“You want to sit?” I motion toward the chairs beside us.
She nods, taking a seat. I follow suit.
“So where are you from?” I ask.
She hesitates before clearing her throat. “Olwine.”
There’s a flutter in my chest. My mind goes to Madden. I’d been doing better recently, not thinking about him so much. Not projecting, I should say. But of course, my mind uses any excuse it can to go right back to inserting him into the littlest moments of my life.
“I’m from Park Terrace,” I volunteer to keep the conversation flowing. “But I went to school at Rothschild.”
None of the names register. I’m sure she’s young enough that she’s not so much as thinking about where she wants to go to college someday, and there are so many suburbs in this area, I doubt she’s even heard of Park Terrace.
“So, you’re going into eighth grade this fall?” I ask.
She nods, glancing around the room. I’m sure she’s terrified of running into someone she knows. I don't take it personally.
“What do you do for fun?” I ask.
Devanie shrugs. “Hang out with friends. Watch TV. Swim.”
“I have a pool at my house,” I say. “Maybe you and your friends can come over sometime and use it?”
Her eyes meet mine, widening. “Seriously?”
Now we’re getting somewhere.
“Yes, seriously.” I chuckle. The thing rarely gets used anyway, save for my parents’ annual Memorial Day and Fourth of July parties. I doubt anyone would mind.
“You want to go get ice cream or something?” I ask. “We can talk over two scoops of mint chocolate chip? Or we could get our nails done? Both if there’s time.”
“Really?” Her natural brows rise.
I’m not sure why she seems so surprised that I’m offering to do fun things with her. I thought that was kind of the whole point of this arrangement. We do fun things, we hang out, and I mentor her along the way.
“Yeah. Let’s go!”
Devanie licks the green ice cream from the back of her spoon before admiring her fresh flamingo-pink manicure. She’s just finished giving me the condensed version of her life story. Her dad’s in prison—she didn’t get into specifics, just that he’s been there since she was a baby and he’s serving a life sentence. Her mom works a ton and is never home. When she is home, she’s sleeping. And her twenty-eight-year-old brother is the one who signed her up for this program because he thinks she has nothing better to do with her summer.
“No offense,” Devanie says. “Because I think you’re really cool.”
“None taken.” I check the time. It’s been almost two hours, and I need to get her back soon. “You want to do this again soon?”
“For sure.” She dabs her mouth with a napkin before crumpling it and tossing it in her empty ice cream cup.
“I was thinking twice a week?” I propose.
She shrugs. “Okay.”
We clean up our table, toss our garbage, and head to my car when we’re done. I’m halfway back to the Boys and Girls Club when I get a text from my mother, asking me if I’ll be home soon and reminding me that Laurel’s dress fitting is in an hour.
Shoot. Almost forgot.
Laurel’s been engaged to my brother barely two weeks now, but wedding planning is moving full speed ahead. It’s like she had everything already in the works, just needed that ring to make it official.
“We should exchange numbers,” Devanie says when we pull up outside the club a few minutes later.
I hand her my phone and she hands me hers.
“Call me anytime you need,” I tell her as she gets out. “Day or night. And I’ll see you Thursday? Same time?”
She turns, leaving me with a smile and a wave as she heads back inside to wait for her ride, and I step on it, rushing back home to get ready for Laurel’s dress fitting.
The instant my mother and I step into Montbleu Bridal in Schaumburg, we’re greeted by a sales associate in a Chanel pantsuit and two glasses of champagne.
“You must be with the Townsend party,” she says, referring to Laurel’s current last name. A year from now she’ll be Laurel Karrington, which I admit has a nice ring to it. “Come this way. We’ve got you set up in our Blushing Bride Suite.”
The woman whisks us to a room in the back with silk curtain-covered walls, pale pink velvet furniture, crystal chandeliers, and an abundance of mirrors so the bride-to-be can see herself from any and all angles.
“You made it!” Laurel rushes to my mother first, giving her a hug. And then it's my turn. “Thank you so much for coming.”
Three other women are already seated with champagne flutes in hand—they must be her friends.
“Temple and Brighton, I’d like you to meet Autumn, Yasmine, and Hadley,” she says, “my bridesmaids.”
The redhead clears her throat.
Laurel chuckles. “Sorry. Yas and Had are my bridesmaids. Autumn’s my maid of honor.”
“So lovely to meet you ladies,” my mother says before taking a seat on a pink settee and crossing her legs at the ankle.
Laurel’s mother is finishing up a phone call from a seat across the room, and when she tucks her phone away, she makes her way over.
“So good to see you again, Temple,” she says. Her name escapes me. Though there’s a chance I was never given it in the first place. I was a little out of it the night of the engagement dinner. “Brighton, would you mind if I sat between you two? I’d like to discuss some wedding details with your mother.”
“Not at all.” I scoot to the end of the velvet sofa. Laurel disappears behind the fitting room curtain with her assigned associate, who’s carrying an armful of enormous gowns.
“So Laurel and I were discussing venues,” Laurel’s mom says to mine. “We’re thinking somewhere in downtown Chicago since the two of them work in that area. She’s wanting someplace with a view but not the Pier. There’s one place—the Skyline Tower—that has a ballroom, dining hall, and sweeping views of the city at night. I think it’d be perfect, but they’d have to get married on a Friday night the week before this Christmas, which of course is less than ideal given the fact that it gives us only six months to plan, but the place is booked every single Saturday for the next sixteen months, so ...”
“A Friday night wedding in December could be fun,” my mother says. “Sometimes there’s nothing wrong with bucking tradition.”
The two of them ramble on about flowers—Laurel is leaning toward calla lilies—and groom’s cake—Eben wants German chocolate, and her three bridesmaids scroll through Pinterest boards on their phones, agreeing to disagree on several of the bridesmaid dress options.
I lift my champagne flute and watch the dressing room curtain move. Any minute now she’s going to step out and we’re going to have to give our opinion.
“I don’t know about you, Temple, but I have a feeling this is going to be the wedding of the century,” Laurel’s mom says, her hand over her heart. “And have you ever seen two people more in love than Laurel and Eben?”