by Cindi Madsen
Brendan took my hand, curling his long fingers over the top of it.
It made me feel like a girl, the way I never wanted to when I was younger, but suddenly didn’t seem like such a bad thing now. But I refused to cry. “I don’t even like weddings anymore.” My voice shook—not a tear, though, let the record show. Then before I knew it, I’d laid out everything about meeting Grant, from standing on the beach on my wedding day, feeling completely off at my job now, to Grant having a kid and not knowing what to do about it.
Brendan wasn’t fighting a smile anymore—he actually looked like he was at a total loss, a sort of wide-eyed deer-in-crazy-bridezilla-headlights.
“I’m not that little girl you used to know anymore—the one who was tough and didn’t need anyone. I started falling in love so easily somewhere along the way. I’d never let the guy know I did, but I’d fall hard, and when things didn’t work out, I’d hide myself away and close myself off. Tell myself to never care about a guy again. But then I would, and the cycle would repeat. But with Grant I thought I’d found someone different—thought it was going to be okay this time. But here I am, acting crazy now that we’re not together, and I can’t decide if that means I’m supposed to give him another chance, or if I’ll never be me again, or what.”
Brendan’s mouth opened and closed a couple of times.
“See. Total mess.” I threw my head back, sank against the couch cushions, and wished for the power of invisibility. This never would’ve happened if I hadn’t given up my apartment to move in with Grant. I could be having my breakdown alone, where no one would find out I wasn’t as tough as I appeared to be.
Brendan’s warm fingertips touched my face, wiping away liquid on my cheek, which meant I’d lost the battle to not cry. And that only made me want to cry more. “No, you’re not the girl you used to be,” he said, and I opened my eyes to see his face near mine. “You’ve built your own business, you’ve opened yourself up, and you’ve gotten hurt. But it’s better than not engaging, trust me. You think I didn’t see how much you hid, even back then? How you flinched every time anyone mentioned your mom? Or how you’d send me home before you cracked and showed any emotion, telling me you wanted to be alone?”
My throat tightened. I thought I’d done such a good job of showing everyone those things didn’t hurt me. How had he seen? How could he remember that long ago?
“You care about people, D.J. You always have. That’s why I tried to protect you, even though you fought so damn hard against it. And like it or not, I’m not leaving you alone anymore to deal with it yourself, so get used to it.”
I wasn’t sure how I’d gotten so lucky to have him move back when I needed someone the most—someone who really saw me. But the fact that he was here and not backing away made my heart expand and press against my rib cage. I leaned forward and hugged him, dropping my head on his chest.
And for the first time since I could remember, instead of feeling like a failure because I couldn’t hold back my tears, it felt like just the release I needed.
Chapter Eleven
Brendan handed me a cup of coffee over the bar in his kitchen. The early morning light filtered in between the blinds on the patio door, sending stripes of way-too-bright golden sunshine across the tile and into my eyes. Slamming back beers while playing video games until 2:00 a.m. probably hadn’t been the wisest decision, but it’d proved to be the perfect way to turn a bad day into a pleasantly fuzzy one. Of course the drinking meant no driving, and even though Brendan tried to be all chivalrous and let the emotional drunk girl sleep in his bed while he took the couch, I eventually out-stubborned him. My back didn’t even ache the way it usually did when I woke up. His couch was definitely a keeper.
“Creamer?” I asked as I wrapped my hands around the warm mug.
Brendan pulled the plain, boring kind out of his fridge. Not my usual hazelnut preference, but anything that helped facilitate getting the caffeine into my system would do.
After my breakdown, I thought I’d be embarrassed, but mostly I just felt like I could finally move on to the next stage of my life—the real way instead of the on-paper way. “Thanks again for last night.”
“Anytime.” Brendan settled on a stool across from me. “Actually, I was thinking…” He peered into his coffee and I froze with mine halfway to my lips, unsure if I was going to like whatever came next. “You know, I do have two empty bedrooms. I was planning on getting a spare bed for one of them already. If you want, you could live here.”
Mornings weren’t my strong point, and it took my brain a moment to connect his words and get what he was saying. “Live here? With you?”
One corner of his mouth twisted up. “I thought I might be a better option than a stoner pizza guy, but I could see how it’d be a tough choice.”
“What you’ve got to ask yourself is if you’d really be willing to live with someone who’d been rejected by that dude. I’d guess his bar ain’t near as high as he was, and I didn’t even reach it.”
Brendan casually shrugged. “I’ve always been a sucker for the guys no one else cheers for.”
“As a fellow Niners fan, I’m pretty sure I’d have to say the same.” I smiled at him and seriously considered the idea. Brendan was the kind of person who just jumped without looking. I liked lists and risk analysis charts and to know there was a soft landing ahead. What if moving in ruined the easy vibe we’d settled into? Being around him chased away the darkness always tugging at me, and I needed that in my life.
“I just figure we get along, I’ve got plenty of room, and it’d be better than you moving in with a stranger who might be a complete weirdo.”
“Yes, it’s far better to know my roommate’s a partial weirdo from the get-go.”
He laughed, the deep sound echoing through me. “Exactly.”
As a fan of plans, I was surprised by how much I enjoyed our impromptu, completely unstructured hangouts. Living together would just be the extreme version of that, right? All the fun, all the time? The more I thought about it, the better the idea sounded. “I’ve already got a bed, so no need for you to buy one. I’d pay rent of course, and pitch in on everything. And—”
“Ooh, there’s an ‘and.’”
“Be nice,” I said, shooting him a mock scowl.
“That’s not gonna be easy. I—”
I slapped a hand over his mouth. “I was saying be nice about my ‘and.’ I know I had a mini-breakdown last night, but I can take care of myself. I don’t want you to do this if I’m just a pity project. You don’t need to take care of me.”
He raised an eyebrow, and I slowly dropped my hand from his mouth. “That was a big ‘and.’” He nodded, not quite able to pull off the serious expression he was taunting me with. “No pity. Got it.”
He tipped back the last of his coffee, set his mug in the sink, and leveled the tie draped around his neck, sliding the fat end down to match the skinny end.
Was that really it? Didn’t he need to know more? “As you saw yesterday, I’m a bit OCD about cleaning and organizing. Do you mind me touching your stuff?”
He paused mid-tying his tie, and the grin that curved his lips seemed to be in on a secret I wasn’t. “Have at it.”
Was his voice rougher than usual? My cheeks were suddenly hotter than they were supposed to be.
Brendan pulled his tie straight and began looping it over again.
“Here.” Since my dad had to dress up on game day—something he grumbled endlessly about—I’d learned to tie ties. Being in the wedding biz, I’d gotten quite good at every kind of knot there was, and even bow ties stood no chance against me. I readjusted the silky fabric, and with a couple swift crosses and tugs, had it perfectly in place.
Brendan smoothed his hand down it. “Thanks. This one’s a bit short, so it always gives me trouble.”
There it was again. The deep voice. Calm down, hormones. It’s just his usual voice. Obviously my lack of sleep was getting to me. I needed more coffee. I picked
up my cup and took a gulp large enough to take out my taste buds for a while.
As Brendan walked by me, he dragged his hand across the small of my back, and I started second-guessing my decision to live with him, considering I was becoming all too aware of every glance and touch.
But then he asked, “So, roomie? When would you like to move in?” and I found myself diving right in without looking for the landing.
…
White dresses filled the space around me, a sea of tulle, lace, and satin, each begging to be taken off the rack and held up to see if it was the one. I’d done the dance with several brides, and had even had that moment myself. You justify how expensive the gown is by telling yourself you get married only once—ah, the optimistic, love-deluded thought. Mine hadn’t even been worn long enough to count, and I never wanted to put it on again. Nothing said bad luck like your something old being the dress you already failed to get married in. Really, I should sell it and at least get a bit of monetary compensation to help ease the pain.
Still, it stung less and less by the day, which gave me hope that someday soon I’d look at wedding-related items and get an inkling of that love-deluded optimism. I just couldn’t see myself continuing to do what I did for years and years without it.
“Almost ready,” my client said from inside the dressing room. “This zipper is giving me a bit of trouble.”
“If you need my help, let me know.” There were plenty of brides who didn’t involve me in the finding of The Dress, simply showing it to me after they’d picked it out. Occasionally they’d ask what I thought of certain styles, what I thought would flatter them, or what was in style right now. But Molly insisted I be at the shop to give my opinion. After all, as she put it, I knew who wore what when it came to the biggest weddings, and she simply couldn’t have the same dress anyone else had already worn. Her girlfriends sat in the chairs facing the dressing room, flipping through a book with bridesmaids’ dresses inside.
“Got it!” The door swung open and Molly came out in a strapless mermaid-style gown. Her skin mushroomed over the tight bodice, and I was scared we were one wrong move away from a wardrobe malfunction. Even though she was a skinny girl, the seams looked like they were about to pop.
“What do you think? I’ll probably wear my hair up.” She gathered her dark hair in a twist, and when she lifted her arm, it only emphasized that the dress was a good two sizes too small. The zipper in the back wasn’t even all the way up—so much for “got it!”
I glanced at the bridesmaids to see if they’d be helping me break the news about the wrong fit. From the way they were blinking and avoiding looking too closely, I had the feeling they agreed but wouldn’t be voicing it.
“Um.” I hesitated, working out how to word it delicately. “You’re a very skinny girl, but I don’t think that size is showing off your best features. You’re going to need to move during your wedding, so you might be more comfortable in a…” Hell, they hired me for my opinion, so I went ahead and blurted it out. “Larger size.”
“Well, it doesn’t fit now,” she said as if I was being the ridiculous one. “But I’m going to lose two sizes by my wedding. If I buy one that fits now, I might not be motivated enough to lose all the weight. Two sizes in four months, right, Kayla?”
The maid of honor looked up and flashed her a thumbs-up signal. “We got this, girl. I’m gonna order mine smaller, too. Then we’ll have no choice but to make it work.”
Okay, Kayla just went from not-helpful to enemy-of-the-bridal-state. “Look, I’ve done a lot of weddings, and that has never once worked out well for a bride. First of all, you’re tiny already. Your fiancé loves you for who you are, and who you are now. I doubt seeing your ribs will make him love you more. Buy the dress in your current size, and if you do lose weight and it’s a little loose, you can have it altered. You can always make it smaller, but there’s no making it bigger.”
“But if I—”
“Nope.”
Her mouth opened and closed like a fish struggling for air.
“You make one wrong move in that and you’re flashing everyone at the ceremony. Do you want to Janet Jackson your grandparents?” Seriously, didn’t any of my brides read my column? I’d done a whole article on this kind of thing.
“No,” Molly said, her lips pressed into a pout.
“Why’d you hire me?” I asked.
“Because you’re the expert,” she replied, and while I could’ve done with a little more enthusiasm, at least she knew where I was going. “Fine.” She glanced at the salesgirl, who’d reappeared at the wave of my hand.
“Can we try that in two sizes up?” When the salesgirl went to find it, I turned back to Molly. “I’m here to make your wedding perfect. It’s my top priority, and I’m not going to let you down.”
A few minutes later, Molly came out in the proper size, the fit perfect and the zipper all the way up.
Her bridesmaids gasped and Kayla shot to her feet. “That’s it! It looks amazing!”
I fluffed the bottom layers. “I haven’t had many brides doing the mermaid dress lately, but I hear it’s making a comeback, so you’ll be unique and in style.” So I hadn’t actually heard it, but surely somewhere, someone was making it the newest trend—styles tended to cycle every few years, but really it was about finding the right gown for the bride’s body shape that also fit her personality. I straightened and took her in again. “It’s totally stunning on you.”
“It’s the one, I’m sure of it.” Tears bordered Molly’s eyes. “Oh my gosh, I’m getting married!” She hugged me so enthusiastically I nearly tipped over—hazard of the biz and something I’d gotten accustomed to, although I obviously needed to amp up my game. Molly’s bridal party got in on the group hug. I was better than I had been at Erika’s wedding, or even the other consults I’d had, but I still didn’t feel the tingly hope thing. The shortage of air on the other hand, I felt that. If I didn’t know better, I’d think I was becoming allergic to weddings.
Chapter Twelve
I was studying the fabric swatches, place settings, dried flowers, and napkins laid out on the dining room table when Brendan came over and refilled my coffee without my having to ask. He even set the hazelnut creamer I’d bought next to my mug. Despite my best attempts to convert him, he’d insisted on sticking with his plain creamer.
We’d fallen into a nice, comfortable pattern over this past week. I’d moved in, we both worked long hours, and then our evenings were mostly filled with watching TV, heavy on the ESPN.
Brendan looked over my shoulder and I caught a whiff of his aftershave. “I didn’t know orange, purple, and blue went together, but it looks pretty good.”
“That’s because it’s rust, amethyst, and cerulean. With a hint of jade thrown in.” I moved the jade and amethyst place setting over the cerulean fabric that’d make up the tablecloths at Valentina’s wedding to make sure it worked.
Brendan cast me a suspicious sideways glance. “Now you’re just making up colors.”
“Pretty sure I know every color there is now. The first few months I had a couple of brides surprise me—one requested cement. With dusty plum and blueberry. It was one of my favorite color palettes, actually.”
“Cement? What’s wrong with gray? It’s the same thing.”
“Not romantic enough, duh.” I smiled and nudged him with my elbow.
“Silly me. Nothing’s as romantic as the color you used to trip on and leave half of your skin and blood behind.”
I laughed. “Okay, you got me there. How’s pewter? Romantic enough for you?”
“I’m swooning just thinking about it.” He took a sip of his coffee and then lifted the Beacon out from under the pile of my fabric swatches, my “Keeping Your Cool” article folded up. “Is this yours?”
“Yeah. I meant to throw it in the recycling.” I reached for it, but Brendan kept it away and his eyes scanned down the page, his lips moving slightly as he read. The corner of his mouth twitched here and
there. I’d never watched anyone read my articles before—it made my pulse skitter and my face get hot. And everything I’d ever written suddenly felt stupid and unimportant.
“Hmm. Interesting stuff. Guess I’ll have to start reading it more.”
“Planning to tie the knot soon, are you?”
He made a sort of strangled choking noise in the back of his throat. I raised an eyebrow and he set his coffee mug on the counter, where he often left it instead of walking it to the sink.
“I saw that,” I said. “There’s a story behind that noise.”
“Don’t know what you’re talking about.” Brendan tried to walk past me, and I put my hand on his chest to stop him. “B.S.”
He cracked a smile. Since I used to go by D.J.—short for Dakota Jane—I’d taken to calling Brendan Scott B.S. whenever he exaggerated. Which used to be a lot, especially when we were in grade school.
“That’s a story for another time.” He tapped me on the head with the newspaper. When my jaw dropped, his smile widened. “Don’t give me that mad glare, or I’ll have to report to your anger management officer.”
I gave him a gentle shove, but he caught my arms, his reflexes crazy fast. Then I was noticing the way his long fingers wrapped around my elbows, and my heart rate quickened. He leaned in, and for a moment, I thought he might kiss me good-bye.
For a moment, I thought I might want him to.
But he reached behind me for his keys, his body bumping into mine, one hand still wrapped around my elbow. “Let’s go to a movie tonight. There’s that new zombie one that just came out.”
Did he seriously not realize our bodies were touching? Was he completely unaffected by it? Not that I wanted him to be affected. I licked my suddenly dry lips. “The one with all the brain-eating,” I said, though I didn’t know which movie he was talking about. It all came to brain-eating eventually in zombie movies, right?