Page 41 of Sister of the Bride

“I knew the acoustic guitar would do it,” he replies with a wink.

We push our chairs back and try to make it look like we’re just heading for the bathrooms, giving warm smiles and nods to the rest of the guests at our table, none of whom have spoken to us. Either they’re awkward introverted donors or they have correctly assessed that we’re young and broke and just in this for the free food. Either way, given that they didn’t speak to each other either, I’m thinking we didn’t miss very much.

As we head for the door, Toby’s hand goes to the small of my back, his fingers pressing lightly but firmly as he leads me out of the ballroom. I tell myself my unsteadiness on my heels and my champagne-fizzy head are why I lean into his touch.

But I’m lying.

Out in Copley Square, the sun has gone down, and since it’s a Tuesday, most of the traffic is people leaving nearby office buildings late or people coming from dinner. Toby and I definitely stand out in our gala finery. So much so that I get an honest-to-god wolf whistle from a guy in a velour tracksuit standing near the church. Toby shoots the man a venomous look that I guess would be scary if you didn’t know Toby. But Idoknow Toby, and I know that one of his greatest fears is getting into a fistfight, so I just laugh.

“Where to now, boss?” I ask, trying not to think about the fact that I’m wearing this dress and these heels and Toby looks like…well…that.

Toby takes in a long breath of summer night air, which is only partially tinged with the smell of hot asphalt and exhaust. “It’s a nice night. Want to just go for a walk?”

A light breeze picks up my hair, and I instinctively turn my face up and breathe in the cool air.

“My heart says yes,” I say, lifting one leg to show off the four-inch heel, “but my shoes say no fucking way.”

Toby’s eyes linger on my leg, his teeth scraping across his lower lip, and I get those zaps that run up my thighs and down from my belly. My legs start to feel sort of gelatinous from the heat of his gaze, but then he breaks the spell by pointing to a nearby bench.

“Sit there. I’ll be right back,” he says, his eyes sweeping over my body one more time. “And don’t talk to strangers.” Then he turns and disappears around the corner at a light jog.

I sit and watch people go by, glaring at a few business bros who openly stare at me sitting here in this dress. Unlike Toby, I’m very muchnotafraid of a fistfight.

Ten minutes later, Toby reappears, slightly breathless, the top buttons of his shirt open to the night. His tie is folded in one hand, and there’s a Walgreens bag in the other. He quickly shoves his tie into his pocket, then reaches into the plastic bag and pulls out a pair of cheap black rubber flip-flops.

“For you, madam, so the night doesn’t have to end prematurely because you wore irresponsible footwear.”

“First of all, what was I supposed to wear with this dress, Birkenstocks?” I reach for the flip-flops, which Toby has helpfully freed from the little plastic ring tying them together. A ring I’d usually have to cut with scissors, but he has snapped it open with merely a flex of his biceps,mother of god. I slip them on and find that they’re a perfect fit. “And second, how did you know my size?”

Toby shrugs. “You used to borrow Siobhan’s old skates when we’d go to the ice rink,” he says. “I figured your feet couldn’t have grownthatmuch in the last eight years.”

I loop my finger through the backs of my heels and stand in the flip-flops, letting out a delicious sigh as my feet sink into the soft rubber. I swear, these things feel like memory foam slippers after wearing those awful shoes for two hours.

“Here, I’ll carry them,” Toby says, holding the Walgreens bag open and nodding at my shoes. I drop them in. “Now, how do you feel about ice cream?”

And even though I just ate my weight in lobster, filet mignon, and the creamiest, richest parmesan mashed potatoes on the planet, my stomach lets out a growl of assent.

“I feel amorous of ice cream,” I say with a grin, and try to ignore the fact that ice cream isn’t the only target of my amorous feelings at the moment.

* * *

Twenty minutes later, we’re leaving J.P. Licks with our treats (a brownie batter waffle cone for me and a peanut butter cookies ’n’ cream waffle cone for Toby) and heading toward Comm Ave, where we can stroll down the tree-lined greenway in peace.

Our walk is quiet at first, since we’re both mostly focusing on sucking down our dessert before the warm summer night air sends it dripping down our wrists. But by the time I’m popping the gooey, crunchy bottom of my cone into my mouth, I realize that I still have questions. That conversation we started before we walked into the Fairmont? Itwaswaiting outside, at least for me.

“So you really never considered staying in California? With Jen? I mean, they have emergency departments on the West Coast.” I don’t know why I’m pushing this. I just thought…I mean, after four years together, I’d think they would try to stay together. They seemed happy enough. He never complained about her to me.

“No,” he says. That’s it. Just…no.

We step off the curb to cross the road, and a cyclist playing Cannonball Run comes whizzing around the corner. Toby throws out his arm to keep me from stepping into its path. I crash into it with anoof, his fingers brushing my hip in a way that makes me blow out a deep sigh. Luckily, I can mask it with the wholeoh my god, I almost got flattened by a cyclistthing.

“You okay?” he asks.

“Yeah, fine,” I say, like I nearly get run over by bicycles every Tuesday night. “Why?”

“Well, you seem to be breathing pretty heavily there,” he says, his eyes dropping to my cleavage, which is literally heaving.

His gaze makes me feel warm all over, and I need to distract him before he notices the flush I can feel climbing up my body.

---