I picked up my phone, read Max’s text message again. He could have been tired. He could have wanted to truly stay in. Max spoke earnestly and often about what he wanted, and I’d be naive to read more into his interest in me than the fact that I continued to turn him down. He made light of his cocky ego, but there was no way in hell I hadn’t at least dinged it a little. I sent back: The great Max Devlin stayed in? Are you unwell?
“What did it feel like when you knew Edward was the one?” I took out my pen, since ostensibly this was valuable research for future relationship endeavors.
Even though her voice was muffled by—I was assuming—a shit-ton of tulle, I could hear her very obvious smile. “I should have known it that first night. You remember how I was about him, how differently he made me feel.”
“Like instant lust, you mean?” Sparks was probably the awkward cousin of lust. Similar and easy to confuse.
“It wasn’t the whole story, though.”
She stepped out in a scarlet gown made of crushed velvet. The line between her eyebrows had deepened. “Fuck, I don’t like this one either.”
“Still Victorian,” I said. “Although this one is more lady of the night and less wandering the moors.”
“Who doesn’t want a bordello-themed wedding?”
“I’m guessing Edward.”
She smirked, then winced when she turned in the mirror. “It’s not me.”
I spun my finger in the air. “Then get the hell back in there.”
She stuck her tongue out at me but did as she was told. I took another pull from the bottle of whiskey and pretended I wasn’t waiting for Max to text me back.
“Anyway,” she continued. “In the beginning I wanted to call it intense sexual chemistry. All the signs were the same. But I used to get so nervous around him. Jittery, fluttery. I loved flirting with him. I loved teasing him. Every time he smiled at me, my heart exploded.”
Max had the most charming half-grin I’d ever seen on a man, but my heart-exploding-reaction to it didn’t mean anything.
“The difference was that I thought about Edward constantly. Not only sex fantasies, though,” she said. “I wanted to talk to him. Wanted to comfort him. Wanted to make him laugh and bring him little presents. I mean, for fuck’s sake, I made him adopt a dog because I was so upset that his parents were terrible to him all the time. It felt good to make him feel good. Does that make sense?”
“Oh yeah,” I said much too quickly. And certainly not analyzing what it meant that I was currently helping Max raise $50,000 to save his father’s livelihood. Or anything.
“I felt out of control in every single way. I had to trust that Edward would be there for me. In the meantime, especially those first few weeks, when we were figuring our relationship out, every day was like being knocked over by a hurricane of happiness.”
“That sounds terrible?” I chewed on the tip of my thumb again. Max hadn’t texted back yet.
Roxy strode out in a black-and-white striped dress with a high collar. I grimaced before I could stop myself. “I’m sorry. Too Tim Burton, right?”
“I think you’re right.” She yanked the door back closed. My phone lit up, and I snatched it to my lap immediately. Thank you for acknowledging my greatness, he’d written. And no, not sick. Just a little distracted. There’s this smart blond bombshell I can’t stop thinking about. Good taste in music, rocks pearls and diamonds. I hear she’s the baddest bitch with a planner on the east coast.
I dropped my phone. Caught a glimpse of my flushed cheeks, bright eyes, and cheesy grin in the mirror. “From a quantifiable perspective, how would you describe hurricane of happiness?”
“I can’t, Fi,” she laughed. “You have to feel it. You’ll know, I promise.”
I hated that answer more than I hated stacks of unorganized clutter.
I picked up my phone and dashed off: That sounds an awful lot like flirting. And friends don’t flirt. I waited a second, then sent a second message that fit the jittery-giddy feeling I had all over my body. But I’m giving you a pass since you made me laugh.
His response was immediate. Didn’t realize making you laugh was a loophole. And for the record, you have a beautiful laugh.
Roxy flounced out in a hot pink dress with about one hundred layers. She sank down on the floor in front of me, looking like a mopey punk-rock bride. I let her have some whiskey before poking her hard in the arm. “What’s going on in that partially shaved head of yours?”
“I love this place, and I’m having fun,” she said. “But the dresses aren’t looking the way I thought they’d look. But for the past year I’ve had this idea in my head that looked, well, like this.” She indicated the pink material swirled around her feet.
“It’s only the first attempt and only the first shop,” I said. “We’ve got all the time in the world for you to fall in love.”
“That’s true.” She ran her fingers over the fabric, frown lifting into a dazzling smile. “And honestly? All I really care about is that Edward and I belong to each other. Dress or not.”
“Plus you’ve got that sex swing.”
“What more do I need?” She stood up, brushing herself off. “Also, can we please go get cheeseburgers right now?”
“Already planning on it.”
She closed the door, and I pictured all those magazines I collected when I was little. How pretty I thought those dresses were, how lovely were the bouquets. All the aesthetics, the things, the texture of weddings felt bright and happy to me.
But Roxy knew she only needed Edward.
“I know you’re talking to Max by the way,” Roxy called over.
“Who, me?” My voice squeaked.
Do you even realize you’re still flirting? Or are you just getting it out of your system? I texted. Trying to get myself back on the solid ground of contracts and timelines.
His reply put literal stars in my eyes, confirming that he was neither problem nor temptation but trouble.
I was flirting with you on purpose. You, and only you.
I was so distracted I didn’t hear Roxy come out. Not until she was standing over me with a triumphant grin and her hands on her hips. “You sure change out of funeral lace fast.”
She pinched me.
“Ow.”
“I know you’re texting Max because I have never, ever seen a man make you smile the way you have this whole time.”
I put my phone down. “We’re planning a concert together, thank you. We need to stay in contact.”
She grabbed one of the black veils and dropped it on her head, examined her profile in the mirror. “Sure,” she said. “Plan that concert together. But I’m pretty fucking sure you’ve been hit by a hurricane, Fi.”
18
Max
An hour into working on Mateo’s 1982 Sportster, and I happily slid into a state of utter bliss. The garage was small and cramped, but the rolling door was pulled open to let in the evening light and spring air. And I had Led Zeppelin on the speakers and a machine under my hands.
Being a mechanic was one of those things that came quickly and easily to me—the way parts of a bike fit together to make what was essentially a steel bullet that humans could ride. For the most part, bikes were puzzles that you could always complete, which I liked. There weren’t a lot of contradictions or hurt feelings or disappointments. A guy brought his motorcycle in to my shop. I got the parts to fix it. Then I fixed it.