Page 48 of The Lovers
“Because it was a woman?” My cheeks flare with unexpected heat at the idea he’d dismiss her feelings because they were about another woman.
“No, of course not. It wasn’t real love because she told me. Not every affair measures up equally.” He lets out a long sigh. “I justthought she chose me. Wanted me forever.” He looks defeated. Shoulders slumping forward, head dropping back to rest against the rocker. I can’t imagine what it’s like to have invested so many years into a life with someone only to find out they weren’t as happy, or as all in, as you thought.
Even with them playing Happily Ever After perfectly, I think there was always a part of me that was afraid of falling that in love with another person, needing them more than they need me.
“I’m sorry she fell for someone else,” I say.
“Me too,” he says, offering a sad smile.
When I say goodbye, it’s with the caveat that he go get some sleep and stop drinking merlot on the porch. I drop the phone to my side, sliding down into the covers and turning off the lamp, too tired to get up to wash my face or brush my teeth. I never thought that being attracted to women was wrong on a global scale. It just wasn’t the way I had expected to find romantic happiness.
I wanted the Nancy Meyers kitchen with the rumpled button-down, floppy-haired husband. I wanted the Nora Ephron kiss at New Year’s with the guy who had once been nothing more than my best friend, but over time became the love of my life. I wanted what my parents had. And all along, my mom knew she was queer and never told me. All along, I didn’t have the whole story about the life I believed was the epitome of ideal.
My eyes drift closed, just as I feel my phone buzz with a notification. I let myself daydream that it’s Julia following me back on Instagram, and that she took it for what it was. Me offering her access. An invitation to slide into my DMs and back into my life.
Chapter Eighteen
Julia
The mother of the bride—Evelyn, a Goldie Hawn–style iconic blond who seems to think it’s her job to ensure my mental demise—and the mother of the groom—Blythe, a regal-looking Emily Gilmore type with the sourest look of disapproval to ever grace a person’s face—would love any excuse imaginable to just go ahead and kill each other right here at the bride and groom’s dinner table, and it’s my job to stop them.
The fathers are engaged in a deep discussion about the most challenging holes on the golf green where they intend to spend the rest of the day. They’re itching for release from their wives’ death grip, and they aren’t doing anything to help mediate the argument over the dream catcher Evelyn wants hung above the bride and groom’s table—a topic that has managed to derail our final walk-through of the rehearsal dinner setup and waylay me getting more ibuprofen.
“You can’t possibly think this is appropriate,” Blythe says, standing at the foot of the ladder with her arms crossed over her black tweed jacket. She’s holding a half-empty mimosa in herprim, pink-oval-manicured hand, tapping her wedding band against the glass.
“I don’t understand your aversion to keeping our children safe from bad wishes and intentions on their most special day,” Evelyn replies, a doe blinking at a hunter. Her eyes trail back to Deanna, a Love, Always staff member who has unwittingly gotten in the middle of this mess. “To the left, use that second hook. We want it evenly hung.”
“We don’t want it at all,” Blythe counters. “We’re not Native American. This is appropriation.”
“I’m one-sixteenth Chickasaw, Blythe.”
“And the rest is white WASP.”
“Takes one to know one,” Evelyn retorts. She holds her phone up to snap a shot, and then frowns. “I wonder if we can hang flowers from it to make it more decorative.”
“Edward, Jesus, will you please chime in.” Blythe raises her voice toward the fathers, both of whom now have refreshed glasses of beer. Ten a.m. in wedding time is apparently five p.m. everywhere else. Both Edward—father of the groom—and Grant—father of the bride—look over. They are nearly identical in their pastel polos and dim expressions.
“Whatever you say, darling,” Edward replies. When Blythe glares at the dream catcher with meaning, Edward’s green eyes follow. But he doesn’tfollow. “Looks great.” He nods.
“Millie’s style,” Grant responds.
Blythe fumes, just as Evelyn claps in approval. “It’s perfect.”
The dream catcher stays.
For now.
I press Blythe to turn her attention to the head table décor. “The only element not in place yet is the flowers—” I gesturetoward the cart Deanna wheeled over before she got wrangled onto the ladder. “Which we wanted to show you before we return them to the refrigerator.”
Blythe blinks her attention reluctantly over to the cart, casting one more stink eye toward the dream catcher and her future family member. The groom’s family is taking on the traditional role, paying for the band, food, and all décor at the rehearsal dinner. (The exceptions being that scandalous dream catcher and, of course, Mystic Maven’s services.)
We walk over to the cart for Blythe to get a closer look and hopefully sign off on the whole setup. It’s the final step in the walk-through, which means I’m counting down to my release. God, my head is pounding. It’s not a hangover, thankfully. I think the culprits are exhaustion and dehydration. So, my booze intake last night definitely didn’t help. As she takes the arrangements in, cataloging every petal and leaf, I let my eyes drift closed.
I had asked Zoe to take the lead on getting the parents settled and overseeing Homebase until I was up and about. An extra hour of sleep would have been a game changer. But I woke up at my normal time, no alarm clock needed, and the first thing I did while I lay in bed half-awake was check out Kit’s Instagram feed. I was too tired to give it a deep dive after I followed her back last night. It was causing enough of a spiral that she had been thinking about me at all, and that thinking prompted her to search for my account.
Let alone follow and like a post.
The one thing I surmised from her feed, before I finally got up to get coffee, was that she is definitely not dating women. A quick scroll revealed a handful of long-term boyfriends over the last few years, and no sign of a single female who could be more than justher friend. For a second I thought the girl she’s photographed with all the time—going to the beach, hiking Runyon Canyon, brunching and snuggling close—could be a romantic partner, but a little more sleuthing revealed she’s just her friend Nina, who is definitely queer but doesn’t appear to be romantically involved with Kit.
