Page 62 of The Wedding Run
She reaches for the door handle.
“Libby?”
“Yes?” she asks.
I stare through the windshield, dotted with bug guts. Man, can I relate.
“Yes,” she repeats, more cheerfully.
I bump my thumb along the steering wheel. “I hate to ask but…”
Looking into her eyes, which appear dark and luminous in the moonlight, I want to kiss her. But that would be a colossal mistake, akin to instant coffee.
“So, ask!” The words burst out of her.
I blink in surprise.
“Sorry,” she mumbles.
“Nah,” I say, “I’m not handling this well. I don’t know why, but I feel odd asking you this.”
“You want to kiss me,” she says.
“What?” I ask, stunned. Did she read my mind?
“It wouldn’t be a good idea,” she says.
“Right,” I mumble. “Of course not. But…” I scramble for something else. “That wasn’t my question.”
“Oh. What then?”
“Do you have that picture of your mom and sisters? You know, the one you showed me the other day.”
She studies me for a long moment, then digs in her purse and pulls out the photo. “This is what you were going to ask me?”
I nod, unwilling to admit anything more. It’s a diversionary tactic. Perhaps all the retro photos of Derek and me from college sparked the idea.
She hands me the Polaroid. I turn on the inside light and examine it as if it were a framed Renoir or a forgery that requires careful scrutiny.
Then she leans against me, our shoulders touching, as she looks at the photo. “Is this about the teabag?”
“Yes! Yes, that’s it,” I manage. Then something occurs to me. “Look, here…” I indicate the edge near the white border. “See these dogwoods. And there is a pavilion. It could be the park where Derek and I ran a 5K for our fraternity.”
“Dogwoods in Atlanta is like saying the street is called Peach Tree.”
“I get it.” He nods. “But it looks like Piedmont Park.”
Our gazes meet, and I tamp down hope before it balloons skyward.
It’s a stretch, but I go for it. “Your mom is holding a bag like she bought something. One of you has cotton candy.”
“Elle,” she whispers. “Could Momma have bought the tea at the Dogwood Festival?”
I shrug, not wanting to make any promises. “It’s every spring. Has been for eons.”
“The vendors probably change every year,” she says.
I hand her back the photo. “It’s a long shot.”
