Page 100 of Better Than the Movies
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“I love you. I’ve loved you for nine years; I’ve just been too arrogant and scared to realize it, and… well, now I’m just scared. So, I realize this comes at a very inopportune time, but I really have this gigantic favor to ask of you. Choose me. Marry me. Let me make you happy. Oh, that sounds like three favors, doesn’t it?”
—My Best Friend’s Wedding
The days leading up to prom crept by, mostly because I was the world’s biggest loner. Jocelyn wasn’t talking to me, Wes was just a neighbor now, and Helena was completely avoiding me.
I worked every night and picked up extra hours, so at least I was making bank in my solitary, pathetic life. And I watched my favorite movies when I wasn’t working, so I had my emotional-support DVDs to keep me from thinking about all the things I didn’t want to think about.
Michael met me at my locker the day after the promposal, and he was as thorough and efficient as he’d always been. We discussed what time he’d pick me up, what colors we’d be wearing, and where we were eating.
He was perfect.
Which was why, as I did my hair on the day of prom, I tried toconvince myself that maybe everything had happened for a reason. I mean, the Joss thing was still a big nightmare that Ihadto fix, and it felt oddly empty that Helena was out for the day when I was getting ready for prom, but maybe I’d beenmeantto momentarily go over to the dark side with Wes in order for me to really appreciate the incredible lightness of Michael.
A cautionary tale, perhaps? I turned on the Michael playlist as I straightened my hair and tried getting excited for the night. The bottom line was that I was going to prom with Michael Young, the boy I’d loved for as long as I’d been old enough to create memories.
It was actually happening.
The problem with the playlist was that all the songs now had Wes memories attached to them.
The Van Morrison song from my original meet-cute with Michael now made me think of Wes bumping into us in the hallway and then giving me a smart-ass look about my taped windshield. And the Ed Sheeran song from the party now reminded me of Wes giving me his pants—and holding them up for me—after I got vomited on.
“Dammit, Bennett, get out of my head.” I finished my hair and moved on to makeup, applying casual glam so I looked better than usual but not too made-up. When I was finally finished, I checked my phone and, of course, there were no messages.
I put on my dress—it was so pretty, I wanted to be buried in it, by the way—but it felt slightly wrong. Jocelyn should have been there, putting on her dress too, and Helena should have been hanging around, making jokes and taking pictures.
I shushed the voice that added Laney to that list, including her as someone who should have been getting ready to have her dream prom with Michael but couldn’t because I’d decided to take her out of the equation.
Just when I was about to go downstairs, I heard a door slam and looked out my window. Wes walked out his front door in a black tuxedo, and he was carrying a corsage box. He hopped down the steps with his usual relaxed gait, and his dark sunglasses made him look rebellious in addition to handsome.
Kind of perfect, and it hurt my eyes to look at him.
I pressed a hand to my stomach as he walked to his car, which was parked in the driveway for once. It looked like he’d washed it, because all the mud that had been splattered on the side for as long as I could remember was finally gone. He climbed inside, started it up, and I felt something pinch in my center when he drove away.
I went downstairs and was putting on my shoes when the doorbell rang. While I felt a couple of half-hearted butterflies in my stomach, the anticipation was minimal.
But—and I was hopeful with this but—if I really pushed myself, perhaps there was still the possibility of an enjoyable night with a sweet date. I stood and ran my hands over the front of my dress, walked over to the front door, and pulled it open.
Wow.
Michael was on my doorstep, his tuxedo perfectly accentuating his blond hair and tan skin. He looked like Hollywood, like one born to wear tuxedos. He smiled at me and it was all warmthand good feelings as he said, “Wow. You look great, Liz.”
“Thanks.”
“Stop!” My dad strode into the room with a half smile on his face, cargo shorts, and aGOT MILK?shirt. “I need to get pictures, you two. Helena had stuff to do,” he said, his eyes landing on me. “But she’d kill me if I didn’t get photos.”
I bit the inside of my cheek as the guilt curdled in my stomach. Because even though I’d meant what I’d said to Helena, I felt like trash for making her feel bad.
“Of course.” Michael gave my dad a charming smile and said, “Nice to see you again, Mr. Buxbaum.”
“You too, Michael. How are your folks?” As he said this, my dad gestured for us to go stand in front of the piano. “I heard your dad is a colonel now.”
“He is.” We walked to the piano and faced the camera. “He got the official title change last year.”
“Do we have to use a title for you now?” My father thought he was funny. “Like Junior Colonel Michael?”
“Come on, Dad, he’s not the son of the chicken guy.” I rolled my eyes, and Michael laughed. “Just take the picture.”
