Page 59 of Holiday Wedding
“I knew it,” Wayne says, slamming his hand down on the counter, making us all jump.
Panic rises in me. “You don’t understand,” I tell her, my voice getting louder by the minute. “I have a wedding to get to.Mywedding. I’m the bride.” Iwant to crawl over the countertop and snatch that computer out of her hands so I can book a flight back to Caleb.
The agent keeps a wary eye on me. “I’ve taken the liberty of booking you on another plane to New York. It has a layover in Denver.”
“What?” I wave the now-useless boarding pass in front of her. “That’s the reason we picked this flight, because it’s nonstop.”
“Sorry, but this is your best bet to get home.” She hands over new boarding passes. “It boards in 15 minutes in the terminal next door. You’ll have to hurry.”
I tug my backpack higher on my shoulders and tighten the strap on my fanny pack.Darn it, now they’ve got me calling it that. I mentally repeat,waist bag,waist bag, waist bag.
Then we’re off running, shooting down escalators and past the travelers who calmly ride the moving sidewalk. We’re not those people anymore. We are crazy people, desperate not to miss our flight. All I want is to see Caleb tonight.
We rush onto the small train that travels between terminals and collapse into its hard plastic chairs. It moves quickly, with drab concrete walls flashing by on either side. I have about five seconds to text Caleb and tell him of our change in plans. There’s no time to wait for his response. The door slides open, and we hurry out. Then it’s back up another escalator, down two hallways, and we finally reach our gate, where the last passenger has just entered the jet bridge, leaving the waiting area empty. Short of breath, we scan our tickets and board only to discover that most of the seats are taken. The flight attendant helps us each find a spot, but they’re rows away from each other.
We’re separated.
21
Saturday, December 21
3 days until the wedding
Jenny
Iwake to find brown eyes with hints of gold staring at me. I must have turned to face Dean sometime during the night. Our heads are at the same level, our gazes aligned. I look back, holding my breath because he’s beautiful in the soft morning light filtered through the snow that still falls outside the window. There are tiny lines at the corners of his eyes and a freckle beneath his lower lip. His stubble has thickened, and there’s a pillow crease in the skin of his left cheek, the one that hides that charming dimple.
I let out a small sigh. Coming fully awake, I prop myself up on an elbow, my eyebrows slashing together.
“Are you watching me sleep?” I accuse.
He rolls onto his back and stares at the ceiling. “No.” The tips of his ears redden.
Liar.
I don’t get him. I thought we had a moment at the cake tasting, and earlier he seemed disappointed when I kicked him out. Iknowhe was feeling something in that dressing room when he pulled down my zipper. But last night, he didn’t even want to be in the same bed as me, and now I wake up to this? Talk about mixed signals.
I lie back and rub my fists over my eyes. “This stinks.”
“What?” He turns to me again, his cheek pressed to the white pillowcase.
Oops.Wasn’t meaning to say that out loud. I scramble for a reasonable answer. “This,” I say, dramatically flapping my hand at the window, which has frost in the corners, ice that clings to the glass and creates elaborate scroll-like patterns. “I had so many plans for this weekend. I was going to help with wedding preparations and then I wanted to do all the touristy winter New York stuff.”
“What stuff?” One corner of his mouth lifts in amusement. His fingers twitch as if he wants to touch something, but he holds them steady.
“I don’t know. Ice skating at Rockefeller Center. Um…” I trail off.
He bites back a smile. “Is that it? I’m going to be honest with you. That’s pretty unimaginative.”
I rack my brain for something more, something to keep him here. His mood must be rubbing off on me. I like this, lying in bed and talking with him.
“Oh! Window shopping on Fifth Avenue. I heard they have amazing displays.”
“And…” he prompts.
“And…that’s it.” I’m sad I don’t have more to contribute. “You tell me what’s good for the holiday. This is your city, after all.”
“Hmm,” he says and scratches his chin. It sounds like sandpaper when his fingers rub over the stubble.
