Page 42 of Sister of the Bride

“I mean,whydidn’t you want to stay in California?” I ask.

“Oh, that.” He blinks, then looks back at his cone. Finishing the last bites, he tucks his hands into his pockets, looks both ways twice, and then steps out into the street. It’s not until we reach the next block that he finally answers. “I wanted to be here.”

“At Mass General?”

“Yeah,” he says, but it seems like his mind is elsewhere. It appears the breakup with Jen was not as smooth as I thought. Toby still seems very much caught up in it.

“And you didn’t think about maybe doing long distance?”

“It didn’t seem like a good idea,” he says.

There’s something he’s not telling me. And man, does he seemed determined to keep it to himself.

We’ve reached the end of Comm Ave, the gates of the Public Garden before us. Toby crooks his arm just as he did before we entered the hotel, and I take it, letting him lead me through the stone gates, past the hulking statue of George Washington atop his trusty steed, and onto the bridge that traverses the pond. During the day, tourists drift slowly around it in the famous swan boats. But the swans are tucked in for the night, and because it’s a Tuesday evening, the park is pretty quiet. We’re alone on the bridge with only a busker playing a violin at one end. I listen closely to a few bars before the nagging familiarity of the song finally pings in my brain.

“Is it just me, or this a weird song for violin?” Toby asks as she starts sawing away at another chorus of “We Didn’t Start the Fire.”

“It certainly is an impressive arrangement,” I say, and then we both mouth along as she gets to the “rock ’n’ roller cola wars” line, one of the feweveryoneknows from that song.

I can’t help but think about the last time we were on this bridge together. Right before Toby left for freshman year at USC, I planned an entire day of Boston fun, of being tourists in our own city. I bought us stiff new Red Sox hats and cheap, boxy Wicked Pissah T-shirts at Faneuil Hall and demanded we rock our matching duds all day. Then we set out on a Duck Tour, followed by clam chowder at Union Oyster House (which, for the record, is not an appropriate dish for a steamy August afternoon). We stood in line for cannoli at Mike’s Pastry. We walked the Freedom Trail and took the Green Line out to the Gardner Museum to stare at the empty frames. Then we watched the sun start to set over Fenway Park before wandering along the Esplanade back up to Beacon Hill. And we took pictures at every stop to document this last day of our old lives. Several of those pictures still adorn the corkboard over my little desk back home.

We ended up on this bridge, me trying not to cry at the thought of him boarding a plane to fly to the other side of the country. I didn’t know then that the four years would turn into eight. I didn’t know my dad would die and my own college plans would change so drastically. I didn’t know that eight years later, we’d be standing here in fancy clothes, leaning over the stone railing, staring down at the dark water below while my mind whirls with a tornado of thoughts about the warmth coming off the man standing next to me and the responses my body is having in return.

“I’m sorry things didn’t work out with Jen,” I say. “But I’m glad you’re back. I missed you.”

I glance sideways and see his brown eyes looking back—reallylooking—at me. A shiver goes through me, and I bite my lip to try to keep still. But I can’t stop the smile that forms on my face. At his warmth, at his gaze, at having himhere.

Withme.

Finally.

“I missed you too, Pip,” he says, the nickname coming off his lips with such ease and care, and it’s not enough that he’s back. It’s not enough that we share secrets and ice cream and jokes. I want him.

Iwanthim.

Maybe it’s the champagne, or the ice cream, or the dress that’s making me feel like Not Pippin. Or maybe it’s the chorus of voices that has been telling me for years that Toby and I belong together. I never believed it. But suddenly I’m leaning toward him, my hand rising to his forehead to brush back a curl. My calves flex as I rise up on my toes. His eyes widen, then narrow, his lips parting just before I brush them with mine.

The bolt of heat is instantaneous and so strong it nearly knocks me back. But before I can stop, I feel him lean into the kiss, his lips firmly on mine. Soon he’s rising to his full height, his hands going to my cheeks, pulling me closer, higher,taking, and I want to give and give and give. I reach up and wrap my arms around his neck, his hands going to my hips as he pulls me flush against him, and I feel his want, his very real desire, through those snazzy suit pants. Thank god for his tailor, because I can feel all of him, and oh my god, Toby isallgrown up.

I let out a sigh that he swallows with a gravelly little sound from deep in his chest. It turns me into a puddle of desire. His lips part, and I feel his tongue brush my bottom lip, his teeth nipping before his tongue sweeps inside to meet mine. There’s a tiny voice that sounds an awful lot like thirteen-year-old Pippin Marino shoutingYou are French-kissing Toby Sullivan!But I just high-five that girl and go right on losing myself in Toby’s kisses and the hard length of him that presses into my abdomen.

Toby grasps my hips and turns us so my back is against the stone railing of the bridge, boxing me in with his tall body. His hand comes up to tangle in the curls at the nape of my neck, angling my head so he can taste even more of me. When his hips press me against the stone, I let out a little gasp that makes the corners of his lips turn up in a grin even as he keeps kissing me.

And then the sound of a siren rips through the moment. But it’s not a police car or a fire truck. No, it’s my stupid phone, alerting me to a text message that had better be the single most important piece of information I’ve ever received, otherwise I’m chucking this phone directly into the pond below.

I step back from Toby like we’ve just been hit with a cattle prod. I stare at him, mouth parted, little huffs of breath coming out of me as if I’ve just run a marathon. And from the way his brown eyes flick down to my chest, still very much on display in this dress, I know my breasts are heaving right along with the rest of me.

“Pippin—” Toby says, his voice lower than I’ve ever heard it, but then my phone beeps again, and without thinking, I pull it from the tiny purse Polly loaned me. The screen lights up with a text from her.

Pizza

Mom says pick up Windex on the way home if you can. Real estate agent is coming by to look at the place tomorrow and mom wants the windows spotless.

A real estate agent. Who is coming to look at the place so they can sell it to strangers, who will probably turn it into some insufferable tapas bar and rent my attic bedroom out for thirty-five hundred dollars a month. My stomach turns somersaults just thinking about it. Suddenly Pippin returns from vacation and tells Not Pippin to take a fucking hike.

“Everything okay?”

I glance up and see Toby, who, for a split second, I forgot existed. Or that I just kissed him. Like,a lot. I kissed my best friend. Hell, that felt like more than a kiss. Or at least it was going to be.

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