Borrow-A-Bridesmaid (31 page)

Thirty-Five

I
stand just on the other side of the threshold, staring at Charlie, almost unable to believe my eyes and unbelievably at a loss for words, though I've pictured this moment a thousand different ways.

Charlie meets my gaze, then shrugs. “No cake? I'm off, then.” He starts to walk away.

“Ignore them.” I make a face into the apartment and close the door behind me, leaving the lovebirds to do God knows what on the sofa.

Which leaves me alone. With Charlie.

“Sorry about that,” I start to babble. “Lin and Steve just got engaged, so we're celebrating.”

“Great. That's great.” A cool evening breeze comes up the stairs, ruffling his hair.

A wall of unspoken words stands between us.

I start with the basics. One brick. “How have you been? How are you?”

He takes a deep breath. “Better. I think.” He leans against the balcony that overlooks the parking lot. The moment lengthens between us. “It's been really hard.”

Countless times during the past month, I've thought about Charlie reappearing. Hoped desperately for it, even. Wondered what he was doing, whether he was writing. Wondered where in the country he was—maybe he'd drift back west to be on the opposite coast from Holly. Maybe he'd return to the land of his screenwriting dreams to start over. All I knew was what he texted the morning after the wedding:
Susan told me everything. Thanks for looking out for me. I want to see you, but I need some time. Time and space.
I told him I understood and wished him the best. After all, I was using my own time and space to rethink my entire post-grad life.

Now that he's standing on my doorstep, it feels surreal. In all of the scenarios I pictured, we exchanged tongues, not words, so I find myself not knowing where to start. I want to hold him—I've forgotten how perfectly we fit together when we hug, how the exact latitude and longitude of my head meets that of his heart.

But I want to honor his space, hear him out.

He gazes down at his feet before meeting my eyes again. “I'd like to describe what the past month has been like for me, but words—the one thing I always thought I could rely on—” He sighs. “All I can think of are clichés. Betrayal. Hurt. And grief. Part of me began falling in love with her—my daughter, I mean. I thought endlessly about what she'd be like. I just kind of
knew
it would be a girl. I picked out a name. I knew what we'd do on Sunday afternoons, what songs I'd play her when she woke up in the middle of the night. She was going to be this tiny indie music fan, with the occasional craving for new wave. And maybe a bit of acid jazz, if Sam had his way. I loved her, this new little person in the world.”

He wipes the corner of his eye with his shirtsleeve. September cool wraps itself around us, the sun starting its descent behind the highway.

“I'm sorry.” I get another urge to move toward him, but the wall's still there, half-dismantled.

“Holly told me she really thought, at least for a while, that she was pregnant. That she never meant to let it get as far as it did. I don't know who to blame more, her or Lena. I don't know what to think anymore. I can't believe it's my life. But that was our pattern—she just found a way to make it look new each time. Whenever things were about to end, she would make sure they didn't.” He shoves his hands in his pockets. “I don't know if I'll ever be able to forgive either of them. The rational part of my mind knows Holly acted the way she did because she's got a skewed sense of reality, a mangled sense of self, and because she's been hurt over and over by her family. She needs help. But knowing that doesn't change the fact that I'm angry. Furious, actually.”

“Is she—”

“Gone. Went to Blacksburg with her dad.”

We grow silent for a while.

“On a lighter note,” Charlie says finally, “Lena was the victim of identity theft. All of her money was siphoned to an Eastern European bank account.”

“What?”

He shrugs, one corner of his mouth turning up. “Of course, she'll get everything back, but it's temporarily derailed her campaign. Random, right? Or maybe karma.”

“Wow.”

“Hey, you must think I'm a cad,” he says. “I come over here and talk your ear off without even asking how you're doing. Or saying thank you. Thank you, Piper.”

“A cad?” I smirk.

He shrugs. “It sounded better than ‘dickwad,' which came to mind first.”

I make a face.

“See? No one can hear the word ‘dickwad' without cringing. It's a disgusting word.”

“Stop saying it!”

He smiles for the first time, wiping his other eye with the opposite shirtsleeve, which has a built-in hole for his thumb to slide through. This detail is searingly endearing. Very un-dickwad-ish.

“Seriously, though, that's a lot to process. Have you been writing about it?”

He shakes his head.

I fish a pen out of my pocket and press it against his chest. “Well, you are now. Starting today.”

He holds the pen against his chest with one hand. “Thanks. I will.” A beat. He puts the pen in his pocket. “So tell me things. About you.”

We lean against the balcony railing and begin to talk, really talk, like we did when we first met. I tell him about quitting the accounting firm after I was asked to make five hundred bound and spiraled copies of the Generally Accepted Accounting Standards (GAAS).

But the main reason I quit the firm was a job offer from
City Paper
. Covering weddings.

I give Charlie a rundown of some of my latest wedding adventures: I was honored to write up the wedding of a prominent, openly gay Congressman. And then there was the steampunk wedding—my press badge notwithstanding, they wouldn't admit me until I agreed to wear aviator goggles and a top hat. An owl perched on the bride's arm during the entire ceremony, occasionally cocking his head sideways as if to show the congregation how dapper he looked in his tiny top hat. Charlie laughs out loud at that bit. Lord, it feels good to hear him laugh.

As I wind down, Charlie lets out a low whistle. “You've come a long way from A. Googly and Associates: Accounting That Adds Up.”

“Thanks. I barely escaped with my soul intact.”

“But you did escape. I'm proud of you.”

I flush. “Thanks.”

“Oh! And I almost forgot.” He pulls a folded piece of newsprint from his pocket and retrieves the pen I gave him. “Could you sign my copy?”

The top of the page reads, “From Pomp and Circumstance to the Ninth Circle: How My Post-Grad Reenactment of
The Divine Comedy
Was Anything but Funny,” by Piper Brody.

The night after Charlie's nonwedding, I couldn't stop writing. I wrote about Airport Limbo, about traveling through the various circles of post-grad hell, starring Sal as Wrath, Billy as Greed, and Lena as Treachery. All of it was written in mock-academic style: Gotta use those half-dollar words for something.

“I'm serious. It's your first signing. Go ahead.” Charlie holds the paper flat on the balcony railing while I sign. When I straighten up, he's moved closer.

“So you've graduated from hell to purgatory?” he says.

“Yeah.”

“What's that like?”

“Well, Dante's purgatory is a giant mountain with seven terraces, each representing an area of suffering or spiritual growth. Sounds exhausting, right?”

“Indeed. So, can you take a break on any of the seven terraces for, like, coffee or dinner?”

“Maybe.”

He smiles. The dimples appear and fade again, too quickly. “Hey, I know things aren't going to be the same between us after what happened. After all, you traveled through the nine circles of hell, and . . . I guess I did, too.”

“I don't expect things to be the same. I don't expect anything. I'm just taking it one moment at a time. Or trying to. And this—”

Charlie cuts me off as he leans in close to lightly brush my lips with his. It's a whisper of a kiss, but it's filled with hope and promise. The balcony string lights twinkle down on us, adding to the dim light from the stars in the late-summer sky.

I look up at him, smile, and rest my head against his heart as he wraps his arms around me. The rhythm of his heartbeat seems to finish my sentence:
This. Is. A. Good. Moment.

Acknowledgments

I
'm grateful to the following people for their support and guidance during this writing adventure:

My literary agent, Mandy Hubbard; my editor, Elana Cohen; my production editor, Ciara Robinson; and the entire team at Pocket Star. You are book whisperers!

My writing group, especially JoAnn Welsh, Ashley Eason, April McCloud, Katie Kumler, Chris Ross, Karen Delaney, and David Kilmer. Thank you for your wisdom, honesty, moral support, and fabulous stickers.

All the friends and family members who gave their time to read drafts and provide feedback and encouragement. It means more than you know.

My parents. Thank you for always encouraging me to follow my dreams.

Last, but definitely not least: Brian. I flipping love you.

About the Author

A
nne Wagener is an amateur ukulele player and dessert addict who lives in western New York. A dog person at heart, Anne aspires to be responsible enough to someday parent a pug. Meanwhile, she's still trying to figure out what she wants to be when she grows up. She's been a bridesmaid ten times.

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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author's imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2015 by Anne Wagener

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First Pocket Star Books ebook edition June 2015

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ISBN 978-1-5011-0738-2