chapter twenty-seven
SCOTT AND I accidentally sleep until ten in the morning, despite the fact that hair and makeup are scheduled to be at the hotel promptly at nine.
Bleary-eyed, I check my phone while simultaneously pulling on a wrinkled sundress from the floor. I have a flurry of notifications on last night’s post.
The notifications are plentiful, popping up one after another, but I don’t have a spare second to check them. In fact, I leave my phone at home, because Grandma Flo made it clear the wedding day is to be “unplugged.”
The entire chaotic race to the hotel, I’m sweating through my Spanx thinking about how Tara is probably plotting to roast my organs and sell them on the black market for being an hour late.
But instead of fire and brimstone, I’m the least of Tara’s worries. She hasn’t even noticed I just arrived, given the first frantic thing out of her mouth is “Have you seen the rings?”
Apparently, Tara has every right to stress. First, the photographer arrived in desperate need of liquids and Advil. She regrettably admitted she was suffering an epic hangover. Then it was discovered the baker mixed up the cupcake order, having made the grave error of buttercream frosting instead of cream cheese. The florist is still entirely unaccounted for, as is Dad, who was last seen two hours ago socializing with family by the pool, but is now AWOL. And Hillary has revenge-peed on Mom’s dress after being ignored for seven full minutes.
It’s quite the sight. Me in crisis mode, despite being in full hair and makeup. I’m high and half blinded from the salon-quality hairspray fumes as I dash barefoot around the entire hotel premises, checking items off of Tara’s list. The bottoms of my feet are charcoal black and it’s only noon.
“Crystal, the floating candles go in the stem candle holders, not the pillar holders.” Tara aggressively hip-checks me in front of the head table like we’re rival contestants on a reality TV game show competing for a hundred grand.
“Jeez, sorry.” I flash Scott, who was tasked to quadruple-check the name cards, an expression that screams Save our souls.
“How does it all look? It’s too plain, isn’t it?” Tara casts a self-conscious gaze around the candlelit room, clipboard in hand, nostrils flared. She can barely bring herself to look at the newly installed bold-print carpet that apparently triggers her gag reflex. She’s been especially prickly since I forgot the guard-with-your-life instructional binder at home this morning. It’s complete with a detailed list of tasks for every minute of the day (4:35—Remove greenery from archway and spread evenly on head table), typed in nine-point Times New Roman font, single-spaced, with narrow margins, and printed front to back.
But every time the urge to snap back at her becomes oh-so-tempting, I remind myself she was supposed to get married today. The entire family agrees she’s entitled to her extra feelings, especially after our quasi-traumatizing bridesmaid dress fitting last week. Tara had a mini-meltdown in the dressing room when reality set in that she was no longer the bride. It took half an hour to coax her out of the changing room, where she’d been starfishing on the floor, sobbing, draped like a mummy in peach chiffon.
Despite the emotional turmoil, Tara has done an outstanding job with the entire wedding. Everything is so expertly organized, I wouldn’t have believed she could pull it off on her own. “I think it looks great,” I say, observing her nervous eye twitch. I take a full pace backward, for my safety.
She groans. “Oh, come on. Give me your real opinion.”
My brows knit together as I take another scan around the ballroom. “I told you, it looks beautiful. Magazine-worthy.”
“You’re always so vague and general. Like you don’t want to hurt my feelings because you think I’m on the verge of a mental breakdown. Sometimes I don’t even know what you like at all.” She tosses her hands up in the air with a literal growl and tornadoes in the opposite direction.
Despite the stress, everything comes together behind the scenes at the last minute. And it’s all worth it to see Grandma Flo walk down the aisle.
It isn’t just the fact that she’s wearing a gorgeous short-sleeve gown, with Chantilly lace running from the bodice and extending to a teacup cut falling elegantly at her ankles. Or that her hair is swept to the side in twenties-style waves and clipped with an antique broach that belonged to my great-grandmother. It’s the radiant smile she’s wearing, and the way her eyes twinkle when they catch the sun filtering in through the opulent stained-glass windows.
Seeing her and Martin walk back down the aisle side by side as husband and wife makes my chest swell to the point where I feel guilty about being bothered over their relationship. If this isn’t a clear sign that movie-worthy love exists at any age, I don’t know what is.
Like the wedding ceremony, the reception follows Tara’s stringent timeline. Bride and groom entrance, soft classical music, and speeches evenly interspersed between each of the four courses.
Scott and I are crammed at a long, rectangular table that holds the vast majority of the immediate family. Grandma and Martin sit at a sweetheart table at the front of the ballroom. They’re being adorable, as usual, until Martin begins hand-feeding Flo her dinner like she’s a wounded baby bird.
Aunt Shannon is going hard tonight, pushing her latest pyramid scheme venture: the healing power of crystals. As a person who sells fitness, I’ve tried hard not to judge people who abide by the crystal lifestyle. But it’s damn difficult to refrain when she’s flaunting her whimsical pendant necklace, trying to coerce everyone into buying the three-hundred-dollar gem she swears cured her chronic arthritis.
Dad is in all his glory emceeing, delivering punchy one-liners. The man can seriously work a room. It’s a vibe.
“Think your dad would emcee our wedding?” Scott whispers after a particularly well-delivered line about Grandma’s dry turkey that has the room in stitches.
Warmth engulfs me from head to toe when I register what he’s said. A brief picture of Scott and me saying I do flashes through my mind. It’s the happiest moment of my life, and it hasn’t even happened yet. Now that I’ve seen it, it can’t be unseen.
Every single time I think about how perfectly he fits into my life, how desperate I am to see him after work, and how my entire body hums with pure joy at the mere mention of him, I simply can’t imagine life without him. We haven’t said “I love you” yet. While I’ve been tempted to blurt it out on numerous occasions, or write it on a sign and stand outside his window, I’m stubbornly waiting for him to say it first. Despite his cocky façade, he wears his heart on his sleeve. If he hasn’t told me yet, he must not be ready. And the last thing I want to do is rush him.
“Don’t get too ahead of yourself. You need my dad’s permission first,” I tease, clapping as Dad swaggers off the stage, returning to our table at the end of his speech.
Scott gives me a confident wink before polishing off the remainder of his drink. “Pfft. Not worried. He already gave me his blessing long before we even started dating. Planted that seed early.”
I chuckle at the drunken memory of FaceTiming Dad the night of Flo’s and Martin’s respective bachelor parties. “What did you even say to get his approval?”
Scott’s momentarily distracted by the sight of the waiters delivering the entrées. Merrily leaving me hanging, he carefully unrolls my cutlery from the cloth napkin and neatly folds it on my lap. When his fingertips lightly graze my thigh, I shiver involuntarily. “Well, I said you were stubborn, self-righteous, territorial, especially at the gym . . .” he says, pretending to list my flaws. “Generally, a little unhinged. Your dad fully agreed. Said you’d always been that way and there was little chance of changing you. He practically begged me to take you off his plate.”
I give him a playful whack on the chest. “God, your ego really is the size of Boston.”
He squeezes my thigh under the table, a knowing grin spreading over his lips.
“Crystal, are you still on Instaworld?” Uncle Bill asks for the forty-seventh time as he demolishes his roast chicken leg with his bare hands as if he’s at KFC. Along with inquiring about how old I am, he condescendingly asks me about Instagram every single time I see him. I don’t know whether he’s genuinely curious, or if he’s teamed up with Dad to make a point. Either way, it’s highly ironic, given Uncle Bill’s addiction to reposting politically touchy and gently racist memes on Facebook with stunning frequency.
“Instagram,” I correct through a bite of salad. “But yeah, I am. Business has never been better, actually.”
Dad sighs heavily, taking his seat across from me. “Though her mother and I keep telling her about the importance of getting a proper job. Something more stable over the long term.”
Mom nods in agreement as she bounces Hillary on her lap, the dog occupied happily licking the crumbs on the edge of the table with her lizard tongue. This has to be a violation of the health code.
My hand immediately tenses into a fist, only softening when Scott wraps his arm around the back of my chair. “I do have a proper job,” I respond politely, so as not to make a scene.
“But how long is this Instagram fad going to last? What happens when people move on to another platform?” Dad asks, obviously unaware of how awkward this conversation is in front of the entire family.
“I’ll adapt,” I cut in, meeting Dad’s curious stare. “I have a degree in business and marketing, and multiple certifications in fitness and nutrition. I don’t need Instagram to spread my message.”
“Millennials,” Dad chides, eliciting a rumble of laughter around the table. “I just don’t understand.”
I catch Dad’s eye and hold it. “Dad, you don’t have to understand it.”
As he sets his napkin next to his plate, Dad’s face is unusually blank. Unreadable. I can’t tell if he’s pissed or embarrassed that we’re hashing this out in front of the whole family. He clears his throat, and finally, his lips curl into a smile. “You’re right. I shouldn’t be so hard on you.”
I take in a sharp breath. I definitely didn’t expect that. Dad may not have come out and said it directly, but I think that was his weird signal of approval, which he’s withheld the entire seven years I’ve had my Instagram account. Until now, I’m not even sure I knew I needed it. And it feels good.
Scott leans forward across the table to Dad. “Your daughter is the hardest-working person I know. I don’t know about anyone else, but I can’t wait to see what she accomplishes this year.”
My heart swells at his unwavering support, especially when Dad nods and says, “Me too. Really.”
The moment dinner ends, Scott pulls me onto the crowded dance floor. If I didn’t know any better, I’d assume this was the wedding of a twenty-year-old couple, what with the DJ’s strobe lights and all the Ritchies (plus Dad) tearing up the dance floor to some oldies.
Dad has just attempted the worm, which tells me Flo and Martin’s open bar bill is going to be staggering. I make a mental note to keep a watchful eye. He has a history of getting a little overeager when there’s music, booze, and people. At the last family wedding, he split his trousers while getting “Low” to the age-appropriate musical stylings of Lil Jon and the East Side Boyz.
“This is the best wedding I’ve ever been to,” Scott yells enthusiastically over a Whitney Houston song as he loosens his tie. I don’t know if it’s the expertly tailored, dapper suit, but I can’t tear my eyes from him for longer than a minute. I’m used to drooling over him in a casual T-shirt, jeans, and a ball cap. But tonight, his hair is pushed back in a way that makes him resemble an old Hollywood movie star. I desperately want to haul him off the dance floor, find a darkened corner, and grope him with abandon.
When he twirls me, I channel Dancing with the Stars and spin into his chest, utterly and completely content. Not even Uncle Bill accidentally stomping on my foot and spilling his beer on me five minutes ago is enough to dim my smile.
Hair caked to my face with sweat, I take a quick breather to get another drink, leaving Scott to dance with his sisters, both of whom are intensely enthusiastic about synchronize-dancing to the “Cha Cha Slide” and “Y.M.C.A.”
Whiskey sour in hand, I return a few minutes later to find Scott chatting with a long-legged redhead whom I recognize immediately as Holly Whitby, the granddaughter of Grandma Flo’s friend Ethel. Holly and I grew up together, thanks to our grandmothers. We were close friends as kids, but grew apart when I got into sports and she entered the beauty pageant circuit. She’s something of a local Boston celebrity, having participated in prestigious international pageants. Of course, I only know all of this from stalking her Instagram. I haven’t actually seen her in person since high school.
She was always gorgeous, with a nearly perfect symmetrical face, pouty lips, and angelic ice-blue eyes. But now she looks straight off a runway in Milan with her voluminous hair and lush lash extensions.
Holly leans in close to Scott, who nods politely.
“Dance with me,” she orders over the music, extending her dainty wrist.
His startled gaze flickers to me, with a sweet smile, not that I ever doubted him. Unbothered, I wave a hand toward her, signaling for him to go ahead and dance with her. He gives me an I’d rather not face.
Holly follows Scott’s gaze and glances over her shoulder, jolting when she sees me. “Crystal?”
I smile. “Holly. So nice to see you.”
We simultaneously go in for an awkward hug. As we pull away, her face remains twisted in confusion. She whips her head back to Scott. “Wait, Crystal isn’t your girlfriend, is she?”
When Scott dips his chin, confirming, Holly doesn’t hide her bewilderment. She turns to appraise me. “Wow. You’ve—you’ve done really well. I mean . . . good for you.” Her tone is anything but authentic. But it also isn’t bitchy or malicious. It’s genuine surprise. “We’ll have to catch up sometime soon. Maybe do lunch,” she adds.
The fleeting thought crosses my mind: Does she have a right to be shocked? Does everyone feel this way when they see us together?
As the toxicity of my thoughts begins to burrow into my gut, I shut them away, pulling myself back to reality. “Yeah, lunch sounds good,” I tell her, maintaining a friendly tone, despite my clenched jaw.
Scott holds his hand out, straight past Holly, toward me. “Come dance.” I instinctively let him lead me into the thick of the crowd.
His arms envelop me as we sway to a slow song I recognize but can’t name. The new lanterns we ended up buying thanks to my failed tree-climbing ordeal are strewn from the ceiling, casting a golden glow off his face. “I have no idea who that was. She came up to me while I was talking to your mom,” he tells me, as if he has to justify himself.
I stop him. “Scott, don’t worry about it. She’s Ethel’s granddaughter. She’s a nice girl.”
He runs his hand up and down my back protectively, pulling me closer into his chest. “You okay?”
“Yeah, I’m totally fine,” I say, even though I don’t know if I am.
I try to shake off Holly’s astonishment over me being Scott’s girlfriend. I try to forget about the way she looked at me. Or how she literally congratulated me for scoring him. But for some reason, the sting is unrelenting, to the point that I no longer know what song is playing or who is dancing around me.
Scott presses his lips to my forehead when the song ends. “Wanna go back to my place soon? And by soon I mean in exactly fifteen minutes? I have to work at six in the morning.”
I manage a half grin through the intruding negativity. “I really want to be horizontal with you right now, but I should probably stay back and help my mom and Tara with the cleanup.”
He gives me a chaste peck on the cheek. “No worries. Gym tomorrow after I get off work?”
I nod. “Sounds good. But seriously, go home and get some sleep.”
• • •
CLEANING UP THE décor at the end of the night is a painful endeavor that involves me limping around barefoot and tipsy, putting my lifting skills to good use. In fact, Tara has designated me the “muscle,” responsible for carrying all the heavy items from the reception room to Mom and Dad’s car.
By the time we return to my place, I’m entirely exhausted from the day and desperate to put on my trusty elastic-waist pajama pants.
As I settle into bed, I’m finally able to check my phone for the first time since last night. When my screen illuminates the darkness with its blinding blue glow, I jolt.
There are literally thousands of notifications. All on the beach photo.