One Last Time: A Second Chance Romance

by Roxie Noir

  She laughs.

  “Surprising for you, maybe,” she says.

  “Excuse me, I’m a paragon of maturity.”

  “I’m surprised you’re not blowing raspberries and calling me a stupidface,” she teases.

  I grin, then stick my tongue out. She laughs again, and I feel like I’m jumping on marshmallows.

  Don’t tell me it could have been this easy all along.

  “I’d like to reiterate my question, though,” she says, leaning over and grabbing her fur cape off a bench. “Which was: what the fuck?”

  “I told you, I heard —”

  “I know you know what I mean, Seth.”

  I do, because I’m not an idiot, but I don’t want to tell her. This is nice. This is fun. This is just the two of us, unweighted for once, and telling her that I went behind her back and made a deal with Vera will surely ruin that.

  “I’m sure I don’t,” I tell her.

  Delilah narrows her eyes, then glances around. Over her shoulder. Through the window to the still-empty first floor, her hair catching fire in the low sun as she takes a step toward me.

  “Are you crashing?” she asks, voice low, one eyebrow raised.

  “Crashing?” I echo, as if astonished. Solemnly, I put a hand over my heart. “I would never.”

  “I bet you would.”

  “I might crash another wedding, but I’m not brave enough to crash a Vera Radcliffe affair,” I tell her. “That’s God’s honest truth, and you know it.”

  Delilah just laughs, hands buried in the cape as her eyes crinkle at the corners, shoulders shaking.

  “Okay, I believe that,” she says. “There was some issue with the beer and Vera made you wear a suit to come fix it?”

  “Nope,” I say. “I was invited.”

  “No, you weren’t.”

  “Hand to God.”

  “Seth, I saw the guest list yesterday and you weren’t on it,” she says, as if she’s catching a child out in a lie.

  “You must’ve missed my name.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “There are five hundred people here,” I point out. “Easy to gloss over a single entry in a list.”

  “There are three hundred and sixty-something people here, and if you were supposed to be one of them, I’d know,” she says, simply.

  It’s an admission, and I feel it down deep like a string tugging on my spine, tied into a notch she carved long ago. I grab it, hold on.

  “Someone invited me at the last minute,” I say, and at least it’s the truth.

  Delilah looks down, unfurls the cape in her hands, spins it around herself, settles it over her shoulders, all without looking at me.

  “Does this someone know you’re out here, rescuing damsels in distress?” she asks, fastening the clasp.

  She thinks I’m on a date. Her voice is light but brittle, like a glass bubble that might explode into shards at any moment.

  “What damsel?” I ask.

  “Your wording, not mine,” she points out, smoothing her cape, still not looking at me.

  “I’m thinking of walking it back.”

  “Even though I’m so very helpless in heels and a corset?” she says, that sharpness still in her voice. “I can’t even button my own clothing, for fuck’s sake.”

  Corset?

  I’m intensely, fervently glad for the cape that mostly covers her.

  “There’s no way you’re a damsel with a mouth like that,” I say.

  “You should hear me in my natural state,” she says.

  “Come to think of it, I have,” I say, unable to help myself. “And you can be incredibly un-lady-like.”

  It works, pink flaring up her cheeks from below. She’s always blushed this easily, this obviously, and I’ve always liked making it happen.

  All it takes is a quick whisper. A suggestion. Sometimes, a look.

  “You should probably go back to your date, I’m sure she’s looking for you,” she says, pretending I haven’t made her blush. “I mean, if you actually have one and you didn’t just sneak in for the free snacks and whiskey.”

  There it is again. My date. Delilah is jealous, and God help me, I don’t hate it.

  I put one hand to my chest, as if hurt.

  “What kind of lowlife do you take me for?”

  “Should I really answer that?” she asks, but there’s a hint of a smile underneath the words.

  “Maybe after more free whiskey,” I say, then pause. “I can finish buttoning your dress, if you want.”

  “Are you going to rip them all off?”

  Don’t tempt me with a good time.

  “That one was your fault,” I point out. “I’d almost gotten it and you pulled away.”

  “You sneaked up on me in a state of undress,” she says, and now she’s keeping her voice low, like she doesn’t want to be overheard.

  “I’ve seen it before,” I say, matching her tone.

  It could be my imagination, but I think I’m rewarded with the faint glow of pink.

  “That doesn’t mean now is appropriate.”

  “I didn’t know you’d be in disarray,” I tell her, my voice lower still. “Imagine my surprise. I never even asked why you were getting dressed on the veranda.”

  “I’ll tell you after some more free champagne,” she says, laughing.

  I’ve taken another step closer, or she has, and now there’s isn’t much distance between us at all, the sun still lowering, the breeze drifting around the corner of the house.

  In a flare, I feel the spots where she touched me last night. Neck and chest, one finger, pulsing with every beat of my heart.

  If she gets closer, I might do something I promised I wouldn’t.

  “What did Winona do to you?” I ask, now close to a whisper.

  “It wasn’t her,” she says, looking at me through impossibly long, thick eyelashes. “She’s also a victim, she just fared better than I did.”

  “If you need revenge exacted, just say the word,” I murmur.

  She just laughs.

  “It was Ava,” she says, and I raise one eyebrow. “And I told you, more champagne first.”

  “If you insist.”

  Delilah undoes the clasp on her fur cape, tosses it back onto the bench, turns her back to me.

  “Thanks,” she says. “In return, I promise not to tell your date about this.”

  Her back looks exactly like I remember, only half-covered with delicate pink lace. The moon, the sun, an eight-pointed star, descending down her spine. The lines are thick, exacting, the colors bold, like a stained glass window rendered by Sailor Jerry. From one shoulder, two red tentacles of a squid curl in; from the other, two bold-but-delicate leafy vines.

  I don’t touch her. The backs of my finger brush against her skin, ever so lightly, as I carefully do up the rest of her buttons, but I don’t touch her even though I want to.

  She says nothing, and I match it. I think of a hundred things I could say, but don’t let any cross my lips.

  “There you go,” I finally say, stepping back. “Sorry about the broken one.”

  “It’s all right,” she says, one hand coming over her shoulder, fingers drifting over the buttons, checking them. “Nobody looks at bridesmaids anyway.”

  I clench my jaw so I don’t tell her how incredibly, wildly untrue that is. I don’t tell her that I spent the whole wedding ceremony staring at her without hearing a word anyone said, or that the only reason I heard her shouting for her sister is because I was looking for her.

  I couldn’t tell you what the bride’s wearing. I think it’s white. But I know the lace of Delilah’s sleeves just barely covers the hull of a sailing ship, that her skirt ends half an inch from the floor, that her pearl earrings swing and bump her neck when she turns her head.

  This was a mistake, I think, and then I hear someone step onto the porch.

  “Sorry!” calls Winona. “Callum got a hold of one of Bree’s — ”

  Delilah’s youn
ger sister stops so short that her dress flows in front of her, carried by the momentum.

  “Seth?” she says, clearly baffled. I guess Vera’s kept this close to the vest.

  “Good to see you again, Winona,” I say, because I know my manners.

  “Likewise,” she says. “I’m sorry, I just came back to help Delilah, I’m not…”

  “He heard me shouting and appeared,” Delilah says, grabbing her cape again.

  “Ah,” says Winona, who clearly has more questions.

  “Picture time?” asks Delilah, whirling the cape around herself again, then clasping it.

  “Yup,” says Winona. “Right now Ava and Thad are just giggling and making out for the camera but surely that will get old soon and they’ll want you for group shots.”

  “Can’t believe I missed that,” Delilah deadpans, walking back down the veranda, toward her sister.

  “It’s been a joy,” Winona says dryly.

  “Thanks for the hand, Seth,” Delilah says, just before she disappears around a corner. “I can’t wait to meet your date!”

  “Any time,” I call, and then she’s gone, their bright voices quickly fading.

  I watch the spot where she disappears. The late afternoon chill is sinking through my suit jacket, but I’ve already had a whiskey, so it’s easy enough to ignore.

  I know I should tell her that she’s the date she keeps bringing up. I know it, but there’s a petty, wounded part of me that’s enjoying her jealousy. Every time she says your date another black bloom unfurls, and it doesn’t matter that my satisfaction is poisonous. It’s still a flower.

  I think again of the tattoos on her back, of how I’ve licked the sweat off them before, slid my hand along them on the way to bury my fingers in her hair —

  I shake myself out of it. I walk for the doors, pull one open, and head straight for the bar.

  Tonight calls for more whiskey.

  Chapter Twelve

  Delilah

  As soon as we turn the corner of the building, Winona glances over her shoulder.

  “Is he friends with Thad?” she asks.

  My spine tingles all the way to my hairline, and I think I can feel every individual button beneath the cape including the spot where one’s broken.

  Why is he here? Is he with someone? Why wasn’t he on the guest list? How come no one —

  “Delilah?” she asks, concern edging into her voice.

  I quickly rewind the last ten seconds.

  “I don’t know,” I finally answer. “He said he was invited last minute, so maybe someone else’s date canceled.”

  She’s still looking at me, and her look is a question but I ignore it.

  “Is something up?” Winona asks after a moment.

  “What? No,” I say, stepping carefully on the cobblestones. “Why would something be up? Nothing’s up.”

  “I did just find you with your ex doing up your buttons.”

  I don’t point out that she abandoned me in the first place.

  “He’s not my ex, we just dated in high school,” I say.

  “You’re sure nothing happened?” she asks. Graciously, she ignores all the problems with my last statement.

  “I’m fine,” I tell her. “I just didn’t know he was coming. I was surprised is all, really.”

  I might be lying. Did something happen? Was it something when he brushed stray hairs off the back of my neck, or when he reminded me that he’s seen me naked, or when he didn’t let me pick a fight?

  Was it something when he wouldn’t tell me who he’s here with?

  I flex my hands under my cape and ignore the feeling that my organs are trading places with each other.

  “Okay,” Winona says, shrugging. “I was just making sure. You seemed a little off and I wanted to check in. I know today might be a little fraught for you.”

  She reaches under my cape and takes my arm in her hand, hugging us together as we walk.

  Technically, Winona is my younger sister, but practically speaking, our roles have always been reversed. When I came to live with them after my mom died I was fifteen and she was twelve, a decade into being the eldest. I was in no shape to do anything but let her baby me. I’m obviously still older, but even now she’s the one with a stable, happy marriage, two kids, a five-year plan, and an effectively managed household.

  My household is managed fine, thanks, but it also consists of me, a few house plants, and a Roomba.

  “I’m just hungry,” I tell her.

  Winona sighs.

  “Amen,” she mutters. “A fruit platter? Seriously? And one tray of champagne?”

  “I’m telling Vera you complained,” I tease.

  “Don’t you dare,” my sister says.

  Miraculously, when I get back to the family photo area, there’s a new tray of champagne sitting there, as if there really is a God and he just watched me interact with Seth Loveless. I down a glass before family photos, and then another after, just for good measure.

  After photos it’s time for our entrance. While we were all outside, smiling and leaping and freezing and falling out of bras, the guests got herded back into the ballroom, which is now a banquet hall.

  Which we have to enter. In pairs. To music. As our names are announced. I don’t really understand why this is necessary or desirable, but one night last week I went down an internet rabbit hole and spent an hour watching videos of wedding parties forced to enter the reception while doing a synchronized dance.

  It could be way worse, is my point.

  When I walk in on Chad’s arm, the lights are dimmed except for a spotlight on me as a man on a stage says Mister Chad Middlebrook and Miss Delilah Radcliffe! very loudly, so I couldn’t see Seth even if I were trying to, which I am not. I also don’t manage to spot him once we’re in our places on the dance floor, again, not that I’m looking for him or that I’m particularly interested in who he’s with.

  That’s me: uninterested in Seth, his movements, or his companion.

  “And now,” the announcer on stage booms. “Can everyone please welcome to the reception! For the very first time! Mr. and Mrs. Thad and Ava Middlebrook!”

  The doors open again, and they walk in, hand in hand. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Ava smile bigger or look happier, and still, still the voice in the back of my head whispers that I should worry.

  They wave. They grin. Halfway to the dance floor, Thad picks her up, whirls her around, sets her down, kisses her.

  The crowd goes wild. I still don’t see Seth, who I’m not looking for. Thad and Ava promenade to the dance floor, where she whirls into his arms to the opening strains of a slow country song I don’t know, and they dance. She looks happy, and he looks like he’s concentrating very hard.

  At the end, during the final, drawn-out bars of the song, Thad suddenly leans her backward, spilling her into a low dip and holding her there as everyone cheers.

  I close my eyes, even though I’m applauding, and I try not to remember a different wedding where I very, very distinctly said please don’t dip me during our first dance.

  Then she’s upright again and they’re kissing. The announcer invites all married couples to join them on the dance floor so I nod goodbye to Chad, slip away, and head off the dance floor, slipping between elaborately decorated tables and toward the bar.

  I have to admit that it’s beautiful in here, not to mention unlike any other wedding I’ve ever been to. The room is high-ceilinged and old, the plasterwork around the two chandeliers intricate and detailed, the crown molding in the same pattern.

  The wall is dotted with lights in sconces between the wainscoting panels, giving the room a romantic, pre-electricity feel, and the tall windows are hung with dreamy, gauzy curtains edged in fairy lights.

  The really wild thing, though, is the decorations that Vera and Ava dreamed up. The centerpieces of each table are easily five feet tall, elegant towers of evergreen boughs and white flowers that make it feel like I’m walking through a wintertim
e forest.

  But, like, a really fancy forest. Not a regular forest. This forest probably has lots of cozy little cottages and peaceful babbling brooks in it, not abandoned hunting shacks, old fridges, and rusted-out cars.

  I don’t necessarily think that dropping half a million dollars on a wedding is a good thing — how many kids could you send to college for that much? Start a scholarship instead, seriously — but since I’m already here, I may as well enjoy it.

  A few minutes of aimless wandering later, I find myself in front of the place card table, half-empty glass of champagne in hand. Or rather, in front of the tables, plural, because three hundred and sixty-whatever names don’t fit on one table.

  I grab my own place card, even though I don’t really need to. They’re simple and classy, thick paper folded into a tent shape. The front is calligraphied Delilah Radcliffe, and the back says Table Two.

  I stick it into my pocket and take another sip of champagne, feeling slightly aimless during the first unstructured moment I’ve had since six this morning.

  The champagne gives me an idea, and I oh-so-casually walk to the middle name table. I casually take the last sip from the glass, and I casually stand there, perusing the names on the neatly laid out cards.

  Hanson, Hemsfield, nope. Johnson. Closer. Klein.

  I step sideways, eyes running down the neat column.

  Lee, Lewis, Long —

  “You’re not dancing?” he says, suddenly behind me.

  This time when I turn, I don’t break anything.

  “You do know it’s impolite to sneak up on someone, don’t you?” I ask, even though my heart thuds.

  “I said your name twice,” Seth says, leaning over and grabbing his table place card from the column, quickly glancing at the table number on the back. “Maybe trumpets and a town crier next time?”

  He’s got a whiskey glass in his hand, and now he raises it to his lips, watching me with that cool, slightly sarcastic expression that he always seems to have.

  “It’s the married people dance,” I explain, tilting my head in the general direction of the dance floor. “You didn’t come over here to pick a fight this time, did you?”

  Seth glances over in the direction of the dance floor, through a forest of evergreen and white and even in that easy, casual gesture is something that makes me ache. Maybe it’s just the way he’s standing, tall and confident, looking for all the world like not only is he exactly where he’s supposed to be, he’s in charge.