Seven Books for Seven Lovers

by Molly Harper, Stephanie Haefner, Liora Blake, Gabra Zackman, Andrea Laurence, Colette Auclair

  “Is that new?” I whisper, noticing her outfit. I’ve never seen it and it looks designer.

  Tonya pulls down her eyebrows as if she doesn’t know what I’m talking about. Whatever, she knows. That’s completely new from head to toe. Sales is based on commission. You don’t shop when the money’s not coming in.

  “All right, let’s see what you’re thinking, Mr. Bennett,” Clive says as he walks in.

  The board up front has a few spec pieces leaning on the shelf and they’re covered. I fiddle with my engagement ring while we wait for Clive to get settled. He pulls the door shut behind him and sits on the edge of the conference table, because he apparently doesn’t believe in chairs. My attention snaps to Shane as he pulls the cover boards, one by one.

  “Right, this won’t take long. I printed out some pieces I think represent what we’re looking for. It’s not just the design I want you to look at, but rather, the concept and feeling they evoke.”

  Panic. That’s the feeling I’m emoting.

  All three pieces are mine.

  My mouth is hanging slightly open. He’s printed out copies of my designs from college, the ones in my Facebook gallery. My eyes dart from the display to Shane. There’s a knowing smile on his lips.

  Two are romantic, figurative illustrations of couples in color blocks and loose line art. The third is an up-close portrait. I’m not sure how to react. Clive walks over to inspect them. Everyone else follows suit. Shane explains how these are made from online copies and the print quality isn’t up to par. What if none of it’s up to par?

  This is my naked nightmare. I’m completely exposed.

  Shane looks around the room. “Maybe, if the artist would be kind enough . . .”

  No, no, no, no . . .

  “. . . she would bring in the originals for you to see.” His eyes now rest on me.

  Everyone turns.

  Um, shit?

  “These aren’t Kenzi’s,” Bradley says, giving me a confused glance.

  I shrug. “Yeah, from college, they’re at Mom and Dad’s.” I don’t tell them they’re buried under my Kensington box.

  “I’ve never seen them,” Bradley says and gives me a look that matches last night’s tone. He isn’t on Facebook, only LinkedIn to network.

  “Oh . . . they’re in my Facebook album,” I say quickly and instantly regret it. Now I’ll have to explain to Bradley why Shane is on my Facebook account. I feel guilty, but I never intended to keep Shane friended.

  My shoulders tense. Is Shane trying to start fights between us? Is that what he’s up to?

  “These are simple in design but produce a strong emotional response.” Shane’s voice is filled with energy. “One look and you feel what the image is portraying.” He points to the first couple tangled in an embrace with a loose cityscape behind them. “Love.”

  My insides are churning. Shane has no idea when I painted these, or why. It’s us. Well, not us literally, but the feelings of us, transferred through the paint to this couple.

  He motions to the next, a couple holding hands in a park. “Romance. And this one . . .”

  Tonya pulls her brows down. “No offense, Kenz, but the colors are all backwards in that last one.”

  It’s a portrait in abstract expressionism and the color technique is intentional. Using broad strokes and opposite shades, it creates a dynamic juxtaposition. She was just a figure model in class, but her soulful eyes captivated me. Still do.

  “Actually, Tonya, that’s what speaks to me. Imagine this blend of colors and realistic imagery as murals across the lobby.”

  I look up. My work, as murals?

  “I’ve purchased limited license use for the movie images and want to blend them with this treatment for the Web, our marketing materials, and the theater.” He’s looking around the room, but then catches my eye. “This is what I want to see the conceptuals as.”

  Clive stands. “Yeah, that shouldn’t be a problem. Kenzi can start right away. Great. Effective and to the point, wish all my meetings wrapped as quick.” Clive’s up.

  Everyone follows and the room fills with chatter. Shane fishes for his phone to take a call, and Ellie’s quickly at my side.

  “Did you really paint those?” She seems impressed.

  Even Bradley’s still looking at my artwork.

  This is different from an online album. There’s nowhere to hide. I’m sitting right here. That’s me up on that board, stripped down, raw. I breathe deeply through my nose and hold it, trying to keep the tears back. I’m overwhelmed. I feel seen.

  I glance at Shane. He’s watching me from across the room, lips curled slightly with the phone to his ear.

  “Oh, almost forgot,” Tonya says loud enough to get everyone’s attention. “Friday night, we’re having a work get-together to celebrate Bradley and Kenzi’s engagement. I’ll send an e-mail.”

  What is she talking about?

  Tonya answers my confused gaze. “It was going to be a surprise, but when Bradley told me you guys were moving the date up, I didn’t have time to plan anything. And really, I don’t know how you’re going to plan a wedding in six weeks anyway.” She snorts her disapproval.

  What the hell?

  “Six weeks? Holy cow. Why didn’t you tell me?” Ellie’s voice is an excited bubble.

  Um, because I didn’t know. It’s like I’m in The Proposal, when Sandra Bullock’s character announces they’re engaged, but they’re not.

  But I am.

  Except I didn’t agree to six weeks. I give Bradley a what-is-she-talking-about look.

  He’s shaking Clive’s hand. “Thanks. It’s quick, sure—”

  “Um, quick doesn’t cover it.” Clive guffaws, cocks an eyebrow, and drops his eyes to my belly.

  Now everyone else is looking, too.

  Wait. What?

  I’m having a moment. Not a good moment. I’m looking at Shane across the conference room, standing in front of my college artwork. He’s ended his phone conversation abruptly and is staring back. I’m confused. Embarrassed.

  And not pregnant.

  There’s suspicion on everyone’s faces. They’re glancing at my stomach.

  I suck it in.

  Control-top undergarments will be a permanent wardrobe piece from now on. Maybe one pair on top of another. Maybe a full body suit.

  Now, not only will I not have the time or budget to plan the wedding I really want, but it will also be forever clouded. Right after I say “I do,” I do want to start trying to get pregnant, which will look like I was, when I wasn’t.

  I think of My Best Friend’s Wedding, right before they pass under the bridge on the boat, when he says, “You commit to this wedding, and then there’s this momentum, and you forget you chose it.”

  I did choose the wedding. But I didn’t commit to six weeks. I didn’t choose to have everyone think I’m knocked up.

  That’s a completely different movie.

  This is messed up. Anger rips up my spine. What the hell is Bradley thinking? I’d like to take a chair and hit him over the head. We didn’t talk specifics about anything.

  Clive snaps a finger in front of my nose, and then does it twice more in rapid succession. “Did you hear me, Kenzi? Hell-oo?”

  “Mm?” I turn my attention to him.

  “We have our annual client appreciation outing at River Paintball next Tuesday after work, remember? Be there dressed to kill,” Clive says and laughs at his joke. “Since you can’t participate due to—” His eyes again drop to my midsection. His eyebrows hike.

  “Clive, I’m not . . .” I wave to my belly and shake my head adamantly, looking from him to Bradley.

  “Oh, right, of course.” Clive clucks his tongue with a laugh, then continues discussing the game with Bradley.

  Bradley seems nonchalant, as if it wasn’t even implied. My eyes fall to Tonya and Shane in the back. They’re talking in hushed tones, eyes darting toward me.

  And that’s my cue. I glower at Bradley and break fo
r the door.

  Exit, stage right, it’s Runaway Bride.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Pretty Confusing

  SITTING ON THE MALL bench, I watch people stroll by. The atrium ceiling is glass, and a patch of sunlight falls across my face. The tiny bit of warmth feels wonderful on my skin. My phone’s been ringing nonstop, first Bradley, then Ellie, and now Mom. I sigh and answer. What can I say? I’m a glutton for punishment.

  “Hi, Mom.”

  “Hi, Kenzi. It’s Aunt Greta, actually. I’m on your mom’s phone.”

  Oh, thank God.

  “Your mom and I are with Ren talking baby crap over lunch, and she wanted me to call and confirm you got her message about the shower slash engagement get-together? I guess she sent the invites out and, well, you can imagine.”

  Shit. I need to fix the registry. “Oh, yeah, I got some of her message. She kinda talked beyond the limit.” I tuck the phone between my shoulder and ear, jump up, and head toward Fossie’s.

  Aunt Greta laughs. “Doesn’t surprise me . . . are you okay?”

  No.

  I clear my throat, surprised it was that obvious. “I’m just having an issue with a client.”

  “Why? What client?”

  “Well . . . it’s, um, the client’s Shane Bennett.”

  “Shane, Shane Bennett?”

  I stop walking, feeling dizzy. “Yeah, he’s back. It’s complicated.”

  “Okay. Yeah, I can see how that would be complicated. Does Bradley know about you and Shane’s past?”

  Where do I begin? I move closer to the wall so I’m not blocking the flow of traffic and wipe the moisture from under my eyes.

  “Kenzi?”

  “Yes, Bradley knows. He’s less than thrilled, but we need the account. Oh, and he wants to move the wedding up to around Christmas. This Christmas. Like in six weeks.” A few tears have broken free and race down my cheeks. “He just frickin’ announced it to everyone in the office.” My voice squeaks, hitching on the words.

  “That just sounds like he’s jealous. No big deal. If you want to wait, just tell him.” My mom is calling for Aunt Greta in the background. “Kenzi, don’t let choices be made for you. Your mom hardly ever approves of me, and she may not agree or get your choices, but they’re yours to make, understand?”

  “In theory,” I mumble. I don’t think she heard me.

  “Just out of curiosity, how does Shane look?”

  My lack of response is the only one needed.

  “Yeah, thought so.” She laughs. “Listen, the taskmaster’s hounding me. Guess our table’s ready. Call me anytime, okay? I mean it. And give yourself permission to figure things out. Please. Love you, sweetie.”

  “Love you, too, and thanks,” I say and click the phone off.

  Bradley’s definitely getting an earful about the six-week announcement, but to tell him I want to wait? How do I explain the shift? Before, with the possible wedding delay, I was freaking out. And now that he wants to speed things up, I’m equally spazzing?

  But you can’t pull off a storybook wedding in six weeks. Not even in the movies.

  In Bride Wars, Liv and Emma were freaking out about the rushed time line of three and a half months. In The Wedding Planner, Mary’s stressed over planning Steve and Fran’s wedding in three. And that’s in a movie! This isn’t a movie.

  I guess I just hoped that my wedding day would feel like one.

  THE SCANNER BEEPS WITH EVERY unswipe and reswipe as I walk around Fossie’s department store. My shoulder holds my phone in place as I talk with Bradley and fix Ren’s registry. Well, he’s talking, I’m ignoring him loudly.

  His words have an echo, so I assume he’s in his car. “Listen, I’m sorry. Honestly, I didn’t think moving the wedding up would be an issue. I thought you’d be thrilled. We talked about it.”

  I swallow my anger, trying to bite back the slew of choice words that keep popping to mind. It was moronic, but not malicious. “Bradley, we talked about moving it up. I was thinking six or seven months. Not six weeks!”

  I scan the elegant bath set even though I like the hooded bath towels with the tiny animal ears on them better.

  “Okay, you’re right. I may have gotten carried away.”

  That’s an understatement. Holding up the animal towel, I smile. So cute. Why am I still adding things?

  Maybe we should get married in six weeks. Just elope. The sooner we’re married, the sooner we can start trying. Who cares what anyone thinks? It’s not like Mom’s been calling me to plan or anything . . . I stop myself because I can feel the tears building again. I want to be pregnant. I want to start trying. But I want the big wedding moment, too. And it feels like the timing for everything is off.

  Am I living those moments?

  Not if they keep being taken away from me.

  “Hon?”

  “It’s too soon, okay? There’s so much to do. We have to find a place, and order invitations, a dress, a venue. Six weeks is too fast, Bradley. I want to stay on the normal spring schedule.” There, I said it. I made my choice. See? I’m not Jane from 27 Dresses after all.

  Why shouldn’t I have a big, fancy wedding? I shouldn’t have to give that up, too. A large teddy bear in the softest fuzzy material ever stares up at me with glossy button eyes.

  “Well, yeah, we can talk about it. Maybe tonight? I’m meeting your dad for a quick update on his media buy, and I just pulled in. But I’ll see you in a while, and I’m really sorry. Okay?”

  “Yup. Okay.” I click END and lift the bear. It’s cream and white and begs to be hugged. Maybe I’m the one who needs one. I wrap him in my arms and squeeze.

  “Kensington.”

  I look up to see dark jeans and a V-neck tee. Floppy hair and eyes with gold. Heartbreaker from the past and confusion of the present.

  “How’d you know where—”

  “Ellie thought you might be here redoing . . .” He motions to the scanner gun in my hand.

  Thanks, Ellie-bell. I continue browsing the items I’ve already looked at with the bear still tucked under my arm. I’m not ready to put him down.

  “Do you have any kids? That you know about?” That came out harsher than I meant. “Sorry, that’s not how—”

  “No. No kids.” He loops his thumbs in his jeans pockets and walks closer.

  His parents’ divorce was rough, and I remember him saying how life was hard enough without dragging children into the mix. “You don’t want them, do you?”

  “I never said that. But I wouldn’t jump into it with just anyone, no.”

  He thinks I’m pregnant. I can see it in his eyes. I give the bear one small secret squeeze and turn to set him on a nearby rocker.

  “Excuse me!” The Fossie’s woman from yesterday calls to us as she heads in our direction. She’s waving to get our attention.

  Shane pops his hands up in mock surrender as she approaches.

  “We’re going. See? Here,” I say and hand her my gun. “All done.”

  She huffs as we leave, giving Shane the stink-eye.

  “I was going to look for a dress for Saturday night,” I say as we leave the baby department and head toward the up escalator. “Ellie’s my date for the symphony, since Bradley will be out of town.” I glance at him from the corners of my eyes then look away. I don’t know why I said that. I shouldn’t have said it.

  Shane’s voice is lowered. “Tell me why you moved the wedding up. Six weeks is . . . well, it’s no time at all.”

  “I’m not pregnant, Shane.”

  His face registers relief. I think. Yeah, I think he’s relieved.

  I don’t wait for him to say anything. “And I didn’t move the wedding up. I don’t know what Bradley’s thinking. He brought it up last night after I missed our normal gym time but . . .” My insides are torn. The words feel wrong as they fall from my lips, as if I’m betraying Bradley by speaking them. “Whatever, we’ll figure it out.” It comes across more of a mumble as we step from the escalator.
r />   I stop to face him. “Well, I’m gonna go . . .” I motion toward the women’s department.

  “Buy a dress?”

  “Yup, so . . .” I rock my head from side to side.

  “You realize one of the movies on the list has a shopping scene. And you do need a dress.”

  I wrinkle my nose with a head shake. “Oh, I don’t know. Today’s just been . . .”

  Shane’s eyes hold mine and a half-smile curls at the corners of his mouth, tempting me.

  Lifting my phone, I click through my e-mails until I find the one with the Love Like the Movies list. My mind’s instantly a-skitter running through the titles. My stomach dips. My eyes lift to his. “It’s Pretty Woman.”

  “It is.”

  Aunt Greta’s words whisper in the back of my mind. Give yourself permission to figure things out. My toes squeeze inside my shoes. I glance sideways toward the women’s department, then back at him.

  Roy Orbison’s signature “Pretty Woman” song starts playing in my mind, and I can see the scene. Edward and Vivian walking briskly down the street while she fluffs her wild hair. Right before they enter the store, Edward turns and tells her to stop fidgeting.

  It’s just shopping. I was going anyway.

  I give myself permission.

  “We can skip the gum-spitting part, right?”

  THE FOSSIE’S WOMEN’S DRESSING AREA is huge and filled with couches and chairs for the waiting husbands and guests. It’s very lush and welcoming, with white marble and a crystal chandelier. Shane looks comfortable and content.

  “Who are you talking to? Or are you just imitating the movie? Going all Richard Gere on me?” That’s the second phone call he’s taken since we walked in here. The first was in quick, hushed tones. I can’t help but wonder if it was a woman on the other end. I’m sure he’s dating someone, probably several women.

  Shane covers his phone with his hand. “Clive. He believes we’re having an off-site conceptual meeting based on the new direction.” He points me toward a pile of clothes on the couch, brought over in my size by the sales ladies. “And we are. Now, back to it.” He motions for me to again get moving, then says into the phone, “Yes, yes, I do think we could add in radio, but only during drive time.”