Even if I have to do it with a broken heart.
Chapter 25
Lark
Two months later
There’s nothing more miserable than a blazing Georgia afternoon in late July.
All day it’s been as hot as Satan’s kitchen. The bugs waged war against the appetizers (and nearly won) and the humidity pressed in on the wedding party like a dog’s hot, damp breath.
The bride spent half the reception rushing to the bathroom to spray more hairspray on her up-do in a vain attempt to maintain control of her naturally curly hair, and the guests consumed twice as much water as wine to keep from passing out on the dance floor.
“Thank goodness that’s over.” Melody dumps a load of empty serving trays in the back of our new Ever After Catering van, the one we bought after booking four mega weddings in August, and two in September.
Business is good. Very good.
I can’t complain, even when grilling T-Bones in hundred-degree heat.
“Why any woman would plan an outdoor reception in July is beyond me,” Aria agrees, collapsing onto the grass by the truck and shrugging out of her tuxedo vest.
We were one server short tonight—Natalie called in sick—so Aria suited up to fill in. She finished the last minute touches on the wedding cake, then spent the rest of the night circling with drink and hors d’oeuvre trays. I offered to take over after the meal was served, but Melody insisted that Aria should stay on duty. She said something about Aria having a sunnier smile or something that I hadn’t paid much attention to.
I have a hard time paying attention to anything these days. It feels like I’m drifting through my life, going through the motions, but not plugging in the way I used to.
I don’t get a rush when I walk into the kitchen to start a job anymore. I don’t get nervous around fussy brides; I don’t even care when the old people complain about the gourmet salad dressing and ask for a bottle of Ranch, instead. The job just doesn’t seem to matter as much as it used to.
Nothing does.
“I’ll tell you what kind of bride,” Melody says in a conspiratorial whisper, glancing over her shoulder, though the bridal party left an hour ago and the last of the guests are drifting out to their cars in the front parking lot. “A bride with a bun in the oven.”
“No,” Aria says, wrinkling her nose. “No way.”
“Yes, way.” Melody plops down on the grass beside her. “I heard her mom talking after she’d had a few too many glasses of champagne. The bride was four months pregnant. They had to move the wedding up from the original date in November so she’d be able to fit into her dress.”
“God, but she was so tiny!” Aria shakes her head. “By the time I was four months, I looked like a snake that had swallowed an egg.”
“You totally did,” Melody agrees, giggling when Aria nudges her in the side with a sharp elbow. “Sorry, but you did. I would never have imagined your stomach could get as big as it was by the end.”
Aria lifts one shoulder. “At least I didn’t get stretch marks.”
“Good genes,” Melody says with a sigh. “I hope I got them too. Not that I would really care. Babies are worth a few stretch marks.”
“My friend, Hannah, calls them battle scars,” Aria says with a smile.
“Is there anything else left inside?” I ask, backing toward the outdoor kitchen at the edge of the botanical gardens.
I don’t want to talk about babies. It’s one of the many topics that remind me of a perfect night that I wish I could forget.
“No, I got everything. Sit and visit for a minute.” Melody pats the grass beside her and Aria.
I glance at my watch. “I really should get home. I’ve got to get up early and shine the silver for the bridal shower tomorrow afternoon.”
“No you don’t,” Aria says. “It’s my turn to prep the serving plates. Mom’s going to watch Felicity so I can take care of it first thing in the morning.”
“Sit,” Melody repeats. “Take a load off. It’s not so bad now that the sun is setting.”
I sigh and fiddle with the van keys. “Honestly, I’d rather head home. We’ve got a forty minute drive, and I don’t feel like—”
“Sit!” Melody and Aria say at the same time, sending a prickle of suspicion across my skin.
“I don’t want to Talk with a capital T,” I warn them.
“We don’t care,” Melody says pleasantly. “Sit your butt down. Now. I’m invoking emergency sister procedures.”
Grudgingly, I sink down to the sweet-smelling grass and sit cross-legged next to my sisters, watching the pink sunset light turn purple and the air begin to flash with sleepy-looking lightning bugs. Slowly, twilight transforms the garden into an even more romantic place than it is during the day.
I close my eyes against the beauty of the scene, only opening them when Melody puts a warm hand on my arm.
“This has gone on long enough,” she says gently. “We’re worried about you.”
“What’s gone on long enough?” I play innocent, though I have a good idea what my sister is talking about.
Melody is talking about the numbness, broken only by periods of intense sadness and bouts of prolonged crying I do my best to do in private, but can’t always, not when I spend up to twelve hours a day working with my sisters. Melody is talking about my inability to care the way I used to, and the way my smile has gone into mid-summer hibernation.
She’s talking about me mourning the loss of Mason.
“You know what I mean,” Melody insists, not letting me off the hook for a second. But then, I didn’t expect her to. “If you miss Mason that much, you should call him.”
“I can’t call him.” I roll my eyes. We’ve had this conversation half a dozen times already. It’s getting ridiculous. “And you know why. So give me a break, okay?”
“Then let us help you find someone to talk to. A counselor or something,” Melody says. “If you’re determined not to give that poor man another chance, at least give yourself one. You can’t live like this.”
“I’m fine.” I want to stand up and storm away, but I don’t have the energy.
That’s been happening a lot lately, too. I just…run out of steam, and can’t seem to get going again. It’s hard to believe I used to be one of those people who could go all day on three hours of sleep and a few cups of coffee.
It’s hard to believe I was ever the happy person in the picture on the side of the van.
“You’re not fine,” Aria says, chiming in. “Trust me, I know what depression looks like, Lark. I was there not so long ago, remember?”
I shrug. “Well, you snapped out of it. I will, too. Just give me some time.”
“No.” The heat in Melody’s tone surprises me. “You don’t get more time. Aria is dealing with an unrepentant asshole who’s too much of a jerk to send money to help support his own daughter, let alone come see his baby girl. You’re bringing this on yourself.”
My eyebrows snap together, anger stirring inside of me for the first time in weeks. “I am not bringing this on myself. You know what happened.”