Page 71 of Sister of the Bride

So I head for a side street, which will be quieter and less likely to draw stares.

And as I walk, I do what I do best: I make lists in my head. I start with wedding tasks, running through my to-do list for tomorrow like I used to recite the prayers in CCD. Then I move on to the checklist for the rest of my life, which usually makes me despair. My first interview went remarkably well, but the second will be higher stakes. I could absolutely still fuck it up. If I do, I’ll have to start a real job search. And regardless of what happens, I need to start apartment hunting. Which means I’ll need all new furniture. I can take some things from the attic, but I think it’s finally time to upgrade from the twin bed. I’ll need dishes and cookware and a couch. Where you even get a couch?

Oh god, I’m going to have to drive down to Stoughton and go to IKEA.

And that’s the thing that snaps my tether to rational thought. Because you can’t go to IKEA alone, not if you want to buy furniture. Storage bins? Sure. An ottoman? Okay. A coffee table? Well, that depends on how many storage drawers it has. But when things like couches and dressers are involved, those boxes require a buddy. And Polly is getting married and Mom’s moving to the Cape and I’m too scared to tell Toby that I probably love him so I can’t ask him to go IKEA with me, because who knows what I might say in those aisles?

I feel my thoughts spiraling out of control. It’s like when I was little and would twist the swings until the chains buckled. Once I picked up my little feet, the swing would start to spin, picking up speed, and there was no stopping it, not without scraping your knees something awful. You just rode it, spinning faster and faster and hoping you wouldn’t wind up dizzy enough to throw up.

“Pippin?”

I spin around so fast that my (Polly’s) heel catches on a cobblestone and I go down in a heap.

And that’s when I realize that I’m in front of Toby’s house. And that Toby’s standing there in front of me, panting in running clothes.

“Are you okay?” he cries, reaching for my hands and helping me to my feet. Unfortunately, between the heels and the breakdown, I’m a bit like Bambi on ice, so Toby doesn’t let go of me.

I don’t hate that.

“Why are you out running?” I ask. I step back, because the warmth of him through this absurd pink robe is doing things to my insides. I make sure I’m steady on my borrowed shoes before I meet his eyes. “It’s midnight!”

He cocks an eyebrow at me. “Why are you stomping around at midnight in pajamas and high heels?”

I level him with a totally undeserved glare. “You first.”

“I had to take two weeks of nights in order to get off for the wedding, so I’m trying to get my body on schedule, get used to being up until seven a.m.,” he says like it’s obvious, then gestures to me. “Now you.”

Unfortunately, my explanation makes much less sense. “I forgot to break in Polly’s shoes,” I say with a sniffle. “And I sort of had a freak-out, and I think I’ve destroyed my feet.”

Because it’s at that moment that I realize my toes feel like they’re in a vise grip made of cheese graters and are maybe in danger of detaching from the rest of my body.

“Oh god, I’m going to get blood on Polly’s wedding shoes!” I wail like a person having a breakdown. Because that’s what Iam.

“Well, it can be her something borrowed,” Toby says with one of those eternal-optimist shrugs he’s so good at. “Let me help you.”

But I’m not ready to be helped. I’mwallowingandspiralingand I am not capable of getting off this swing yet. “You can’t help me!” I cry. “These shoes won’t fit you!”

Toby laughs. “That’s not what I mean, crazy lady,” he says, and then, without another word, he scoops me up into his arms. “I have actual medical expertise, if you’ll recall, so let me help you.”

I sniffle into his shoulder. He’s warm and sweaty and smells like the ocean, and I can already feel my heart starting to slow.

“I can walk,” I say as he starts toward his apartment door.

“All evidence indicates you cannot,” he says. “So just hush andlet me help you.”

He manages to unlock the door to his apartment while barely jostling me in his arms, and the next thing I know I’m being welcomed into the cozy den of his home. It’s still full of clutter and half-empty water glasses and open medical textbooks and journals. But it’s warm and it smells like him, and suddenly the spinning stops. Everything falls away except the fact that I’m in Toby’s strong arms and he smells like sweat and cedar and—

I am in love with him.

Toby bypasses the couch and brings me into his room, setting me down on his bed before going into his bathroom. He emerges with an honest-to-god first aid kit, a white box with a red plus sign on it, and he cracks it open to reveal of full pharmacy of Band-Aids, gauze, scissors, and everything else you need to fix blisters or sew a foot back on.

“So…pre-wedding freak-out?” he says as his strong fingers begin to gently unbuckle the straps of the shoes from around my ankles.

“Sort of,” I say. “More like…alifefreak-out?”

“Well, you do have an awful lot going on,” he says, cocking an eyebrow at me. My eyes cut toward the door—I can see directly into the kitchen, the scene of our dueling orgasms.

I’m about to get lost in the pleasure of those memories, but then Toby douses a gauze pad in what must be alcohol, because when he touches it to a spot on top of my big toe, I hiss in a breath.

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