“Can I at least tell you my plan before you shut it down?” Nyx offers.
I sigh. While Nyx speaks, I mute the call. I place the phone on my nightstand. Knowing my sisters, I have enough time to pee, brush my teeth, and put on my workout clothes before they are done talking.
“What do you think?” Nyx asks when I pick up the phone.
That I’m glad I missed your plan.
This is the best moment to feign anger. “Remember when you were single, Nyx?”
“What’s your point?”
“You hated going on blind dates,” I remind her. “I do too.”
“At least I tried.”
Phew, I guessed right. She wants to set me up with some friend of hers.
“We don’t want you to end up alone,” Persy takes over the conversation. “It’s going to be a casual dinner among friends. Life is short. Misty is not the answer. She feels comfortable. You need—”
“I don’t need counseling, Persy,” I warn her.
This is a lost battle. Two against one isn’t fair. Nyx is a great litigator. Persy is a psychologist who specializes in couples counseling. People email her, listen to her podcast, and read her books, hoping that they’ll find love or fix their broken relationships.
I’m just one tired as fuck without ammunition to battle against them.
“It’s okay to be happy,” she continues. “How many times do I have to tell you to go to counseling? Grieve, and let it go.”
And now we’re going to fixate that I refuse to be happy because Callie died. They swear something happened to me after her death that makes me not want to date anyone.
Nothing happened.
I went to counseling.
I’m fine.
“I have a busy schedule. Why don’t we reschedule this intervention for when hell freezes over?”
“Eros.” Persy’s annoyed voice is the last word I hear before hanging up the phone.
If only they knew that today I’m having a long overdue conversation with Misty after her appointment. We’re discussing our future. She has to end her on, off, on again relationship with Prince. I should’ve asked her what this appointment is all about that she’s dragging me to. I hope it’s not another mani-pedi. I do a lot of things for her, but I refuse to be her shopping-spa-antique picking buddy.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Olivia
“It’s over, Olivia.”
“Listen, Kelly,” I lower my voice so my other clients won’t hear my conversation. “This is what we spoke about when you hired the company. There are moments when you feel overwhelmed. It can be a lot. We’re here to help you so you can enjoy the journey that’s organizing your wedding. Connor is the love of your life.”
“Is he?” She sniffs. “What if there’s another man? What if I fell in love years ago and I let him go? What if I haven’t met my soulmate?”
A degree in philosophy would’ve come in handy with this job. Her questions are too deep, even when they sound like a severe case of cold feet. These brides are worse than my father when one of our suppliers doesn’t deliver on time. I think he trained me well for this moment. He just didn’t know it.
“Close your eyes, Kelly,” I prompt her. “Think about the day you met Connor. The first moment when he left you breathless. Remember the day when he asked you to be his lifetime companion? You said yes. It was one of the happiest moments of your life. Among all the people in the world, you chose each other to walk through this difficult journey called life.”
All I hear are sniffs on the other side of the line. I continue, “This is a good time to approach him, hold his hand and say, ‘I need to lean on you for support. I need us to remember why we’re taking this step.’”
“You’re right, I love him. His mother—”
“She’s trying her best to stay away, but it’s hard because her only son is starting his own family. She’s becoming an outsider,” I explain. “This is your moment. I understand why this is frustrating and overwhelming. We will figure out ways for her to feel included. That doesn’t mean she’ll take over the organization of the event. This is all for you and Connor. I’m the gatekeeper. I need you to trust me.”
Listen, sweetheart, if I could keep my father away from his company for more than a year, I can take this woman down too.
“Thank you.” She sniffs.
“Anytime. I’m here for you.”
When I hang up, I stare at the phone, wondering if I did the right thing. Her questions were logical. If she has doubts, maybe she should go to counseling before saying I do.
It’s none of your business.
But it is. What if this was me?
At what age do we fall in love?
What is love?
Do we all have a soulmate? If he was the love of my life, would I care how his parents are?
Everyone has a different theory. A simple Internet search will back me up. When it comes to love, no one answer fits all.
I was ten when I fell in love with Levy Cross. He broke my heart two weeks later. Jane Stevens had pretty black hair, and her mom sent cookies in her lunch box.
I was fourteen when I met Ron Garner. Within three weeks of me leaving Canada, he found another girl who wouldn’t be away too often and for too long. The last two years of high school, I stayed with Mom. Those were the only two years I was able to have a somehow normal adolescence. Pierre Gagnon and I were an item during our senior year. We broke up before winter break because I was moving away to attend university in the United States.
It wasn’t much of a choice but a matter of going to Dad’s alma mater.
There’s Eros. Even though we were somehow stranded, we spent the most intense, glorious, fun day and a half of my life.
It didn’t make sense—we didn’t make sense.
He lived in New York City. I lived in Elora, Canada. He was in grad school. I was just graduating from high school.
He had a ten-year plan where he’d be rich, have a beautiful wife, and a gorgeous family. I hadn’t chosen a college yet.
That should’ve been the end of us.
It wasn’t.
Serendipity brought us together again and again. We were text buddies. The occasional call kind of friends. I don’t want to think we were fuck buddies, but sometimes it feels like it if I’m honest with myself.
Tall, dark, handsome Eros was a sexy dream.
He is definitely not the one for me. Sometimes, I have these fantasies where he sees me and says, “It’s always been you, Liv. I love you forever.”
I’m not in love with the guy. It’s just the feelings he stirs when he’s around that got to me, like a high from some aphrodisiac or a drug. For one reason or another, I can’t seem to meet the perfect guy.
Needless to say, I’m thirty-one, single, and considering a mail-order groom from England. Someone like Benedict Cumberbatch, Tom Hardy, or even Jude Law (but with hair).
Love is real.
I know it. I’ve witnessed it for the past three months.
I live vicariously through my clients.
One of my favorite moments during the ceremony is when the groom watches the bride walk toward him. There’s no one and nothing else more important in the world for him but the woman who’s about to promise him forever.