She’s looking for me.

  “Ryan? You there?” Mom asks.

  Just as I open my mouth to reply to my mother, to tell her yes, she’ll meet Carrie one day, that yes, I’m in love with her, that yes, Dad will be fine and yes — I can fix everything — I see Jamey approach Carrie and take her hand, kiss it, then lead her to the dance floor.

  Something in me snaps.

  “I’m here, Mom. And yes, you’ll meet Carrie someday.” I hope.

  “Oh, that’s great! I’m so happy for you, sweetie!”

  “I have to go, Mom. Wedding stuff. Love you and Dad.”

  Click.

  By the time I reach the reception, the band is playing a jazzed-up version of a Mumford & Sons song, Jamey holding Carrie close and talking to her softly, the other ushers and bridesmaids all paired off in couples that dance around Jenny and Aiden. The bride’s parents and both sets of the groom’s parents are dancing.

  I don’t care about decorum, so I cut in, interrupting Jamey mid-sentence with a look that says I assume he’ll move.

  He does. Smart man. And I think I see a little smile on his face as he moves off.

  The second I’m touching Carrie, the world rights itself again. Her warmth, her scent, the soft press of her dress fabric against my palm, the brush of her loose curls against my nose all add up to a grounding I can’t get from an anti-static wristband or a heel grounder. She’s my emotional core, my heart’s lightning rod, my true North.

  And as I pull her into my arms, I realize it’s time to tell her.

  “Hi - Ow! Oof!” she says softly, moving her high-heeled feet to my left. “Ryan, can you lead a little more?”

  I sway slowly to the music, my hands on her hips, one of her hands going up to my shoulder, the other on my waist. “Okay.”

  I crush her toes again.

  “What are you doing? Quit joking around! I don’t have enough toes for this.”

  “I’m not — what do you mean, joking around?”

  “Ryan, you’re a master masseur. You dance at work. There’s no way you’re really this clumsy. You must be pretending.” Carrie winks at me.

  Pretending.

  “Uh, no. I really am this bad at slow dancing.” It’s like I’m in eighth grade again, terrified to touch a girl, mind racing a million miles a second, my body not quite mine. None of that is true, of course. I’m twenty-seven, sexually experienced, the size of a tight end and a piece of eye candy manmeat for O Spa clients, but it doesn’t erase the old Ryan buried deep inside me who is standing here in disbelief that a girl is letting me touch her at all.

  Carrie laughs. “You faker.”

  I lean down, barely dodging her foot, and whisper, “I’m not faking, Carrie. Not in any way.”

  Her whole body quivers, a violent shake that lasts for less than a second. Is that because she’s really faking? Last night was too real. No way.

  No fucking way was that pretend.

  Before I can spill my guts and tell her how I really feel about her, the music ends, an abrupt transition that leads to applause for the bride and groom, wine glasses chiming in the night as people tap forks on them, chanting “kiss kiss kiss.”

  We’re not the bride and groom, but who am I to disappoint a crowd?

  CARRIE

  I’ve had two glasses of Champagne. Or three. Obviously that explains this bubbly feeling as Ryan kisses me. I think I might be a little tipsy. Why else would I be having this much fun?

  As his lips press against mine and his hands touch me like he means it, I find myself letting go in his arms, just wanting this to be real. Ryan and I need to talk. We need to do more than talk. A lot more.

  Right now, all I want more of is his mouth.

  It’s just a normal wedding reception, with a normal band. The usual steak dinner, the usual cake. I probably go to four of these a year. But this one is so much better. For some reason, I feel wonderful. I feel… like the world is full of goodness and possibility.

  Strange.

  I am dancing. With Ryan. With his arms around me, and stepping on my toes, and laughing. I want to do that again and again. I need to do that. I break away, regretfully ending the kiss, and smile at him.

  “I need a minute,” I say, patting his chest, reaching up to run my finger along his jaw.

  That look. The way he’s staring at me, like he worships me. It can’t be pretend, can it?

  Can it?

  We really need to talk.

  But first I need to use the ladies’ room. And there are a lot of women in here.

  Because I go to so many weddings, I can tell you that there is always a traffic jam in the ladies’ room at the reception, and it’s not the peeing that’s the problem. It’s the mirror. There are at least eight women ahead of me, waiting for mirror space.

  There’s no one in here I know, so I pull out my phone to pass the time until it’s my turn. And find a text from Ryan: They’re playing Cotton Eyed Joe, where are you?

  Smiling, I type: Be right back

  This is definitely a great wedding.

  “This is ridiculous,” Chloe says at my elbow. You should see her dress, oh my God. Ice blue with lime green flowers embroidered on the skirt. Lime sandals. So cool. And she always looks like she just threw it on, no effort involved. “I have a purse mirror. I’ll hold it for you if you’ll hold it for me. We can use hand sanitizer for our hands.”

  “Deal,” I tell her.

  Three minutes later, we emerge from the ladies’ room with powdered noses and fresh lipstick. We stand for a moment, scanning the crowd.

  “Having a good time?” she asks me. “How’s it going with Ryan?”

  “I’m having an amazing time,” I confide. Just hearing his name gives me a happy little shiver.

  “I know you told me in the coffee line that you were both acting, but I have to say, it doesn’t look pretend,” Chloe says.

  I laugh. “He’s seven years younger. A masseur at O. We’re not exactly, you know, compatible.”

  A waiter squeezes between us with a huge tray of wedding cake slices and strawberries, interrupting my words for a moment or two. A noisy group of guests shifts to make room for him, and he passes through without an accident.

  “Not compatible on the surface, I mean. Most people would never guess we have as much in common as we do. We’ve been friends since the day we started work, and we hang out, but — I don’t know — something feels different now. Remember what you told me that day in your office, when I was so upset?”

  “Remind me,” she smiles.

  “I think you said that I would never find the right person if I was totally focused on Jamey. Actually, I think you said ‘the wrong guy,’ but that was Jamey.” I take a deep breath. “There’s just one problem.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Ryan really is pretending. He’s doing it for me, as a favor, so I don’t have to look pathetic in front of everyone. I
’m pretending, too.”

  “No, you’re not.” Chloe’s reply is so fast, so matter-of-fact that I gape at her.

  “What?”

  Chloe spots Nick across the room and waves, then turns to me and puts her hand on my arm. “There is one thing I know for sure,” she says seriously. “One of the most dangerous things you can do in a relationship is assume you know what the other person is feeling. Never, never assume. Talk to him. I see the way he looks at you. It’s really obvious you have deeper feelings for him, too.”

  “I know. I need to talk to him.”

  “Sooner rather than later, Carrie. I think he’ll surprise you.” She gives me a quick hug before chasing down Nick, the two of them laughing as they begin to dance.

  Nick doesn’t step on Chloe’s feet even once.

  RYAN

  I heard that.

  Loud and clear.

  “...not exactly, you know, compatible.” Straight from Carrie’s mouth to Chloe’s ear. No ambiguity. No what-ifs. No does she or doesn’t she?

  She doesn’t.

  For someone who was pretending, last night was so real. Maybe I made it more real than it really was.

  No maybe.

  I did.

  Shit. My heart speeds up in my chest like a motorcycle at full throttle, gaining asphalt, eating gravel. It’s trying to climb out of my chest and run away.

  Flee.

  Escape.

  She doesn’t feel what I feel. This really has been fake for her. All those kisses, the touches and the caresses, the making love —

  Stop it.

  Not making love.

  Fucking.

  Zeke’s right.

  We fucked. That’s it. That’s all it was. Carrie’s been pretending and the sex was what— an afterthought? A rebound from Jamey? I was just a convenient tool for her.

  I was a tool, all right.

  A fine, slippery sweat breaks out all over me, down my back, rippling across my shoulders, coating me in a wet armor that chills me as much as it heats my shaking skin.

  I need to get the hell out of here.

  I was so wrong.

  The only way out, though, is past Carrie and Chloe. Might as well walk on hot coals while balancing all my body weight on the tip of my cock.