Thirty-Four Going On Bride (The Spinster Series Book 3)

by Becky Monson

  Fantastic. Now I have even less to look forward to on that night.

  “You know,” Lisa says, her hand resting under her chin. “I’ve been looking to do a story about a local business for my column.” She looks at me, her eyebrows raised. “Sort of a rags to riches type of thing. I think you might be exactly what I’m looking for,” she smiles, her teeth shining white even under the dim lighting of the restaurant.

  Um, I’m going to go with “hell no.” First of all, it wasn’t a “rags to riches” story. There were no rags at all. And honestly, there are still not that many riches. I mean, the bakery does great, but I’m no millionaire. Most importantly, I don’t like doing interviews, and I certainly wouldn’t want to do one with the woman that might possibly still have a thing for my future husband. I’d say I’m just being jealous, but I’m sensing something in my gut that doesn’t feel right.

  “That would be great,” Jared says, his eyes bright with ideas. “Don’t you think so, Jules?” He turns to me and nods his head.

  No. No, I don’t.

  “Um,” I say, mindlessly tucking more imaginary hair behind my ear. How do I say “hell no” in the nicest way possible? “I’m not sure I’d be that interesting to interview.”

  Lisa bats a hand in my direction. “Oh, I’m sure you’ll be great!” she says, her voice ringing through the restaurant.

  “You’d be perfect, Jules,” Jared says, putting a hand on my back.

  “I don’t know if I’d have the time, you know with the wedding planning and all,” I say, shrugging my shoulders. I’m still trying to find the right excuse that will get them to let it go. I also had to throw in the “wedding planning” part for obvious reasons. Just a little reminder for Lisa.

  “Jules,” Jared turns to me, a serious expression on his face, “you’re being offered a fantastic opportunity here. You should take it.”

  “Oh yes,” Lisa says. “You’d be on the front page of the business section and everything. We’ll even do a little photo shoot of you at the bakery.”

  “I’d rather not—“

  “Jules,” Jared says, cutting me off. “This is great publicity for you and the bakery.”

  I close my eyes for a brief moment, wishing I could’ve feigned sick tonight. I could be lying on my couch in a junk food coma watching Project Runway. Of course, had I not been here, Lisa would’ve surely been sitting in Jared’s lap by now. Her chair somehow keeps scooting closer and closer to him. Which is also putting her farther away from Mark, who is completely oblivious.

  “Um,” I look around the room avoiding eye contact. “Sure, that would be great,” I say to appease Jared and Lisa. I’ll have to find another time to come up with an excuse to get out of it.

  The server arrives with our food and the conversation stops for a bit while we pass the plates around and load up our own. I look down at mine and apparently I’ve been mindlessly dishing up everything. The plate is starting to overflow. Clearly I’m stress eating. Or I’m using food as a crutch so I don’t slap people. Even Jared’s on my list right now.

  Mark takes over the conversation from there, bringing up stories from the past. Lisa adds some of her own from when she and Jared were dating. They all laugh and add comments as they reminisce. Bobby is pretty absent from the conversation, just a few head nods here and there. I’m the odd man out here, that’s for certain. Not because of anything Jared’s doing, mind you. He looks directly at me when relaying his part of whatever story they’re telling. His hand moves from holding mine, to settling on my leg.

  Mark tells the story of how he and Lisa met at the club they were both frequenting. He gives her flirty winks as he talks, and she flirts right back. I wonder if Lisa knows what a player Mark truly is. I’m definitely looking forward to when he moves on from this one.

  Every once in a while, Bobby throws a quick non-approving glance in Lisa’s direction. I’m so going to find out the reasoning behind that.

  The rest of the evening goes on without much merit, thank goodness. Lisa has seemed to return her attentions to Mark, now touching his arm when she talks instead of Jared’s. Well, she does touch Jared’s arm every now and then. It dawns on me that Jared hasn’t taken notice nor has he ever reacted to her touch. That bodes well … for Jared. Otherwise he’d be getting a mouthful from me.

  “It was so fantastic to meet you, Julia,” Lisa says, her voice overly happy as we walk outside of the restaurant.

  “And you,” I say, fake smile on my face. Two can play that game.

  I shiver a little in the late May night air and Jared immediately takes his jacket off and places it around my shoulders.

  “You always were so thoughtful,” Lisa says to Jared, noticing the gesture.

  I hate that they have a past I know only bits and pieces about. I hate that Jared was ever thoughtful with this woman, or cared for her. It’s childish, I realize, but I can’t help myself.

  Lisa says goodbye to Bobby, who barely acknowledges it (I think I like my future mother-in-law even more now), and Mark makes his goodbyes as well.

  After getting Bobby settled in a cab, Jared walks me to my condo.

  “Have I told you,” he says as he makes himself comfortable on the loveseat after we make it back to my condo, “how beautiful you look tonight?”

  I sit down next to him, and he puts an arm around me, pulling me into him.

  “You did, but I don’t mind hearing it again,” I say as I look up into his eyes. He leans in and kisses me softly.

  “So that was crazy,” I say when he pulls away, “running into your ex-girlfriend.”

  “Hmm?” He asks, his fingers playing with my headband. Almost as if he’s forgotten that we just had dinner with Lisa. “Oh yeah,” he says.

  “She seems … nice.” I use the word “nice” tentatively. That’s not really how I’d describe her; more like a word my mother has asked me repeatedly not to use, the one that starts with a B.

  “You know,” Jared says, pulling me even more into him, “I don’t feel like talking about her right now.” He starts kissing a trail from the corner of my mouth to the spot right by my earlobe. The spot that gets me every time. A chill runs down my spine, and not the cold kind.

  “You don’t?” I question, feeling suddenly breathless. I want more information on Lisa, but maybe right now isn’t the right time as his lips have traveled down my neck and to my collarbone.

  “No, I don’t,” he says as he reaches his hand to the back of my neck and then claims my mouth like I’m the only person in the world that matters to him right now.

  As if like magic—as always with his touch—my brain turns to mush and I completely forget what I was thinking about. All I can think of is him.

  Lisa who?

  CHAPTER 4

  “I need a pastry,” Brown declares as she enters the bakery.

  I nearly choke on the drink of water I just took. Brown needs a pastry? I’m not totally positive, but I don’t think those four words have ever come out of Brown’s mouth in her entire life. I look over at Debbie who’s behind the cash register, and she gives me a questioning glance.

  “Seriously, Jules, give me something good and full of calories.” She walks hurriedly over to the display, her long, straight, blond hair swinging dramatically behind her as she eyes what little baked goods I have left after another busy day.

  “Whatcha got for me?” her eyes search the display as if she’s a crackhead who needs a hit.

  I feel as though I might need to check her temperature, or ask her questions that only she’d know so that I can rule out a body invasion. I’ve known Brown for over six years and have never seen her eat a pastry. Or sugar, really. She’s a health and exercise fanatic. She actually eats kale chips as a treat. I’m sorry, but kale, in any form, is not a treat. It’s a form of torture.

  “Betsy Brown, are you feeling okay? You are Betsy Brown, right?” I use her full name since I think I’m leaning toward the body-snatching scenario. That seems most plausible at
this point. I could use her full married name—Betsy Brown Whitehead, but she hates her new last name, so right now is probably not the time to use it.

  “Yes!” She snaps at me. “Now give me some sugar!” She demands, and the remnants of customers we have in the store all turn their heads to look at her. She doesn’t seem to notice or care.

  I come around from the back of the counter to the front and look her over. She doesn’t look sick, although her blue eyes do look bloodshot, like she’s been crying. Also not a norm for Brown. What’s going on?

  “Is this one of those best friend tests where I’m supposed to talk you down from eating something bad?” I ask, eyeing her suspiciously.

  “No,” she snaps again. “I’m stress-eating. Now please, Julia, get me something and come sit with me. I need to vent.”

  After finding her something (a lemon bar so at least there was an element of a fruit in there—that’s how I justified it anyway), and grabbing her a coffee, we take a seat in the back corner of the bakery.

  We sit in silence for a minute as she nibbles on the lemon bar. Honestly, if she didn’t look so panic stricken, I’d probably have to snap a picture of this momentous occasion. Brown eating a pastry. I’ll just have to settle for a mental picture. I never thought I’d see the day.

  I haven’t had a long conversation with Brown in a couple of weeks because we’ve both been so busy. I so want to tell her about Lisa and the most eventful (read: annoying) dinner that happened last week, and the impending interview happening tomorrow that I haven’t been able to get out of. But I’ll have to save that for later. She needs me, and to be perfectly honest, it feels nice to be needed. This is a big role reversal here.

  “What’s going on?” I finally ask, eyeing her with concern.

  “I killed them,” she says, a sob escaping after her declaration.

  My eyes go wide. That was not what I was expecting. I was thinking more along the lines of trouble at work. But that’s not likely with Brown. She’s good at what she does. She works in sales for the company I used to work for which also happens to be the place I met Jared. Maybe trouble at home, but that also seems unlikely. Her and Matt have been married for a year, but have been together for much longer.

  Killing was not on my scope with Brown. Anna possibly, but not Brown. Brown has always been the epitome of calm and collected. Unless you count last year when she nearly had a nervous breakdown before her wedding. But even the most even-keeled person can lose it over a wedding, I’m sure. Actually, I’m positive.

  “Okay … who did you kill,” I say slowly and softly, as to not make her mad and therefore become her next victim.

  “No,” she bats a hand at me. “I didn’t kill anyone, I just—” she cuts off with another sob, a tear forms at the corner of her eye and then travels down her cheek. She puts the lemon bar down and puts her face in her hands, and this time I can see her shoulders shake as she really lets go.

  “Brown,” I say, scooting my chair closer, I start to rub her back. I’d hug her, but Brown isn’t a huggy person. I grab a napkin and hand it to her and she blows her nose into it, not caring that everyone around can hear her.

  “Okay, start from the beginning,” I say, once the blubbering begins to subside.

  “Yes, okay … good. I need to talk this out,” she says through sniffles.

  “Yes, talk it out. This is a judgment-free zone here,” I say. Although, if there truly was killing then I’m not certain I can guarantee that.

  “So we had an appointment with the fertility clinic today,” she says as she dabs her eyes.

  Right. The fertility clinic. I should’ve known. The breakdown Brown had at her wedding actually had something to do with that. She freaked out because her soon-to-be husband informed her that he didn’t want to wait to have kids, and she wasn’t sure if she was ready for that. But after the wedding, something snapped in Brown and she decided to get on board with the whole baby thing. In fact, she went into full beast-mode. She read nearly every book on it, bought ovulation tests, kept a calendar, took her temperature … she was going to make this happen.

  Only, it didn’t. Nearly a year after their wedding, and months of negative pregnancy tests (of which she would take four or five, just to make totally sure), they finally decided to seek help.

  “So what happened?” I ask, coaxing her to talk. She was still tearing up at this point.

  “We had our post-coital test,” she rattles off like anyone in the world would know what that is.

  “Uh, post-coital test?” I ask, narrowing my eyes. I’m not sure I actually want to know.

  “Yes, a post-coital test. It’s a test where we do the deed the night before and then within twelve hours the doctor does a swab of my cervix to test it.” She says it so matter-of-fact, like this is normal procedure.

  I, on the other hand, am slightly mortified. Okay, mostly mortified. I can’t imagine having to go to the doctor and sit in a room where they swab me knowing full well what I did last night. I can feel the heat in my face at the very thought.

  “Oh Julia,” Brown rolls her eyes. She knows exactly what I’m thinking without having to say anything. “It’s all medical at that point.”

  “Right,” I shake my head, face still burning.

  “Anyway,” she turns her head away from my red face, “so after they swab you, they put it under a microscope connected to a big screen so everyone can see it and so the doctor can explain things as he sees them.” Brown sniffles loudly.

  “Okay, so what happened?” I ask, nodding my head.

  “They were dead. All of them,” She says as more tears start to trickle from her eyes.

  “What was dead?”

  “Matt’s sperm—his little swimmers,” she makes a swimming motion with her hand. “I killed them all. Apparently I have what’s called a ‘hostile environment,’” she says using air quotes. “I’m a sperm killer.”

  Now, I do realize the severity of the situation. If the “little swimmers” can’t even make it to the egg, then how can you conceive? But for some reason, the sperm killer thing sets me off and try as I might to stifle it, a giggle escapes my lips. I mean, I knew Brown could be hostile at times, but I didn’t think even her uterus could be.

  “Julia!” Brown says, looking incredulously at me, “are you laughing?”

  “No!” Another giggle escapes. Dang it!

  “Julia! I’m having a crisis here. This is not funny,” she says, her eyes wide.

  “I’m so sorry, Brown. It was just the sperm killer comment,” I say, and then I can’t help it. I start laughing.

  “I hate you so much right now,” Brown says, but I can see her trying to hold back a smile and it’s not too long before she’s laughing with me.

  “Okay, fine,” she says after the laughing subsides. “I guess when you say it out loud it is kind of funny, but it wasn’t at the time. I mean, Jules, you should’ve seen Matt’s face when he looked at the screen. He looked sick, like he was going to throw up. ‘They’re all dead?’ he kept asking the doctor.”

  “Wait, was he mad at you?” I ask, feeling suddenly defensive for my friend. I mean it’s not like she made her uterus a hostile environment on purpose.

  “No, no,” she says, batting the question away with her hand. “I mean his initial reaction was shock, and—I don’t know—a bit horrified. But it didn’t take him long to recover and then he went back to typical Matt, jumping right into asking questions about what we can do next.”

  “So what do you do next?”

  “There are a few options, but I think we’ve decided to try IUI,” she says.

  “IUI?” I don’t know why she keeps using terminology that I have no clue about. It’s like she thinks the whole world is in the know when it comes to infertility. Those of us that have never been through it have no idea.

  “Intrauterine insemination, or some people call it artificial insemination.” Still seeing the blank look on my face, she continues. “It’s where the doctor t
akes Matt’s sperm and places them near the egg so they don’t have far to go, completely bypassing my hostile cervix.” She sniffles dramatically.

  “So that sounds like a good plan then,” I say, still not sure why she’s as devastated as she is.

  “I guess so, it’s just that—” she looks down at her hands.

  “It’s just that what?”

  “I just feel like I’ve failed, you know?” She says as tears quickly gather in the corners of both eyes and trickle down. It’s not a hysterical cry, it’s a heartbroken cry. I’m feeling heartbroken, and it’s not even happening to me. I’ve never seen Brown like this. She looks fragile almost. And that’s not an adjective I’d ever use for Brown.

  “Brown,” I say, avoiding a tone that might be taken as pity. “You haven’t failed.”

  “I know. I know it sounds like a stupid thing to say. But I’ve never really failed at anything. When I set my mind to it, it happens. This time though, I couldn’t make it happen.” More tears form and fall.

  “But this isn’t the type of thing you can make happen,” I say, bringing my hand up to touch her arm for emphasis. “Does Matt feel the same?”

  “Matt?” She scrunches her face at me, confused by the question. “No,” she shakes her head when she finally understands my question. “He keeps telling me that it’ll happen, even if we have to buy our babies.”

  I give her a half smile and she returns it. Matt truly is perfect for Brown.

  “Julia,” Brown says, looking down at her hands, “what do I do?”

  This is quite the awkward question coming from Brown. I don’t know if she’s ever asked me for advice like this. There’s a lot of firsts going on with Brown right now.

  “I think you should do what you do best. Attack this intra-insemi-thingy like a boss.”

  Her lips curl into a small smile at that. “Yeah, you’re right.”

  “I don’t know if you’ve ever said I was right in our entire friendship. I think I should write this in my journal,” I say, and her smile broadens a touch.