An NSB Wedding

by Alyson Santos

  She shakes her head. “No, bigger. Maybe a bear?”

  “A bear.” Is she serious?

  Her finger rests on her lips. Then she touches her ears. Listen, she mouths.

  Nothing at first. Just the birds and some environmentally appropriate ambient sounds. I shrug, and she waves me still again.

  And then I hear it. A thud, rustling, the distinctive cry of a wounded animal. Maybe not a bear but certainly some creature in need of assistance. I start moving, but Callie grabs my arm, eyes wide.

  “Don’t go toward it,” she hisses, clinging to me.

  “Whatever it is needs help.”

  “How do you know? What if it’s a bear?”

  “Babe, there are no bears on the nature trail of the Florecita Hotel. Also, that’s not the sound bears make.”

  “How do you know what sounds bears make?”

  “I don’t. I just know it can’t be that.”

  “What if it’s a bear pretending to make that sound to attract its prey?”

  “So, like, a really crafty bear?”

  “Super crafty.”

  I nod gravely. “That sounds like a bear I’d really like to see. Bet we could win some kind of zoology award if we document it properly.”

  “Shut up,” she says, shoving me—in the direction of the rarely observed Houston Crafty Bear.

  “I survived the killer spider. Bet I can handle this.” I hold up my fists, prepared for a bear-throw-down. “Stay here.”

  My pulse picks up as I move along the trail. Not that I think it’s a bear, but I’m also not excited about the rabid raccoon or squirrel or whatever is probably terrorizing these woods. It yelps again, close this time. Just around the bend, blocked by a tree. I press against it, peek around, and—

  “Rita?”

  “Casey! Oh my goodness, I’m so relieved.”

  I help her up from the ground. She brushes debris from her torn stockings, and I notice her lopsided stance. A black heel sticking out from the mud six feet back explains the first whimper. The second shoe, still on her foot and pressed into a patch of moss, explains this one. She slides her foot out of the shoe so she can stand level again.

  “What are you doing out here?” I lower my voice, scanning the scene. “Is someone chasing you? Are you in danger?”

  She bites her lip, trying to hide her emotion. Hard to do when your shoes are being held hostage by dirt and your clients have just mistaken you for a bear and/or rabid raccoon.

  “I was looking for you and Callie. You weren’t answering your phones.”

  “Yeah, we needed a break.” I even say it without sarcasm.

  “Rita?”

  We both turn to see Callie. “Oh my gosh! Are you okay? What happened?”

  “I had to find you. This couldn’t wait. I have the best news!”

  Any remaining darkness slips from her features, replaced by administrative poise. Admirable, sure, but it’s hard to take her seriously barefoot and covered in forest crap. Still, I have to give her props for her effort on this one. She really upped her game (stiletto-jog through the woods?) so I do my best to keep a straight face.

  She may look like a hot mess, but her binder is pristine. No doubt those cries were her sacrificing herself to save the folder.

  “I just got off the phone with one of my large-venue contacts. She said if we can be flexible on timing we can get you into Houston Stadium!”

  Her face. So thrilled. So sure we’re about to burst into tears of gratitude.

  Callie’s, not so much.

  I’m just trying not to laugh, because damn, she’s actually serious.

  “You want us to get married in a football stadium?”

  “It’s perfect! Now, we’d have to start the ceremony at seven because there’s a concert later that day, but if we—”

  “Seven in the morning?” I interrupt.

  She nods. “Maybe it’s a tad early, but if we combine some of the bridal party preparation items, I don’t see why you’d have to be up before four.”

  I swallow. Callie looks pretty pale.

  “Wow. That’s um…” I don’t really have a response for that.

  “Think about it! We could even put your names on the giant screen!” There are actual stars in her eyes as she waves a hand in front of us to demonstrate the glory of our names. In a football stadium. At seven in the morning.

  “Yeah, that’s not really the intimate feel we were hoping for,” I say.

  “Well, yes. I know you said you preferred simple elegance, but I’m sure we can set up a trellis or two. Maybe a candelabra?”

  “With all the stage framing, cases, and crates behind us?” I’m a musician. I know what a venue looks like before a concert.

  “But there’d be plenty of room for your guests!”

  “And twenty thousand others. Cal, didn’t you say you were disappointed we had to limit the guest list?”

  Rita’s smile lifts and falls, lifts… and falls. She can’t tell if I’m joking. Callie knows I am and glares over at me.

  Rita clears her throat, clearly not liking the silence. “So that’s a… maybe?”

  Fine. If Callie won’t, I will. “That’s a no, Rita. Thank you for the effort, but if we wanted to get married in a stadium with stage crews and band equipment, we could do that any day in any city over the next three months while we’re on tour. We were kind of looking forward to not being surrounded by random strangers and aluminum trusses for this one.”

  We wait in silence as Rita’s face displays a range of negative human emotions—shock, disappointment, anger, despair—all through the filter of professional steel and flawless makeup. The result is a wedding planner that strangely resembles a malfunctioning robot. Just a glitch. Nothing… twitch… to worry… twitch… about.

  I think it’s funny as hell. Callie, maybe doesn’t...

  “Well then,” Rita says finally, drawing all her dignity back into her shoeless five-foot-two frame. “I suppose I will see what other options are available.” Distinct non-robot stress lines form around her lips as she turns and marches off, yanking her shoes from the mud on the way.

  She stumbles a few times. Appears to step on some obstacles. Looks just generally miserable, and maybe I feel bad.

  “Should I offer to carry her back?” I ask Callie, kind of serious.

  “She’d probably stab you in the eye with her heel,” she answers. Also serious.

  “Oh did I just ruin your dream of walking down an AstroTurf aisle?” I tease.

  Her eye-roll is a good sign. The smile that peeks through the set of her jaw, even better.

  “I guess we could have gotten dressed in the locker room,” she says, taking my hand again.

  “No earlier than four in the morning.”

  We quiet for a moment, and then burst out laughing.

  “I don’t know,” I muse as we start walking again. “It might be kind of nice to see my name in lights.”

  11: THURSDAY 6:31PM, 2 DAYS

  I’m breathing through a set of reps on the bench press when my phone interrupts my rhythm. Eight minutes. Eight minutes of peace to blow off steam before I’m staring at the next crisis ruining my day. I’m not even sweating yet.

  Rita: Found another option. Can we meet?

  Screw that. I’m finishing my workout.

  Sure, I type back to the group text that includes Callie. I’m in the fitness room.

  I get a private message from Callie a second later. Someone’s cranky.

  Me: Yeah. And also horny, but I’m guessing she’s not gonna help with that either.

  Callie: Gross. Be down in a minute.

  True to her word, Callie seems to make it down to me in just over sixty seconds. I’d like to think it’s because she loves watching me work out, but really, it’s probably more about her lack of trust for me alone with our wedding coordinator. Still, I strip off my shirt in slow motion as she approaches just to get that adorable eye-roll.

  “Really? The universe already k
nows you’re hot,” she mutters.

  “Yeah?” I take the bar again and push. Also, she’s full of shit because her eyes are all over me. I smile to myself. God, I can’t wait to torment this woman for the rest of our lives. She’s not exactly innocent in those tiny denim shorts, and suddenly it’s more than my muscles getting a workout. Pretty sure we need to cancel on Rita.

  Too late, the third wheel’s already bustling through the glass door with an armful of folders.

  “Good you’re both here.”

  I straighten on the bench so Callie can sit beside me. For the briefest moment, Rita’s intense gaze fixes on my bare chest, and I can’t stop the smirk at Callie’s bonus eye-roll. She’s dying to smack me, so of course I lean back and brace my hands around the edge of the bench to give “The Universe” a clear look.

  Rita swallows hard, proving she’s not a robot. Or an alien. Then again, aliens would have a vested interest in the human anatomy. I watch her eyes trying not to watch me and conclude she’s human.

  “I have fantastic news. Governor Brock Henry happens to be a huge Night Shifts Black fan and has offered his estate for your nuptials.”

  “The governor of Texas?” Callie asks.

  Rita’s head lifts in a smug tilt. “Yes! It’s perfect. We can have the ceremony in the gardens and the reception—”

  “You want us to get married at the governor’s mansion?” I interject. “Is that even legal? Taxpayers and all that.”

  “Not the government mansion. His personal estate.”

  “How far is it?” Callie asks.

  She clears her throat. “Only four hours.”

  The uncomfortable silence fills the gap in our response.

  “We could… charter buses,” Rita mumbles.

  Callie’s knee bounces, shaking the bench. I press my hand on her leg.

  “I don’t think that’s going to work,” I say.

  Rita’s chest inflates with a stuttering breath. Are those tears in her eyes? “I wish you’d at least consider it. Talk about it and—”

  “We don’t have to talk about it. I’m not asking our guests to spend another eight hours on a bus after traveling here.”

  “What if we find a hotel closer to the venue?”

  “It’s too much of an expense and a hassle. You’ll have to find something else.”

  “What else, Mr. Barrett? What else!” Rita jumps to her feet, hand over her mouth. She looks about to speak before rushing from the room in a flurried click of heels.

  Callie shifts away from me, and I turn to meet her glare.

  “What? Am I wrong?” I ask, genuinely confused.

  “No, but you didn’t have to be a jerk about it.”

  “How was I being a jerk?”

  “There are nicer ways to say no.”

  “Then maybe you should speak up for once.”

  “Are you serious right now?”

  “I’m just saying, I thought you wanted me to play the bad guy. If that’s not what you want—”

  She jumps up and marches toward the door.

  “Cal!” I call after her.

  “I’m going to the room.”

  “Cal, come on, babe.”

  “Just go back to working out. Clearly that’s more important than our wedding!”

  Yep. And that’s how I find myself alone again in the weight room.

  ∞∞∞

  Stewing has never been a favorite pastime of mine. Who has time for that kind of drama? My fiancée apparently. One minute we’re on the same team, and the next I’m the devil incarnate. I’ll never understand chicks.

  The door to the exercise room clicks, and I look over to see Jesse shoving his hotel key back into the pocket of his gym shorts.

  “Hey, Casey. What’s up?” he says, moving toward a neighboring machine.

  “Hey,” I puff out through another rep.

  “You okay?” He studies me, and I’m sure my glare answers his question. “Anything I can help with?”

  I shove the bar up again. “Just stupid shit with Callie.”

  “Wedding-related?”

  “Isn’t everything?” The bar crashes back to the supports. “I’m doing everything I can to deal with all this shit, and it’s still not enough. She’s biting my head off for every little thing.”

  “She’s just stressed out, man.”

  “You don’t think I am?”

  “Yeah, but it’s different for them, you know? No one expects much of us for these things. Our job is to show up and try not to make a dick of ourselves. For the bride, it’s like some royal inauguration they have to host.”

  When did this kid get so smart?

  “Yeah, well. She’s the one who wanted all this shit. I would’ve been happy with a judge and a box of donuts.”

  He laughs. “Maybe, but I bet part of you gets it.”

  “I still don’t know what the hell I did just now.”

  “Ha yeah. Does it matter, though?”

  I narrow my eyes at the ceiling. Does it? “I’m just sick of this. If she doesn’t like the way I’m handling things, then she can step up. I’m done. This whole thing has been a disaster since we arrived,” I grunt, shoving the weight bar above my head again. And again. And again.

  “You’re going to strain your muscles, Case.”

  “Good.”

  Jesse shakes his head and loads more weight on his bar. “Look, I don’t know much about relationships, and even less about what’s going on between the two of you. But what I do know is that I’d give my right arm, my fucking career, just to argue with Parker one last time.”

  My chest tightens at the pain in his voice. I glance over and pull up from the bench. “Hey, man.”

  He looks away, jaw set. His fists clench the bar as if steel can absorb grief. “Anyway, my point is, you have to keep things in perspective, you know?”

  Bright hazel eyes stare at me from somewhere in this hotel. Somewhere not with me and hurting and fucking alive. What if I never got to see them again? “I know, dude. I know.”

  A sad smile twists his lips. “Good.” He drops to his bench and slides under the bar.

  12: THURSDAY 7:03PM, 2 DAYS

  I’m more annoyed than grateful for Jesse’s counsel. Annoyed because he’s a kid and inexperienced in serious relationships. Is Mila his first legit girlfriend? Probably. But worst of all, he’s fucking right.

  Our room is empty when I get back. Not surprised, I guess, and this pisses me off even more. She wants to run from conflict, fine. It’s a huge resort. She could hide from me for the rest of our lives. At least that would solve our problems. Heh.

  Still not sure what I did. Still not sure I care.

  I rip the sweaty shirt over my head and kick off my shorts. Both end up in a pile on the floor that she’d hate. She likes things neat. Even dirty laundry should be discarded with Downton Abbey-like precision. I swear this girl lives as if the Queen of England could stop by at any moment. Why she agreed to marry my sloppy ass, I’ll never understand.

  Steam spreads over the glass of the shower door, and I step inside. Hot water streams over my shoulders, too hot probably, but it’s what I need to tame the fire inside me. I cup my hands and splash the pool over my face, relaxing into the way it slides down my body. Funny how heat can cool. Another baptism from a hotel showerhead, and I’m feeling like a new man. Reborn into a dude who can’t stand being naked alone. God, I love that woman. She drives me insane as much as I love her to insanity.

  I turn the water off and maneuver through the bathroom to my phone. Pick it up. Punch her numbers like she’s having the same naked epiphany in another corner of our private universe. Except Callie doesn’t answer. Fuck.

  “Hey, babe. Give me a call when you get this. I’m sorry.” I toss the useless object back on the mattress and drop to the sheets. With an arm draped over my forehead, I wait.

  I must drift off because I wake with a start a while later, still with no sign of my vanishing fiancée. I’m missing dinner, but who
the hell cares? I try her again, then ring Luke when she doesn’t answer.

  “Hey, man. Dinner’s almost up. Want me to hold it for you?” he asks.

  “Nah. You seen Callie?”

  “No. She’s not here. Hang on, I’ll ask Holland.”

  Luke and Holland exchange words that don’t sound good for me. He confirms it when he returns to the line. “Sorry, dude. Holland hasn’t seen her either.”

  “Shit.”

  “You lose your bride, Case?”

  “Apparently. I fucked up, man.”

  “Wait, you? No way,” he teases.

  “Shut up, I’m serious.”

  “What’d you do?”

  “I don’t know. She didn’t like the way I spoke to Rita, I guess.”

  “The wedding planner?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What, does she want you to wear crowns and a scepter now or something?”

  “Ha. Basically.”

  “Well, hey, if I see Callie I’ll tell her to give you a buzz.”

  “Thanks.” I massage my forehead. “Oh, and do me a favor. Don’t tell anyone I lost the bride?”

  Lost the bride. That’s a thing, right? Pre-wedding jitters. Is she having second thoughts? I’ve never believed I was good enough for her. What if she’s finally figured that out? Fuck.

  I lean my elbows on my knees, shoving my hands into my hair. I don’t even remember I’m still naked until a knock comes from the door. Slipping into a pair of boxers, I yank it open to meet a giant basket wrapped in cellophane.

  “Mr. Barrett?” the basket says.

  “That better not be from fucking Marty Heilman.”

  The basket clears its throat. “Sir, I—”

  “Keep it.”

  “Sir?”

  “I don’t want it.”

  “But sir—”

  I slam the door shut. Hmm… maybe this is what Callie’s talking about? With a hard swallow, I open it again.

  “Sorry,” I say. “Thanks.”

  The porter shifts the burden to me, and his look of relief when his face appears makes me wish Callie were here to witness my munificence. I carry it inside, deciding it’s tacky to take a picture of the moment, and grab a bill from the dresser instead.