One Week

by Roya Carmen

  Theo pulls a face, the sad pout I’m so used to seeing when he doesn’t get his way. “Why couldn’t Floyd come too?”

  Eli wraps a long arm around Theo’s little body. “Because dogs are not welcome at weddings… I know, it’s not fair.”

  “So not fair,” Theo says.

  “He’s happy at home,” Eli assures him. “My friend is looking after him.”

  “Is he at the studio?” Corrie asks. “How’s that going?”

  I look off into the distance — Kayla, Marilyn (Maeve’s older sister) and Mandy (Maeve’s high school bestie) are fussing with Maeve’s dress. Maeve is a complete nervous wreck. “No worries,” Kayla says. “We have plenty of time. He’s late.”

  “It’s going well,” Eli is saying to Corrie. “I’ve almost got everything set up. And my manager already got me in some galleries in New York, Montreal, Chicago… loads of places.”

  Corrie fiddles with her open toed heels. “That’s great.”

  “I even got him in at my gallery,” I tell her. I know it’s not my gallery, and I don’t even get paid to work there, but I’m still excited about it.

  “You’re still living in your studio?” she asks Eli.

  He nods. “Well, you know, we’re taking it slow.”

  I smile and stare down at my promise ring, the beautiful glass stone ring Eli gave me as a promise of things to come. “We’ll be moving in together soon enough, when the time is right,” I tell her.

  Corrie smirks. “So what does John think about you?!” she asks, not quite waiting for an answer. “A tall gorgeous slice of a man like you,” she says turning to me with a wicked smile. “John must be insane with jealousy.”

  I laugh. “Well, yeah, I don’t think he loves Eli, but he’s cool with it all. He’s busy with Amanda. It’s been going well.”

  Corrie stands and takes my hand in hers. “I’m glad. I’m really happy for you, Gabs. You deserve this.” She almost brings me to tears, but then she turns on her heel, and lets go of my hand. “I need to go tinkle before show time.”

  I turn to Eli, and look up into his beautiful eyes. He draws me in closer. The kids are running around us in circles.

  He winks. “I told you I’d be at this wedding.”

  I smile up at him. “You did.”

  “This will be us, one day,” he says.

  Chaos swirls around us. Sylvia, the wedding planner, is running around like a chicken with its head cut off. “One day soon, hopefully.”

  He kisses the tip of my nose. “I can’t wait.”

  I snuggle in closer. “And can you picture little ones running around too?”

  He laughs. “We already have little ones running around.”

  I pout. “But maybe one more… or two?”

  A tearful smile stretches across his sweet face. “Making a human being with you is definitely on my bucket list,” he jokes. “But only if you’re up for it. I’m happy either way, Gabriella, as long as I’m with you.”

  I smile playfully. “We’ll see.”

  Now, both Kayla and Corrie are running around too. Maeve is sprawled on the loveseat, her face buried in her hands, the skirt of her dress a big cloud. The mother of the bride is freaking out. She dashes out of the room in a flurry.

  What the hell is going on?

  “I’m sorry,” I say to Eli. “I need to see what’s going on. I need to help.”

  I catch up to Kayla, and ask her quietly, “What’s going on?”

  She pulls me around the corner, and whispers, “Peter’s not here yet. Everyone’s here. Everything’s set. The priest is waiting impatiently… but no Peter.”

  My heart sinks. “Oh no.”

  I want to go to Maeve, and tell her that everything will be okay, but how can I say that? I have no clue what’s going on. The kids are still running in circles. Corrie and Sylvia are talking in hushed tones. Eli is just standing, confused, and Maeve is balling her eyes out.

  Maeve’s mother, Sheila, finally comes back. I can tell from the expression on her face that it’s not good news. She trudges slowly over to the loveseat, and sits next to her daughter. She looks regal in an iridescent silver dress, her dreadlocks up in an intricate up-do, a dusting of grey lining the edges of her black hair, and sapphires hanging from her ears. She takes Maeve in her arms, and with a trembling voice, she whispers, “I’m so sorry, Maeve.”

  Maeve tears herself from her hold — her face is a complete mess; puffy eyes, running mascara, and blotched skin. “What happened?”

  “I… I’ve spoken to Peter’s parents, and... sweetheart, there’s been a change of plans.” Sheila’s voice cracks, and she draws a long breath before uttering her next words. “They… they say that Peter had a change of heart, and he’s not coming. They’re very, very sorry.”

  Maeve’s face blanches — her pretty caramel complexion turns to ash. “He’s not coming?” she asks, not quite believing it.

  The whole room is frozen, jaws on the floor, eyes unblinking. Even the kids seem confused. Total silence.

  How can this be happening? To Maeve, of all people? The sweetest and kindest person you’ll ever know.

  Eli takes my hand and squeezes it.

  I can’t believe it. Peter Walker has just left my best friend at the altar. My beautiful, sweet best friend.

  I want to find that little creep… and strangle him to death.

  —The End—

  Thank you

  Thank you so much for reading! If you enjoyed the story, please consider writing a review or telling your friends.

  Keep an eye out for the next standalone book in the ONE WEEK series – Maeve’s story. Coming October 2018! To keep up with the news, subscribe to my newsletter, like my Facebook page, or check out my amazon page or website. You can also follow me on Twitter and Instagram.

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  Excerpt: The Ground Rules Book 1

  (Chapter 1)

  The pink dress…

  GOODNESS…MY TOES are a disgrace. I haven’t looked at my feet in a while, and as I stare down at the faded, chipped blue polish on way-too-long toenails, I realize I might be letting myself go.

  I really need a pedicure.

  I can’t remember the last time I gave myself a pedi. Chloe’s toes are perfect little shiny red buds—I just did her nails yesterday.

  When did my daughter’s toenails become more important than mine? Probably about eight years ago or so. I first painted her toenails when she was just a baby—just wanted to see what it would look like.

  I suppose that’s what happens when you become a mom. One day you have a life. You look hot. Other men (men who are not your husband) want to do wicked things to you.

  And then…you’re painting your baby’s tiny toenails.

  I sigh as Chloe wraps one of my colorful scarves around her neck, her dark brown curls caught under the silk. We’re playing dress-up.

  She twirls in front of the wall mirror. “Do I look grown-up, Mommy?” Her gorgeous eyes gaze at me intently. “Well, do I?”

  “Yes, sweetie. You look very sophisticated.” Classier than me, I muse—ghastly toes, shabby sweats, and all. Every time I look at her, I see her father. She looks so much like him—the crazy dark curls, the gorgeous, sleepy, hazel eyes and the slightly off-kilter, devilish smile.

  She’s precious, standing in my over-sized black pumps and red cocktail dress, a hodge-podge of necklaces draped around her neck.

  Her little sister stands on a vanity chair, arms stretched as she reaches for one of my dresses. “How ’bout this one?”

  I give Claire the pick of the crop. I never wear them anymore. And I do have a lot of dresses—when a pretty one catches my eye, impulse overtakes me. I never ask myself, “When am I ever going to wear this?” If I did, I probably wouldn’t have this overstuffed closet.

  I’ve taken over the closet, in fact—Gabe’s clothing is stuffed in an armoire, but I don’t think he minds. He’s a simple guy—he wears mostly jeans, T-shirts, and plaid button shirts. He doesn’t need a closet.

  Well, that’s what I tell myself anyway…

  I study the dress Claire has picked out—it’s one of my favorites, probably the favorite. It’s a fifties-era dress I spent a small fortune on at one of those posh vintage stores—pink chiffon over taffeta, a corset-like bodice with lacy straps, and a flowing skirt that falls just above the knee.

  The pink dress brushes the carpet, hanging off Claire’s tiny six-year-old frame. She looks so sweet in it. I can’t help but stare. I’ve only worn it twice—once at the theatre, the other time at a wedding. Gabe’s oldest brother tied the knot on a beautiful July day, which somehow managed to turn into a torrential downpour. We all got drenched. Gabe and I sprinted to our hotel room, undressed in a fury, and made love. Gabe’s wet shirt had been plastered on his body, the tribal tattoo covering half his body peeking through the soaked fabric. It’s one of my favorite (very hot) memories.

  I looked really nice in that dress.

  “You look like a princess,” Chloe tells her little sister. Claire, seemingly pleased with this observation, flashes her adorable toothless smile.

  The dress seems so small. Would I still fit into it? No way. I’m almost thirty-five years old, and I’ve had two kids. But… I just need to know.

  “Claire,” I venture softly. “Can you take the dress off?”

  She shrugs, tiny brows furrowed. “But you said I could wear any of your dresses.” She’s not taking it off. “It’s my favorite,” she says with pursed lips. Even when she’s being difficult, she still manages to be adorable.

  “Well, it’s my favorite too actually,” I tell her, stroking the chiffon between my fingers. “But it does look very nice on you.”

  She ponders me for a second, and I can almost see her little mind working. She stares at me with those big brown eyes of hers—she’s so sweet. “Do you want to wear it?” she asks softly.

  “You think I should. You think I could fit into it?”

  “For sure,” she says with conviction. Well…she’s definitely more optimistic than I am because I’m pretty sure I won’t fit into that dress.

  She wiggles out of it, and I quickly get out of my shabby sweats. I’m down to my undies and undo the side zipper.

  “The moment of truth, girls…”

  As I carefully slip the dress over my shoulders, I’m surprised. It falls to my knees and seems to still fit. But whether I can zip it up or not is the question. I make it three-quarters of the way there, and the dress fits more snugly than I remember…but it fits!

  I kneel down as Chloe assists me in zipping it to the top. “It looks really nice on you,” she tells me as we study my reflection in the mirror.

  It does.

  I’m happy I still fit into my favorite dress. But on the other hand, I’m a little depressed. I’ll probably never get to wear it again. Let’s face it—my life is not exactly full of charity balls and glamorous events. Gabe and I don’t get out much—our idea of a date night is a hearty meal at the local family restaurant and a movie, or perhaps the occasional dinner with friends.

  “Why do you look so sad,” Claire asks, a dash of concern in her sweet voice.

  Because Mommy has no life.

  I smile to reassure her. “I’m not sad, Claire. It’s just…I’m probably never going to wear this dress ever again.”

  She looks at me like I have three heads. “You’re wearing it right now, silly.”

  I laugh at her. She has a way of making me giggle, and right now, my life is wonderfully perfect—I have her and Chloe, and Gabe.

  “You’re right, Claire,” I pipe up. “I am wearing it. We should do something special. We’re all dressed up.”

  “How ’bout a tea party in my room?”

  I smile. “Sounds wonderful.”

  “So tell me, Mirella,” Claire starts. “How have you been?” she asks, her sweet voice laced with pomp and circumstance.

  Her expression makes me laugh. “Why, I am just divine, Claire. Thank you for asking.”

  I sit at the tiny yellow table in my vintage pink chiffon dress, nibbling on animal crackers and drinking iced tea. Maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad idea to wear the dress somewhere—perhaps Gabe and I could go see a show—it could be a lot of fun. I should speak to him about it.

  And there i
t is…that “defining moment” wrapped up cleverly into an “ordinary moment.”

  What if we hadn’t been in that closet playing dress-up? What if Claire hadn’t picked out that dress? What if it hadn’t fit? What if…

  Claire is having quite the battle with her taco. Every time she bites into it, cheese covered ground beef spills onto her plate. At this rate, she’ll never get any of it into her little stomach. The sight makes me laugh.

  Gabe rolls his eyes and grabs her taco. “You’re not holding it right, Claire,” he snaps. “The whole thing’s falling apart.” He rewraps the taco and folds her fingers around it. He proceeds to instruct her exactly how to hold it and eat it. She seems flustered, and she holds that taco like her life depends on it. I feel a little sorry for her. Leave it to Gabe to turn taco night into a stress-inducing exercise.

  He spots her shaking bottom lip—a tell-tale sign she’s just about to cry.

  “I’m sorry, sweetie. I know tacos are not easy to eat,” Gabe tells her.

  She wipes a tear off her face with a pudgy finger.

  “It’s like a lot of things,” he says, with a playful pinch of her cheek. “It takes a lot of work to get right. You’re doing great.”

  She smiles up at him—she’s already forgiven him.

  Gabe is not as easy-going as I am. I don’t think anyone is. Gabe says I’m the most patient person he’s ever known. And I guess that’s a good thing since I’m a kindergarten teacher. Handling two girls is nothing compared to handling twenty-two five-year olds at school all day.

  When the whole taco drama is over, I take advantage of a few precious seconds of silence to talk to Gabe about my idea for “date night.” We’ve had date nights before, but this would be something a little more special.