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Relatively NormalFour Years Ago
My best friend is a vision straight out of one of those glossy bridal magazines that costs more than a macchiato and breakfast sandwich at Starbucks. She’s well over six feet tall in her heels, slim as a fashion model—except she’s sporting a C-cup no emaciated supermodel would be caught dead with—and her silky brown hair is currently twisted in an impossibly complicated up-do that probably required four professional hair stylists and a drag queen to execute. She’s elegant beyond words.
I gasp as she spins around, so I can behold her in all her splendor. The sleeveless, beaded bodice trumpet gown fits her like a glove. “Jasmine Marie, you’re glorious!”
She giggles, which is sound you wouldn’t expect to come out of such a stunningly ethereal creature. She spins again, “I’ve never felt so girly! And that’s saying something being that I’m this tall.”
“Whoever said a month’s paycheck was too much to spend on a wedding dress clearly never saw you in this one. I feel like a proud mother right now.”
Jazz heaves a sigh. “Speaking of mothers, you have to do me a favor.” My eyebrows raise in interest. She continues, “Watch out for mine and make sure she doesn’t murder my dad’s new wife during dinner.”
I snort. “Puh-leeze, your mom is every ounce a lady. She’d no more commit murder than I would.”
“Alas, Brandee—with two e’s— the latest of my dad’s spouses, has just announced she’s pregnant. My mom isn’t taking the news gracefully.”
“You’re kidding me? You’re going to have a new brother or sister at twenty-nine?” Then I ask, “How old is Brandee again?”
My friend rolls her big brown eyes. “My dearest stepmother has just turned twenty-four.”
“I don’t know, Jazz. I think your dad is the one who needs offing in this scenario. I might be persuaded to help.”
“I would appreciate if no murders were committed at my nuptials.” Then she hugs me, and says, “But I love you for offering.”
“Oh, Jazzy,” I exclaim, “this day is going to be so wonderful. You deserve every minute of happiness. Dylan is one lucky guy.”
Brushing a non-existent wrinkle out of her skirt, she declares, “Now all we need to do is find you the perfect man. Three of the groomsmen are single. You’ve met two of them, and the third is the one with sandy blond hair. He’s Dylan’s cousin, Jared, from Detroit.”
“Detroit? Hard pass.” The sarcasm rolls off my tongue. “I’m not looking for a long-distance love. But have no fear, I’ll definitely scope out the other two. I’m not opposed to meeting the future Mr. Catriona Masterton tonight.”
She beams. “People often meet their future spouses at weddings. It’s a thing.”
“So, it’s got to be my turn, right?” Jazz playfully punches my arm. “That’s the attitude I love! I just wish you were walking down the aisle with me.”
I call out to Jennifer, our assistant, “Make sure you pack up all of Jazz’s stuff and take it over to her suite at the hotel. Oh, and before you go, tell Elaine to get the limos turned around out front to transport the wedding party to the reception once the ceremony ends.”
In addition to being best friends, Jazz and I own a much sought-after event-planning business in Manhattan. We’re the go-to duo known for stylishly executing even the trickiest parties—like weddings where the groom was once married to the bride’s sister—without a hitch. I turn to the current bride.
“I wish I were walking down the aisle with you too, but someone has to make sure this shin-dig of yours goes off perfectly. There’s a ton of potential business out there, so we have to make sure this is our best party yet. Now, hustle, the bridesmaids are already upstairs, and their procession starts in . . .”—I check my watch— “two minutes, which only gives you seven before it’s your turn.”
I pick up my friend’s chapel-length train to keep it from getting dirty on the stairs. “Let’s go, lady; your happily-ever-after awaits.”
We arrive upstairs in the entrance of St. John the Divine Cathedral just as Emily, the last bridesmaid, starts her goosestep down the aisle. Jazz and I stand side-by-side watching her go. As Emily takes her place in the front of the altar, the first strains of trumpet voluntary fill the atmosphere like a heavenly serenade. Chills race through my body as I kiss my friend’s cheek and hand her off to her father who will deliver her to her destiny, one Dylan Finch.
Once the ceremony is over and the reception is in full swing at the St. Regis Hotel, I take off my party-planner hat and put on my dancing shoes. It’s go time.
I have my eye on a particular groomsman, whom I’ve met on a couple other occasions. He’s sweet and shy, but super easy on the eyes. I’m not sure we’re destined for matrimony, but a couple of dances would be fun. I straighten the skinny navy skirt of my evening dress and prepare for the chase. I take a step forward and wind up doing an unexpected split to the ground.
Ouch! The waiter rushes over to clean up the spilled drink I inadvertently stepped in, and before I can begin the process of restoring my dignity, a pair of shiny, black shoes shows up next to me.
A manly hand stretches out and a deep voice inquires, “May I be of assistance?” He introduces himself. “Ethan Crenshaw, lifelong friend of the groom.” I recognize him from the rehearsal dinner, but I didn’t get a chance to talk to him.
Not only is Dylan’s friend chivalrous, but he has gorgeous green eyes that remind me of Maeve’s, my childhood cat. I take his hand. “Thank you. That’s very kind.”
“Let me help you to a chair and then I’ll get some ice for your injury. It’ll keep the swelling down,” he announces.
Once I’m positioned at table fourteen in the main ballroom, I watch Ethan walk to the bar. He looks good in a way that suggests he’s comfortable in formal wear, like James Bond. And bam, just like that, I realize I had totally forgotten about the cute groomsman. When my knight in shining armor—a.k.a. a black tuxedo—returns, he helps prop my foot up on a chair and states, “There’s a nine percent chance of getting injured at a wedding reception.”
As far as opening lines to, it’s not the best. Yet, his previous gallantry more than makes up for it. “That seems to be an awfully high number,” I reply. “I’ve been to almost two hundred weddings so far and this is my first injury. If my calculations are correct, that puts my risk at point five percent, nowhere near your estimate.”
“Two hundred weddings? You must be quite a popular friend.”
I inform him, “I’m a party planner. I’m Jazz’s partner.”
“Ah, well then, surely you’ve had a blister, a burnt finger, or a stiff neck?” I laugh.
“If you’re going to include all the mundane discomforts, I’d think you’d be more accurate to say there’s a hundred percent chance of getting injured at a wedding.”
He shakes his head. “No, only nine percent, unless my research is wrong.” With a pointed look he adds, “Which it never is.”
What kind of person researches injuries at weddings? So, I ask, “What exactly do you do for a living?”
“I’m an actuary. Certainly, not as glamorous a profession as party planning, but it pays the bills.”
I’ve heard the job title, but I have no idea what it entails. Kind of like an ornithologist. I know it’s something. I just don’t know what. At my confused look, he explains, “Insurance companies and brokerage firms hire actuaries to assess the financial risk of investments and people. I currently work at an insurance company and help set rates, based on the statistical probability of natural disasters hitting certain demographics. For instance, earthquake insurance in the Midwest costs you next to nothing compared to what it does in California, for a reason.”
“Huh.” I can’t seem to think of any other response.
“It sounds like a job that could bore the paint off the walls, doesn’t it?” he laughs.
I flirt, “Lucky for me, I like numbers.” Ethan sits with me for the next three hours while I ice my ankle, ten minutes on and twenty minutes off, as per his suggestion for the best healing effects.
As we get to know each other, I watch Jazz flirt and dance with the man who just promised to love her forever. Dylan is hands down the sweetest, funniest, and most devoted man I’ve ever met. He adores my friend with his whole being and treats her like delicate china, even though she’s not the kind of woman you’d want to sneak up on in a dark alley. Jazzy is one hundred percent Amazon with a touch of Xena Warrior Princess. She and Dylan are perfect for each other.
I was once in love with a man very much like Dylan and it didn’t turn out well, which is why I’m currently in the market for someone more practical. I’m less concerned with grand gestures and flowery compliments, than in a reliable partner who will be there when the chips are down.
Throughout the reception, not only do I discover that Ethan adheres to a strictly regimented life, but I also learn he’s a lovely man. He even offers, “Would you like me to see you safely home? No ulterior motives, I promise.”
“It’s kind of early to leave, don’t you think?” And while he claims no other motivation, I wouldn’t be opposed to a little romance.
He looks at his watch and explains, “I promised my neighbor, Mrs. Fein, I’d look in on her cat while she’s away. Apparently, Fifi suffers from separation anxiety and needs someone to bat her toy mouse around with her before she can go to sleep.”
As the party is winding down, and I can see the staff has everything well in hand, there’s nothing more for me to do. I allow Ethan to escort me home. True to his word, he doesn’t try any funny business. He just gives me a sweet kiss, leaving me wanting more, and asks, “When can I see you again?”
“Anytime,” I tell him. Afterall, Ethan is nothing like Sam, which makes him perfect for me, doesn’t it?
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