Never Have I Ever

by Blakely, Lauren

  That sends a dart of lust down my spine. That warms me up on this cold plane—the idea that she likes the fighter in me. My lips quirk up. “Is that so? You think it’s hot?”

  She smiles, a little shyly. “It kind of is.”

  I want to push in this direction. I want to explore what she thinks is hot. I want to tell her I think she’s on fire. But this is a time to focus on my friends and on my family. Not to risk ruining a wedding with an awkward situation.

  So I don’t let myself get caught up. I lean forward, checking on my kids in the row ahead. Snoring.

  “Outlaws,” I whisper.

  “Bandits,” she seconds.

  “Lawbreakers.”

  “Perps.”

  But I also don’t want to just toss words back and forth. Because that conversation with her felt good. It felt as good as flirting with her at the dinner did. I want to keep digging deeper. “Your turn,” I say. “Why do you like weddings so much?”

  She fidgets with her blanket, then meets my gaze. “I told you my mom was married six times.”

  “You did say that.”

  “I’ve always been drawn to weddings. Royal weddings. Soap weddings. Real weddings. I used to walk past a church in my neighborhood in Florida on Saturday afternoons and try to catch glimpses of brides and grooms.”

  An image of a young Piper, spying in the pews, flashes before me. “I can see that.”

  “It just seemed like the perfect job for me, and I felt like a bit of an expert given I was in so many weddings because of my mom.”

  “Has she found love again?”

  A sad look pierces her eyes. “I don’t think so. I don’t think she’s ever found anyone she’s loved like my dad. She keeps trying, but she comes up short.”

  “And with your mom getting married so many times, that didn’t turn you off to the institution?”

  “No. I’m sure Freud would say I’m trying to get it right.”

  “Do you think you’ll ever get married?”

  She licks her lips, takes a breath, then speaks softly. “Do I think I’ll ever get married again, you mean?”

  I blink. Married again?

  14

  Piper

  Maybe it’s the night. Maybe it’s the way the airplane operates like a cocoon. This sleek metal tube is a secret chamber, shooting us across the starry sky where secrets are safe.

  Or perhaps it’s that he shared something with me.

  Something big.

  Something important.

  In moments like this, when Zach lets down his guard and lets me in, it seems like we’re no longer the barbed wire Zach and Piper that we usually are. We’re these softer, friendlier versions of ourselves.

  Sometimes I like these versions better.

  He stares at me, mouth agape, shock etched across his face. Quickly he recovers, and I suspect it’s the lawyer in him, the training that tells him never let them know you’re surprised.

  “Can you say that again?” he asks, his voice a little scratchy.

  “You heard me right.”

  He scrubs a hand across the back of his neck. “You were married? As in, husband and wife? Bride and groom?”

  “It surprises you that someone would marry me?”

  He narrows his eyes, shooting me a c’mon look. “No. Not in the least.” He wiggles his fingers, motioning me to serve it up. “But you’ve got my complete attention, and I’m going to need the full details of how it happened.”

  I take a deep breath and confess. “My dirty little secret is that I was married for six months.”

  “And it’s a secret secret?”

  Laughing, I ask, “What’s a secret secret?”

  “When it’s vault level. Lucy says it’s for the deepest of secrets.”

  I nod crisply. “Then this would be five-stories-underground, undetectable-by-radar, zombies-can’t-find-you, bunker-level secret.”

  “Got it. Why? Who? When? Where? What?”

  I lean back against the cushy leather seat and prepare to share my albatross as a wedding planner: not only am I not happily married, I’m also divorced. “His name is Jensen. I met him when I was twenty-six. I was crazy about him, wildly in love,” I say, imagining Jensen’s shoulder-length hair, his raspy voice, his man-against-the-world mentality. “He was a violinist.”

  Zach rolls his eyes. “Musicians.”

  “Yes, they’re attractive.”

  “Go on.”

  “We met. We fell hard and fast. We were tangled up in each other.”

  He makes a speed it up gesture. “Feel free to skip the whole we had sex every second and I loved him like crazy bit.”

  “Ooh, jealous much of my sexcapades from seven years ago?” I tease.

  “Moving on.”

  “Anyway, I thought he was the one. I thought it shortly after I met him.”

  “How did you meet?” His voice is a tightrope.

  I trip back in time, remembering Jensen’s intensity, the way he drowned himself in music, how his brown hair fell over his eyes when he massaged the bow across the strings like he was making love to the instrument. The way he poured his entire body into Brahms, Bach, Beethoven. “He played for the New York Philharmonic. We met at a bookstore. I was thumbing through a book of sonnets—a gift for my sister. He was reading poetry.”

  One look at Zach tells me he is working hard to rein in an eye roll. I pat his arm. “It’s okay. You can mock me. I’m well aware that it’s like saying our eyes locked across a crowded room and the world melted away.”

  “Or that you were both reaching for the last slice of cake at the same time.”

  “Hey! I never let anyone else get the last slice of cake. My cake-snagging skills are top-notch.”

  “Mine are even better. But back to the story. Keep going. I want to hear it.” The urgency in his tone tells me that for some reason he must know this.

  I give him the full truth. Nothing held back. “It was very . . . passionate. Very romantic. Like something out of a book or a movie. I fell for him because it was everything I thought love was supposed to be.”

  “You mean, it was what you saw your mom do?”

  “Yes. It seemed like the hopeless romantic was getting her happy ending. We went for walks together in the park, and I had my hand in his back pocket and he had his hand in mine. We were laughably in love. I’d watch him perform, and I’d wait for him backstage, meet him when he was riding that performer’s high. We’d go out to bars or speakeasies, to lounges, and we’d soak in the romance of the city. I was so wrapped up in it, and so was he.”

  “So he proposed?” It sounds like he’s chewing on gravel.

  I sigh, clucking my tongue. “Sort of?”

  “Ah, the plot thickens.”

  “We went to Vegas.”

  A ha bursts from his lips. “What happens in Vegas . . .”

  “We went there for the weekend, and we’d been together maybe four months. He wandered past the chapel in the Bellagio, and he said, ‘Let’s do it. Let’s get married.’”

  “And that was all it took?”

  Honestly, that was all it took. I was caught up. I was swept up. I was in love. I nod, answering Zach. “I thought he was my forever. I thought he was my happily ever after, my prince, my fairy tale.”

  “What changed? What was the twist in the story?”

  I smile faintly, liking that he puts a spin on the fairy tale gone awry. “We returned to New York, rings on our fingers, lives supposedly entwined, but every day it became more obvious that we weren’t a good fit.”

  “What made it obvious?” He’s relentless, like he’s parched and I can quench his thirst with my answers.

  “Little things. Big things. We’d go out to dinner and have nothing to say after appetizers. He’d come home after a performance, and all he wanted was to talk about the music. But when I tried to talk about my day, he had little interest. He was lost in his world, and truth be told, I was lost in mine.”

  “Your marriage
had intensity, but no depth.”

  I tap my nose. “Exactly.”

  “How did it end? Was there a fight?”

  “No.” A stitch of sadness marks the word, a vestigial emotion from a time when I ached, knowing we weren’t going to last. My marriage fizzling out was an open wound, and it didn’t heal for a long time. “There was no epic fight, no burning of his clothes, no tossing my things out the window. Just this realization that we weren’t meant to be, that we’d jumped the gun. We were fools in love who fell out of love.” I adjust my seat, letting it back an inch or two, then return to the story. “We divorced amicably, went our separate ways. He’s performing in Russia now and is married with two children.”

  Zach hums, staring off into the dark of the tiny oval window. “So you keep your marriage a secret?”

  “I do,” I whisper, that old shame surfacing. “I mean, ‘Quickest Marriage Flameout since Kim Kardashian’s First Wedding’ doesn’t look great on a business card. Only a handful of people know. No fanfare, since we married in Vegas. My sister knows, of course, and my friend Sloane. And Jess too, but she’s been sworn to secrecy.” I bring my finger to my lips. “She’s a good secret keeper, unlike Charlie.”

  Zach nods, understanding exactly how our friend is.

  “And honestly, by the time it started to unravel, I was embarrassed. Of all people, I should have been able to make a marriage work. Or at least have avoided making my mom’s mistakes. I didn’t want to tell anyone I hadn’t managed it. Certainly not clients. Brides want to believe in the fairy tale. Heck, I believe in the fairy tale. But my clients want me to fit into it. They don’t want a fairy godmother who makes stupid mistakes. And they definitely don’t want any reminders that marriage can die.”

  He shifts a little closer, his expression thoughtful. “It’s not stupid. It’s not shameful. You loved him once upon a time.”

  “But not like you and Anna. I remember seeing you guys at parties in college. That was real love.”

  His eyes meet mine. “It was.”

  Two words. It was. No doubt, no question.

  “Do you still love her?” I ask softly.

  He sighs. He holds up his hands, like he’s surrendering. “I don’t know how to answer that without sounding like an asshole.”

  I reach for his arm, pressing my hand to it gently. “Try.”

  His eyes latch onto mine, darkness shrouding his irises. “This is life. You can only play the hand you’re dealt. This is mine. I played the cards. I had a great hand for a short time. I have no regrets. But here I am, maybe with a new deck.”

  He lifts a hand. Is he—is he going to sweep my hair back?

  He is.

  His fingers brush against the ends of my hair, moving the strands behind my shoulder. My skin sizzles. Maybe it even glows beneath his touch.

  I bite the corner of my lip and hope he can’t hear the hitch in my breath. I’m not supposed to respond to him like this. I don’t want to be attracted to him at this molten level.

  “Your hair was about to be stuck in the seat,” he says, but it sounds like an excuse, and a part of me loves that he’s making one.

  “Thanks,” I say, wobbly, as butterflies whoosh through my insides. Damn butterflies.

  “Now you’re safe.”

  “Thanks for saving my hair.”

  “That’s what I’m here for.”

  “You’re a prince,” I say, going full playful, as if that will stop the onslaught of feelings slamming into me.

  He lets his hand drop, resting it in his lap. “Hey, Piper?”

  I swallow thickly. “Yes?”

  “You know love isn’t a fairy tale, right?”

  I sigh. “I do know that. And I know it doesn’t have to be a fairy tale to work.”

  He nudges my arm, winking. “Thanks for sharing your dirty little secret.”

  “Don’t tell a soul,” I say, miming zipping my lips.

  “I’m a vault.”

  I poke his chest, stabbing his sternum. “You better be.”

  In an instant, he circles his fingers around my wrist. My heart stops; my breath catches. His eyes lock with mine.

  Is the entire plane asleep? We’re the only ones awake in this cabin. Perhaps the only ones who want to be. And I want right now. I want so much. I am a woman comprised solely of desire.

  My gaze swings down to our hands.

  He slides his thumb along my wrist, stroking me. Tingles rush across my body, lighting me up, sparking every nerve ending, unraveling me.

  He moves in slow motion, the pad of his thumb tracing a line up and down my skin. He’s mesmerizing me with his touch. I swallow, wondering, waiting.

  Is he going to kiss me on the plane? With his kids a row ahead of us? Instinctively, I check to see if they’re awake.

  I’ve broken the spell.

  Even though they’re sound asleep.

  He drops my hand. “Never have I ever fallen asleep on your lap on a plane.”

  I smile. “Is this your way of telling me to sleep on you?”

  His grin is magnetic as he answers me. “Yes.”

  Perhaps I’m more tired than I thought, because the next thing I know, I’m dozing off on his leg, and I swear, I can feel his fingertips gently stroking my hair.

  I tell myself it’s nothing, he’s no one, because once we land, we have to don our armor again.

  But we don’t.

  15

  Piper

  The line at the Tower of London stretches for miles behind us. Miles in front of us.

  “This is going to take forever.” I shift from one foot to the other, bemoaning our state of affairs.

  “I promise I’ll get you an ice cream cone when we’re done.” Zach pats my head as if I’m a child.

  I stomp my foot, acting like one. I can’t wait much longer. Waiting and I are not friends.

  Lucy peers around at the crowd. “We’re almost there, Piper.”

  Literally every tourist in London has decided to flock here today. Didn’t they get the memo that I was coming and will require a moment alone with the tiaras? A personal audience with the crowns?

  Evidently not.

  “You really don’t do lines well, do you?” Zach observes.

  I moan like a balloon letting out air. “I’m terrible at lines. I hate them. They’re the worst.”

  “We’ve only been waiting thirty minutes.”

  “Feels like an eternity.”

  Zach arches a brow, a grin dancing on his face. “I bet you’re one of those people who makes plans to go to brunch at some thoroughly hip place named something super trendy, like Fox and Fig or Oak and Orange, then if you arrive and there’s a line of guys in skinny jeans next to Instagramming girls, you bail?”

  “No, I wouldn’t bail, because I wouldn’t even go.”

  Soon enough, we make it through the queue and inside to the stones and precious metals, and when at last I gaze upon a gold crown inlaid with rubies and diamonds and sapphires, I float. I fly. I beam. The riches are as stunning as I wanted them to be.

  Glittering and glorious, the crown jewels speak of another time, another era, when gold and silver were currency, when they paved the way for truces and treaties.

  Reverently, I explore the gems, Lucy by my side. We stop at a purple velvet crown set with topazes, rubies, sapphires, and more. “That’s St. Edward’s crown. It’s used at the actual moment of crowning itself,” I tell Lucy, gazing upon the stunning head-topper for the monarch. “It’s the most important of all the crowns.”

  “I bet it’s super heavy.” Henry rubs his head like he’s experiencing associative pain. “I think it would give me a headache.”

  “I’ve no doubt it would,” Zach says, squeezing his son’s shoulder. “But how about that scepter? I could see you wielding that at the office, Piper.”

  “Yes! Me too.” I move closer to peer at a dazzling gold scepter with a diamond the size of my fist on top. I pretend I’m brandishing it, issuing orders, declaring ed
icts. Lucy laughs delightedly, and Henry squirms away in a fit of giggles. He bumps into a squat English woman, who shoots him a wrinkled smile.

  He makes a little bow of apology. “Sorry, ma’am.”

  “Quite all right, young man. I see your mum has a lovely make-believe scepter.”

  Henry shakes his head. “She’s not my mom. She’s just my daddy’s friend.”

  The woman blushes, quick and red, from cheek to jowly cheek. I laugh and wave. “Daddy’s friend. That’s me. And I have a scepter.”

  I pretend to bonk Zach with my imaginary gold baton.

  “Ouch.” He doubles over in mock pain.

  The woman clasps her hand to her chest. “I’m so sorry. My apologies.”

  “It’s all good,” Zach says.

  “You’re American?”

  “We are.”

  She pats his arm. “You have a lovely accent, lovely children, and a lovely lady friend.”

  Then she ambles the hell out of dodge.

  Daddy’s friend, I mouth, and Zach simply shakes his head.

  I spin around, turn my focus to the real scepter, and read the placard. “That diamond weighs five hundred thirty and two-tenths carats.”

  “And it’s said to be the largest cut white diamond in the world,” Lucy says, reading along.

  I turn to her. “What’s so amazing is these jewels have been around for ages, for centuries. The monarchs in the sixteen-hundreds wore them, used them, touched them. The world was so vastly different, but these jewels were here.”

  “It’s weird to think about the sixteen-hundreds. They probably didn’t have phones or cake.”

  “Oh, they definitely had cake.”

  “But no phones. Or sneakers. Or exercise pants.” She looks down at her leggings, standard girl attire.

  “They definitely didn’t have yoga pants. The only leggings they had were an uncomfortable and weird sort of pantyhose. Nor did they have equal rights for women, so given all that, I like this generation.”

  “Me too,” Lucy says.

  “Nowadays, we can like pretty things and admire jewels and still be awesome at school, our jobs, and at taking life on our own terms.”