Page 32 of What's in a Kiss?

My maid of honor instincts kick in—instincts I hadn’t realized were lying dormant all my life. Whoever this random traveling klezmer band is, they need to find another celebration to destroy. Because they’re drowning out the string quartet’s version of “Just Like Heaven.” It’s supposed to play after the big kiss, as the newlyweds walk down the aisle.

It’s hard to get my gaze back from Glasswell’s grip, but I turn toward the sound of the accordion.

That’s when I realize something is very, very wrong.

A moment ago, there were eighteen wedding guests seated in eighteen wicker folding chairs under a candlelit canopy.

Now, there must be two hundred and fifty people pressing against me on all sides. Most of them are my mother’s age, and the decibel of their conversation hits me like a hurricane. Looking around in panic, I recognize Masha’s third cousin, and I think that’s our fourth-grade teacher Mr. Rayco who just pushed past me, making his way toward—inexplicably—a white vinyl bar beside the ocean.

Where did that come from? Where did any of this come from? All these people. All this noise.

Somehow, in a second, Masha’s wedding...changed. Instead of the handmade silk gauze chuppah crowning the altar, there’s a digital monstrosity strobing like a nineties rave. Instead of twine-tied bouquets of ranunculus in terra-cotta vases... black urns of long-stem roses flank the aisles. The aisles... which are no longer made of sand. Someone has slapped down an enormous dance floor. Silver bunting lines an expanse of bloodred folding chairs. Masha made it very clear her wedding palette was soft gold. I rub my eyes and slap my face, but the nightmare thunders on. Did someone slip a molly in my Pellegrino?

“I can fix this,” I say. Because if not me, who?

But how? What evenisthis?

Deep breaths. First, check on Masha. If I’m freaking out, imagine what she’s going through.

I turn toward her, ready to help...

But Masha isn’t at my side. Neither is Eli. Or Glasswell.

I rise on my toes and squint into the writhing mass of bodies. I see her! Standing with Eli,veryfar away. She’s overrun by relatives—or should I say party crashers, because there was never a moment when leering Cousin Jeffrey made the cut. A polite smile strains her face. My poor, poor BBS.

I collapse onto a folding chair. I plant my elbows on my knees, hang my head, and close my eyes. I take deep gulps of air. I pause, waiting to inhale.

A hand—warm and firm—touches the skin where my dress opens at the back. The feeling is electric.

“Hey,” says America’s sexiest voice.

I jump away. “What are you doing?”

Glasswell leans down to massage my shoulders. I freeze because... he’s really good at it. Every now and then his chest rubs against the back of my head, the tops of my ears. There’s something about his touch that finds a secret place inside me, like a hidden velvet pocket inside a favorite old handbag. Like something that’s always been there but you’ve only just discovered. His lips are at my ear. I hold my breath in shock.

“You were right,” he whispers.

His breath against my neck weaves through my body like a stiff narcotic. I can’t help wanting more.

“Right about what?” I whisper.

That couldn’t have been me. I don’t speak in that throaty, sexed-up voice.

But that’s definitely me tilting my neck to give Glasswell a bigger piece, in case he wants to whisper all over me again. I’m coherent enough to know I’ll be embarrassed later, but that doesn’t change what I want right now.

I set a goal: as soon as he answers my question, as soon as I feel one more rough brush of his stubble on my skin—then I’ll pull away.

But not yet.

“That I’d cry during their vows,” he says into my neck.

I don’t recall having breathed a word about anything related to Glasswell’s tears.

“Was it obvious,” Glasswell asks, “all the way back here?”

What does he meanback here?

I look around. HowdidI get all the way back here during the most important part of Masha and Eli’s ceremony? Maids of honor don’t sit way back here. It must be Glasswell’s fault.

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