My jaw clenches.
“Take her to fucking Vegas and get her drunk for all I care,” he says. “Just … get it done.”
Seventeen
Love
* * *
“What’s her wedding dress look like?” Tierney asks from the seating area as I change out of my bridesmaid dress. Cameo will be happy to know it just needs to be hemmed. The seamstress said she can have it done in three days.
“You know those holiday Barbies?” I ask. “With all the tulle and lace and sequins?”
“Yeah?”
I tug my shirt over my head and fix my hair in the mirror of the changing room. “Like that.”
“I’d expect nothing less from your sister.”
Sliding into my cut off shorts, I zip the fly and fasten the button before grabbing my bag and the dress and stepping out.
“At least the bridesmaid dresses are cute,” Tierney adds, eyeing the strapless rose gold number draped over my arm. “They’re simple. That’s good.”
“Of course they’re simple. She’s terrified of being upstaged at her own wedding.”
“With a Holiday Barbie dress, the only thing that could upstage her would be if Oprah showed up at the reception.” Tierney rubs her belly, which seems to have doubled in size since I saw her the other week. “We almost done? I’m starving.”
The seamstress returns to our area, taking the dress from me. When she turns to leave, she glances at Tierney and smiles.
“Looks like you’re about to pop,” she says. “How many weeks?”
Tierney’s expression fades and she gives the woman a pregnant lady death stare. “Eighty-nine.”
The woman’s smile disappears and she clears her throat before walking away.
“I’m sorry. She’s hangry right now,” I call out, though I don’t know if she hears me. I shoot Tierney a look, wordlessly trying to reason with her.
“You don’t tell a pregnant lady she looks like a freaking elephant,” Tierney whisper-yells.
Throwing my hands up, I can’t say that I disagree. “You ready?”
She reaches for me, and I pull her up from the cushy velvet sofa she’d been waiting on ever so impatiently.
“Did I tell you I’m bringing Jude to Cameo’s wedding?” I ask when we leave the tailor shop.
Tierney grabs my arm, her jaw dropping. “No. No you did not tell me you were taking Jude to Cameo’s wedding. When did this happen?”
“We were texting the other night,” I say. “It just sort of came up in conversation—the wedding did—and he asked if I had a date. And then he offered.”
“That’s … amazing.” Her hangry face turns into a wide, crazy eyes and an even crazier smile. “Good for you for getting back out there.”
“I’m not ‘getting back out there,’” I correct her using air quotes. “We’re just friends and he’s just my plus one.”
“Whatever.” She rolls her eyes. “Anyway, what do you think your sister’s going to say when you roll in there with El Supermodel on your arm and she’s walking down the aisle about to marry Doctor Saggy Balls.”
“You’re so bad.” I bite my lip to keep from laughing.
“Seriously though … Jude might upstage your sister at her own wedding.”
“Plot twist.”
Tierney laughs as we round the corner. The café she picked is only a block away, but I’m glad her sense of humor has been restored given her starving condition.
Before we reach the restaurant, Tierney takes a phone call from her husband, Josh, and I take a minute to check my phone. Pulling up my messages, I scroll down to Jude’s name. The last time we texted was about Cameo’s wedding. He’s been quiet since then, giving me space I think. I love that he doesn’t come on too strong. Intensity and perseverance would turn me off. Hunter was intense. He wanted everything yesterday, and if that wasn’t possible then he’d settle for one minute ago.
He rushed everything, always … especially our relationship.
We slept together the first week we started dating. Became exclusive by week two. By the end of our sophomore year, he’d purchased me a gold ring with the tiniest diamond and proposed marriage, and within a month of graduation, we were officially Mr. and Mrs. LeGrand.
God, I was naïve then.
I didn’t know anything about anything, and that included relationships. But I’m free now and I’ve never felt more alive or ready for whatever life throws at me next. I’m not that simple, trusting girl I used to be. I’m not that agreeable “yes” girl who put everyone else before herself.
I wouldn’t even recognize my old self if I ran into her on the street.
Slipping my phone into the back-right pocket of my faded Levi cut offs, I follow Tierney into the café and try to pay attention as she rambles on about her baby registry, but all I can think about right now is Jude and how nice it would be to run into him again soon.
It’s the strangest thing, but right now … I kind of miss him.
Eighteen
Jude
* * *
The date I “won” fair and square is tomorrow night, and I’ve spent the better part of the evening trying to plan something that marries what I think Love would like to do with something from this ridiculous binder Hunter made for me.
Hunter claims her interests include the opera, fine dining (Butter and Tavern on the Green are her favorites), trips to the MoMA, French cooking classes, and wine tasting (he claims reds are her favorite despite the fact that I’ve only ever seen her drink white).
I can’t picture Love doing any of those things, but the man was married to her for all those years. I doubt he pulled these ideas out of his ass, not to mention he wants this to work—needs this to work.
Rising from my living room sofa, I stretch my arms over my head and make my way to the kitchen to grab a bite. It’s been storming most of the day, so I’ve been cooped up in this place, though I’ve reminded myself there are worse places I could be.
I’m elbow deep in the fridge, looking for something less frou-frou and more regular-dude, when the lights flicker and the inside of the thing turns black. Backing out, I realize my entire apartment is without power.
Heading back to the living room, I glance out the rain-slicked window to see most of our block is dark. Every window, every street light … extinguished.
Collapsing across the sofa and wondering if it’s possible to die of boredom, I realize I haven’t talked to Love in a couple of days. I’d been giving her space, but I don’t think it’d hurt if I confirmed that we’re still on for Friday night.
The battery on my phone reads forty-three percent, so I should be good for now. Tapping out my message, I press send, place my phone on the coffee table, and wait.
Something like five minutes later (I tried not to count), she responds with, “Thought you’d forgotten.”
My lips curl at the sides as I reply with, “Never” and then I add, “What are you doing right now?”