Always the Wedding Planner, Never the Bride (28 page)

S
herilyn, what is going on with you? Do you know Cris?"

"Y-yes."

"You do?"

Andy sat down next to her on the bed. They both faced forward, side by side, in silence; for how long, Andy couldn't be certain. The wheels in his head spun so noisily that he struggled to keep up with all the scenarios bumping into one another.

Finally, he turned toward her and asked, "Will you talk to me?"

Tears began to flow, and Sherilyn's eyes grew stormy as she gazed at him. "I never wanted you to know."

"To know . . . what?"

"How horrible I am," she whimpered, dropping her head into her hands.

"Horrible?"

Sherilyn couldn't be horrible under any circumstances. For all the things he might not have known about her, he knew that for absolute certain.

"Have you killed a man?" he asked seriously.

Her head popped up, and she frowned at him. "What?"

"Well, you didn't, did you?"

"Well." Andy thought she considered it far too deeply before replying, "Of course not."

"Then as long as I don't have to find a body stashed in the freezer next to the Green Giant peas, I think I can handle whatever you have to tell me."

She sighed, and the corner of her mouth twitched slightly. "You're crazy."

They fell silent again, except for Sherilyn's sniffling. After a while, Andy asked her, "Would you rather I talk to Cris?"

"No!" she exclaimed, her eyes wide again. With a sigh, she added, "Please don't do that."

"Do you want to talk to him?"

It was almost a whisper. "No."

More nothing again. Just about the time that Andy thought his eardrums might explode from the silence, two short knocks sounded on the bedroom door before Miguel pushed it open and poked his head inside.

"I'd like to help," he told them. "Can I come in?"

Andy waited for a response from Sherilyn. When it didn't come, he nodded at Miguel.

He seemed young, for a pastor; Andy guessed he was still in his twenties. His dark hair barely scuffed his collar, and a thick fringe of lashes softened his dark eyes.

His thin lips tilted into a knowing smile, and Miguel knelt down in front of Sherilyn. Taking both of her hands into his, he closed his eyes and softly stepped right into a short simple prayer.

"Let Your will be done here, Lord God."

Sherilyn glanced at Andy, and relief flooded him. Just the momentary reconnect felt comforting somehow.

"I've spoken to Cristián," he told her, and she looked up at him with such concern in her eyes that Andy felt the weight

of it pinch at his gut. "Many times. I didn't know it was you, of course, but I've offered him counsel, prayed with him. He's become a good friend."

She nodded and stared at their hands. "How is he?" she finally asked.

"He's good," Miguel stated like a promise.

"Really?"

"Yes. He's found his healing."

"Is he still here?"

"No. He left."

She sighed. "Has he found someone?" she asked.

"Not yet. But he's working toward being able to trust love again."

"Look," Andy said, and he stood up and stared down at them. "I think I have a right to know what's going on here."

Sherilyn angled her head and looked up at him, her face softening with emotion. "You're right. You do."

"Would you like me to leave you two alone?" Miguel asked her.

She said, "No," at the very same time that Andy replied,

"Yes."

"Sherilyn." Andy rubbed his forehead and raked back his hair. "What's going on?"

"Andy," she began, and she pressed her lips together for a moment while Miguel stood up and crossed the room. He sat down at the head of the bed and nodded to Andy to sit beside Sherilyn. When he did, Andy grazed her hand with his finger.

"Cristián and I," she started again, but trailed off.

"Yes?"

He battled the urge to reach over and shake it out of her. He couldn't bear the myriad scenarios threatening to rise up and complete that fragment of a sentence.

Out with it, please. Just say it. You and Cristián, what? Robbed a bank together and did jail time? Accidentally ran over a homeless guy with your car and went on the run from the law? What could you have done that was so "horrible"?

"We were . . . engaged."

Andy swallowed. He drew in a deep breath. "Engaged."

"Yes."

"That's it?" She seemed to be thinking that over, so he asked,

"When?"

"We dated while I was in college, and he proposed after graduation."

"Was there a ring?"

Was there a ring?
he repeated to himself quickly.
What does that matter?

"Yes," she replied, and the way she looked at him for just a split second, he knew she wondered the same thing.

"Well, what happened?" he asked her. "I mean, to make you so upset like this. I assume it ended badly?"

"I . . . I mean, I—" With desperation in her eyes, Sherilyn looked to Miguel. That pained Andy somehow, but he didn't know quite why.

"Would you like me to tell him?" Miguel asked.

Sherilyn shrugged one shoulder and turned away.

"Sherilyn broke things off with Cristián," Miguel explained.

"And he didn't take it well. You have to understand that Cristián was in love, and—"

"I left him at the altar," she rasped without turning around.

"He was standing there, waiting for me, and I just . . . left him. With no explanation, no nothing. Just left."

Andy rubbed his jaw as he thought it over. "Why did you do that?"

"I wasn't ready. I panicked," she said, pivoting toward him and looking so intensely into his eyes that it burned. "Instead of talking to him, I just ran, and Cristián—"

Again, she turned to Miguel for help, and Andy spontaneously took her face into his hands, forcing her to look him in the eye.

"Talk to me."

"Cristián . . ." she said, and the tears began to flow again.

"Cristián's response to Sherilyn's departure was to take a handful of pills, Andy. He tried to kill himself."

Andy's heart almost stopped. He had to draw hard to fill his lungs with oxygen again as Sherilyn threw herself down on the bed and began to wail.

He watched her for several moments, and her pain was nearly too much for Andy to bear. He nodded Miguel toward the door, and he struggled to force his arms around her and drag her to him. It felt a little like saving a donkey from the path of a speeding train, but she finally gave in and melted into his embrace. As the door clicked shut after Miguel, Andy began to rock Sherilyn to and fro, smoothing her hair, and whispering into her ear.

"It's okay," he promised without questioning the truth of it. "Everything is all right. You're all right."

Nearly half an hour of that ticked past without the exchange of a single word beyond his reassurances. Every now and then, the collective cheer of their guests reminded Andy that life had gone on outside that room. Emma, Jackson, and Miguel had likely taken on the game day duties, filling plates and pouring beverages, all in an effort to take the focus off the meltdown of their hosts.

After a while, Andy pushed back the tangled hair from Sherilyn's damp face and kissed her lips softly.

"You shouldn't kiss me," she whimpered. "I don't deserve your kisses."

"Why?" he asked. "You're not going to leave me too, are you?"

Her pause caused something to jump at the pit of Andy's stomach.

"Sherilyn."

"Well," she started, then paused to blow her nose. He tried not to laugh at the
honk!
noise it made. "I don't want to. But I've been wondering lately with all the trouble we've been having . . . if maybe it's kind of a punishment for what I did to Cristián."

"You mean, losing your wedding dress?"

"Twice," she pointed out.

"But you said you love my mother's dress even more."

"And how you went all deer-in-headlights about buying the house."

"I told you, that was momentary."

"Still. And Maya wanting you back."

"But . . . I don't want
her
back."

"Not even to mention me being allergic to you!"

"To Henry. Well, his shampoo."

"But I thought it was you."

Andy sighed, and he couldn't help the smile that made his cheeks ache.

"Did you mean to hurt him?"

She looked up at him and frowned. "No. But—"

"You probably could have handled it differently, but you didn't mean for things to go the way they did."

"No. I didn't."

He watched her search for another objection, some fragment of a reason why she deserved the wrath of a vengeful God to

tumble down upon her horrible little head. But she couldn't seem to find one. Or if she found one, she didn't share it.

"I tried to be the woman Cristián needed me to be," she finally admitted. "Right up until the morning of our wedding. But I just couldn't do it. Then when I heard what he'd done . . . what I'd driven him to do . . ."

"No, Sherilyn," he whispered, and he pulled her toward him. She buried her head into the curve of his neck as he told her, "That's not how it works."

"I was in the car with Emma on the way to the church, and I just turned to her and said, 'Please. Keep on driving. I can't do it.'"

Andy thought it over, picturing that morning in his mind's eye. Imagining himself in Cris's position, he felt like something heavy had fallen on him.

"Are you doing that with me?" he asked her.

"Doing what?"

"Working hard to try and be someone you think I want."

She looked up and sighed. "I guess that's what's scared me the most. With you, I haven't had to work at all. We just are who we are. From the very beginning, we're just . . . effortless."

"Why does that scare you?"

"I think about what Cristián went through, and I know I don't deserve to be this happy. So I keep waiting for the thing to happen that will take it all away."

"Or maybe, in seeing what
you
went through, God has decided to show you instead what love can truly be like when it's right."

He could see that she'd never even considered that possibility before. As the gears turned the idea around inside her mind, tiny furrows formed at the top of her nose between her arched eyebrows.

"I'll need to call Cristián," she said, and Andy's heart lurched slightly.

"Why?"

"It's been far too long. I need to tell him how sorry I am."

Sherilyn awoke with a pillow tufted awkwardly under her neck, and Andy's Blackhawks comforter pulled over her so that she felt a little like a burrito. She blinked several times before the clock came into focus.

5:42.

The bedroom door stood open just a couple of inches, no sign of light on the other side of it. She dropped her legs over the side of the bed and dangled them for a moment before hopping to her feet and straightening yesterday's clothes. She picked up her shoes and carried them with her down the stairs. The wood creaked beneath her bare feet as she padded down the hall into the family room.

Sprawled across the length of the sofa and draped with a Blackhawks throw, Andy breathed deeply in more of a hum than a snore. Sherilyn crossed to the kitchen, and her first step past the counter brought with it a deep stab in the ball of her foot. She tried not to scream, but her attempt to drown it only succeeded in stretching it out.

"What? What's wrong?"

Andy sat on the edge of the couch, one of the cushions on the floor next to him, and the fleece throw wrapped around his foot.

"I'm sorry," she said, hopping to the tall stool on the other side of the counter. "I stepped on glass."

"Emma must have missed some of it," he remarked, shaking the sleep from his head as he marched toward her. "Let me see."

He flipped on the lights and sat down on the stool next to her, lifting her foot to his leg.

"Youch."

"Hold still, I've got it."

He pulled the splinter of glass straight out and set it on the counter before reaching over the width of it and rattling several paper towels from the roll next to the kitchen sink. Folding them up into square after square, Andy finally pressed the wad to the bottom of her bleeding foot.

"Thank you."

"Any time."

His tussled, disheveled hair flopped into his eyes, and Sherilyn thought that Andy looked more handsome at that moment than he had in all the time she'd known him. She ran a finger along his hand before squeezing it until he looked up at her.

"I love you," she said. "You know that, right?"

"I do know that."

She waited. It seemed like an hour.

"And you still love me, right?"

"Right. I love you."

Something poked at the hollow of her chest, just above the ribcage.

"But?"

"But," he repeated. "I want you to get things sorted out before we take one more step toward a wedding."

The tiny poke morphed into a stabbing pain.

"Andy. What does that mean?"

"I want to marry you," he said, taking her by the hand. "More than I can even tell you."