by Molly Harper, Stephanie Haefner, Liora Blake, Gabra Zackman, Andrea Laurence, Colette Auclair
“Okay.” Shane rubs at his eyes and widens them, with a deep, slow yawn. He leisurely flips his wrist up to see the time.
I stare at him, hoping. Please be super early. Please. I clench my jaw and wait. His eyes meet mine. They’re rounded.
“Shit!” Shane’s up and already pulling on his shirt.
“Shit?” Oh shit! It’s not super early. This is so not good. I find my bra and wrap it around me trying to figure out the convertible straps. I wore it racer back. Who invented these things?
Shane’s reaching around me for his pants. I almost tie his arm in the strap.
“What time do you need to be there?”
“Um, it starts at eleven or noon? Was it noon? I don’t know. Mom wants me there early. Like around ten.” My bra’s on, although I think the straps are crossed weirdly. One boob is awkwardly pulling left. I grab my dress and tunnel in from the bottom.
Shit, I’m stuck.
“I’m stuck!” My arms are above my head, and I can’t bend them to pull the dress over my shoulders. It’s all bunched. I’m really stuck. I’m thrashing about, trying to find a way to wiggle it down. My arms wave in the air like a dress monster.
“Shit! Ow.” I think his elbow just hit me.
“Hold still . . .” His hands have my dress and are tugging it down. With a swift yank, I’m through.
Okay, I can see again. My arms are free. I lift my rear and pull the dress down. I grab his shoes and thrust them to his chest. “Here.”
Shane opens the door and spills out, shoes tucked under an arm, hopping on one leg to step into his pants. The air is still morning crisp. I notice the car is steamed from the temperature difference, and handprints, lots of them, are speckled over the windows.
We may have gotten carried away with the Titanic scene.
Shane has the car started and is backing out. I climb over and fall into the front seat, scrambling for my shoes.
Shane smiles. “See, one of us got to climb over the seat after all.”
I hit him again. “What time is it?”
“It’s fine. I’ll drop you off first, then the car. My car’s there, so I’ll swing back and drive you.”
Oh my God. My family. We haven’t had that conversation. I haven’t told them anything. My mom, Grayson . . . they’ll ask about Bradley. The vintage car is whining like a blender from the sudden acceleration. It’s loud and slow.
“Shane, what time is it?”
He takes the corner and clips the curb, jostling me into the air. I scream. He glances over at me. His shirt is buttoned wrong, it’s half tucked into his pants. He never put his shoes on, and his hair is . . . well, his hair is a perfect wonderful mess. He drops his head with an apologetic look. “It’s ten forty-five.”
TEN FORTY-FIVE?
“Faster, must drive faster! Move!” I hit him again, maybe more than once. I don’t know. Since I don’t have a gas pedal on my side, it’s the best I can do. I can’t breathe. “Faster!”
“I’m going as fast as this car will go.” The old car is loudly protesting our need for speed. It’s shaking wildly at forty miles an hour through the city streets. It’s like we’re in Four Weddings and a Funeral, but instead of a wedding, we’re late for a baby shower, and the funeral will be mine.
This is definitely one movie moment I did not want on the list.
How will I have time to get ready? My whole family . . . the light is yellow. We’re not going to make it. It’s changing. “No, you got it. Go. Go, go. GO!” I’m hitting him again to help him go faster. We slide through, but it’s red.
So are the lights behind us. We’re being pulled over.
Are you serious?
“My wallet.” Shane is digging in his pockets and coming up empty as he pulls over on the shoulder. “I don’t have my . . . my coat. Where’s my suit coat?” He’s looking around frantically.
I spot it in the back. I dive over and grab it. Shane unrolls the window; the officer is out of his car. I’m searching his coat, desperately digging in the inside pockets, sending receipts and last night’s valet ticket airborne.
“Here, I got it. I got it.” I throw it over. It pings from the dash and lands somewhere on the floor.
We’re breathing heavily. The windows are fogged again. Shane’s reaching around to find where it landed. I’m now swatting the seat back to hurry him along. The officer is coming. He’s coming.
“Got it.” Shane has his license out and runs a hand through his hair.
“License and reg—”
The officer looks at Shane, his disarray, his mismatched-button shirt. I follow his gaze to the handprints plastered all over the steamy windows. His eyes regard me in the backseat, starting with my dress, which I just realized is inside out, and my oddly lopsided boobs underneath. I can only imagine my hair. His eyes travel up. He locks them with mine. His widen in disbelief.
“Again?”
“Hi,” I say, with a feeble wave from the backseat.
It’s the same officer from the paintball caravan chase.
Fuckity-fuck, fuck, fuck.
SO I’M LATE. NOT THE worst thing, right? I didn’t go to jail. That would be worse. We did, however, this time get a ticket. Well, Shane did. I got a lecture. The whole stupid affair cost us another twenty minutes. It’s almost noon. I was supposed to be there around ten to help, but help what? It’s not like Mom’s going to cook, she’s having it catered. Yes, I can be late. Showered, presentable, and late. I can.
So why can’t I breathe?
My phone’s ringing, again. She’s called three times already. We’re almost there, but I should answer it. Get it over with. I sneak another glance at the time, then at Shane behind the wheel, and reluctantly give in.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Kensington, it’s me, your mom.”
“I know, Mom.” I can hear Ren talking to Grayson in the background. Music’s playing and dishes are clanking. She’s in the kitchen. It’s in full swing.
“Where are you? What ha—”
“I’m sorry. I know I’m late. I’m five minutes away. I’ll help with—”
“Well, everything’s done now. We’re getting ready to sit down and eat. No, that doesn’t go there, let’s put that out front,” she says with a huff. “And now there’s nothing left to help with, is there? I had to do it all on my own. Ren, yes, it’s Kensington, I found her.”
I wasn’t lost. Well, maybe I was. But I’m not anymore. I hear Grayson mumbling about how this is typical.
“Your aunt tried to help, but you know how that goes. Yes, we found her. She’s apparently on her way.”
“I’m around the corne—”
“Oh, all right. I can’t talk. Just get here. It’s time to eat.”
The phone hangs up. I feel as if I’m spinning in multiple directions like a gyroscope. My orientation is all out of whack.
“You okay?”
“Yes. No.” My hand is over my mouth. My eyes are wide. Oh, I can’t do this. I can’t.
Shane’s pulling over the SUV.
“What are you doing? I’m super late!” I practically scream it. I’m all worked up.
He places his hand on mine. “Kensington, you are a beautiful, smart, charming woman. It will be okay, no matter what. I promise.” His thumb rubs affectionately over my knuckles. “I’m here. I support you. I see you. It’ll be okay.”
Keeping my eyes on his, I squeeze his hand and nod. I haven’t really talked with anyone about the whole Bradley, Tonya, not-engaged thing. My stomach lurches.
This was supposed to be a special day for me. A day to celebrate an upcoming wedding and to dream about a future family. I’m so far away from that. Looking at Shane, my heart lightens a little. I’m . . . well, happy. A bit scared and confused, but happy. Yesterday my world shifted. Today it’s in a different place. But maybe it’s the right place.
Maybe I’m closer than I know.
“We can go. I’m okay.” Maybe I am okay. At least I look okay. My final sele
ction was a pleated color-block dress. I didn’t have time to do my hair, so it’s tied back in a loose bun. Surprisingly, it all came together nicely.
My grip tightens on my bag as Shane turns into the Village community. There’s no turning back now. We have entered . . . the Stepford zone.
Cars are lined up and down the street. What happened to just a small family mini-shower thing? There’s a valet? Mom usually hires a valet service to shuttle the overflow at her annual Shaw family Christmas party. I don’t know why she calls it the family Christmas party. It’s everyone she knows. We’re pulling up. We’re here.
What is going on?
“You’ll be fine.” Shane squeezes my hand.
I wish more than anything he could come with me, but . . . this was supposed to be an engagement party for Bradley and me. And it’s now just me. So it needs to be just me.
My Facebook status has gone from In a relationship to Engaged to Single. I should change it to It’s complicated. Because this is definitely complicated. There needs to be a Don’t ask.
“THERE YOU ARE. EVERYONE’S OUT back. We’re ready to eat.” It’s Ren. She’s wearing a short-sleeve jacquard dress and looks beautiful. “What the hell happened? Mom’s been a wreck . . .”
I don’t say anything. I’m too busy looking around. Mom’s idea of a small family pre-shower and engagement party has turned into . . .
“Yeah, she invited everyone for your engagement party. It was going to be a surprise.”
What? My stomach’s on the floor. I’m surprised all right. The one time my mom decides to show an interest . . .
“Um, Kenz.” Ren grabs me by the elbow and leads me to the front room, hastily. “Are you okay? I mean I know what Grayson told me, but—”
“Oh my God, Mom knows, right? About Bradley? We’re not engaged. I told her, but we haven’t, ya know, really talked about it.” I’m shaking my head, eyes wide. “I gave the ring back, oh . . .” This is worse than I could have imagined. This is in front of everyone, not just the disapproving eyes of my family.
“She knows, but I think you should know—”
“Kenzi, good God, you’re late. We thought you’d . . .” It’s my cousin Ashlen. She’s loud, opinionated, and single-handedly keeps my father’s medi-spa in business with her Botox injections.
Mom is redirecting a waiter toward the patio and doesn’t stop. She simply calls out to me as she passes. “That was more than five minutes, Kensington. We’ve started. Let’s go.”
“Hi, Mom,” I say weakly, more to myself.
Ren leans to my ear. “Um, Kenz, I really—”
“. . . Oh, did you hear about Cousin Jimmy? Yeah, I guess . . .” Ashlen won’t let either of us get a word in. She’s now between us, an elbow locked around an arm each, marching us toward the back.
Panic is swelling inside my chest. I’ll need to make an announcement. What do I say? Um, excuse me, but I called the wedding off. My fiancé may have knocked up my so-called friend, but please stay on and enjoy the mini-gherkins?
Ashlen’s still jabbering as we step out the sliding doors. “. . . Oh, it’s beautiful, isn’t it? I helped . . .”
The courtyard patio does look lovely. Mom had topiary brought in and a large tent set up with two supersized rectangular tables underneath. Draped white fabric billows in the crisp breeze, while patio heaters fight to keep it at bay. There’s even a three-piece band playing on the second patio under the trees.
A mini–family shower for Ren, and a surprise engagement party for me. For me.
We step aside to allow a waiter with a tray of food to pass.
“Are you listening, Kenzi? Did you hear me? Oh, there’s . . .” Ashlen makes a beeline for an empty seat next to . . . Oh, shit.
It’s Liza Evans. Well, soon to be Liza Evans-Matison, with her fiancé, Ryan. Her mom is sitting beside them. Ashlen is scooting her chair in, and Liza’s waving to me.
Um, hi. My ringless fingers wiggle in a halfhearted wave.
Ren grabs my arm hard. “Okay, what I’ve been trying to tell you—”
“Okay, let’s quiet down.” Someone is tapping a glass. Everyone turns to the woman up front with the helium-filled voice.
Really?
“Well, hey, if it isn’t the soon-to-be Mrs. Bradley Connors, our special-special guest.” It’s Bethany Chesawit, wedding planner extraordinaire, and, I guess, baby-slash-engagement event coordinator.
Kill me. Kill me now.
Grayson’s sitting with my dad at the end of the table. I spot Aunt Greta and smile. I think I’m smiling. My face is doing something. Oh, she has a new guy with her. He’s thin and balding. Wonder what this one’s called. Mom’s standing by Dad’s seat, overseeing everything.
Bethany Chesawit waves us in. “Well, come on and take a seat, ladies. You, by the proud father to be. And you, right over there to wait for your handsome groom.”
“He’s right there,” Ashlen yells out and points toward the bar.
What?
I hear Ren in my ear. “That’s what I was trying to say. I didn’t know what was going on.”
Walking to the table, an awkward expression on his face is Bradley.
“Nooooooo!” It just came out, and kept coming.
There’s a universal gasp. The music stops, everything stops. You can hear the heads turn in my direction with a whoosh.
Oh. All eyes are on me.
Mom’s smile is wide and forced. She’s nodding as people look between us. I don’t think she’s breathing. I can’t believe she did this to me.
“Um . . . I mean. No-o-o way!” A shrill chortle erupts out of my throat.
Bethany Chesawit is completely confused. Liza Evans is whispering to her mom, looking from Bradley to me.
I’m dying. Dying.
“Wow.” I lift my hands up and shrug. “Um, ha ha, you got me.” I raise a finger and wave it. “Great job. Oh, hi, Aunt Lindy. I like your sweater, yeah. And yours, Liza. Your dress, I mean. Obviously not a sweater . . . Um . . .” Oh God, I’m rambling.
Grayson’s eyes are popped. Mom’s mortified, motioning for me to wrap up. She wants me to wrap it up?
“Really?” I shoot her a look of unbelief, then turn to Bradley. “Um . . . can I, ah, talk with you a minute?” I jab my finger toward the door. “In there?” My eyebrows spike.
Bradley looks around.
I manage a clenched smile. “Okay. Great. ’Bye,” I say and turn.
Right into the path of a waiter.
We crash and tangle into a blur of arms and legs. He steps back. The tray tips. Dishes slide. Another wobble-step back and . . . food splatters. Guests squeal. The waiter stumbles onto someone’s lap. His hand is where it shouldn’t be.
Mine are over my gaping mouth. I’ve been here all of ten minutes and . . . and . . . Aunt Greta’s on her feet. Dad’s rolling his eyes. My cousin Ashlen’s laughing loudly . . . Mom’s eyes are narrow slits. Her face is red. Lips pinched tight. Her head shakes disapprovingly. At me. Really? She’s angry at me? I can’t believe her.
Suppressed hurt twists my gut, building tension until it springs loose and loud. “Are you kidding me, Mom?”
Oh, God.
Team Kenzi: Negative one hundred million zillion.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Love Finally
BRADLEY’S GONE. I SENT him away for good. In no uncertain terms will he be back. It’s a million percent over. I’m shaking from his audacity. I mean, what the hell was he thinking? I don’t know how he convinced Mom we were working things out. Okay, yes I do. She wanted to believe it. I get that.
Because for a long time, I wanted to believe it, too.
But holy hell, Mom.
This is awful. But I’m not in tears. I’m embarrassed. Okay, humiliated . . . but I’m not in tears. I’m making my own choices. For the first time ever, I feel like I’m holding my own, standing my ground. I made the choice about Bradley. I’m choosing Shane. But more important, I’m choosing me.
Ding
. Ding. Ding. Ding. Plus one for Team Kenzi.
“Kensington?” It’s Aunt Greta. Her hair’s still red, only now it’s a deeper shade. I didn’t notice earlier.
When I turn all the way around, I see Ren beside her. I raise my hand and wave. I can’t speak.
“Excellent speech, sweetie,” Aunt Greta says with a sly smile.
I look from Ren to Aunt Greta. The Bridget Jones movie line just pops out. “I’m available for bar mitzvahs and christenings, too.” A small laugh escapes, echoed by theirs.
“Well, think of it this way,” Ren says, not getting the reference. “You definitely know how to make an entrance.”
I look to Ren and wrinkle my nose. “Sorry if I messed up your shower.”
She waves a hand dismissively. “Don’t worry about it.” She bumps my shoulder with hers.
Aunt Greta wraps me in a one-armed hug. “All I need to know right now is if you’re okay. Are you?”
I give a meek smile. “You know, I think, yeah . . . I actually am.”
Or at least, I’m working on it.
I SEE AUNT GRETA WATCHING me from across the table, doing her best to pretend she’s not. I’m doing my best to keep up with polite conversation, but I can’t seem to focus. It’s as if the whole Bradley-waiter-speech fiasco didn’t just happen. The crazy train is back on track and moving full speed ahead. I’m spooning sugar in my tea, dazed, but . . . I’m okay.
“So, Kensington.” Dad leans on an elbow. “How are things at the agency? Heard you have a new client.”
My eyes widen, the spoon hangs in midair. Does he mean Shane’s restaurant? I know they had lunch, but he’s bringing it up now? “Um, yeah. I’m working on a new movie-themed restaurant concept,” I say hesitantly, and continue sweetening my tea. I peek at Mom.
She says something. I give a thin smile. I think I’m smiling. I’m at least thinking about a smile. Sinking back in my chair, I stir and take a sip. Wow, really sweet.
Greta’s new guy is called Rolly. He turns to me, wiping his mouth with a blue napkin. “The bank is thinking of some new marketing projects. Maybe I should talk to you, Kenzi?”