Page 110 of Sure Shot
“Thank you.”
She walks away, as my poor little conflicted heart thumps inside my chest. I wonder how much it cost her to do that.
Tank comes over and sits wordlessly down beside me, his suitcase at his feet.
“Well,” I say. “That was…” I don’t even know what word to choose. Awkward? Sad?
“Ill-timed?” He laughs.
“Is this weird for you?”
“Getting emotionally mugged by my ex-wife? A little.”
“No, I mean doing it all for a second time. Buying a ring. Kneeling down and asking me to marry you. Do you have déjà vu?
He smiles, and tucks an arm around me. “No, honey. Not at all. It’s like, if we’d lost to Dallas last night…”
“Which youdidn’t,” I put in gleefully.
“But if we did. I’d be sweaty and tired and demoralized. And the next forty-eight hours would have sucked, right? But eventually I’d want a rematch. I’d be ready. I’d be hungry for it.”
“So you’re going to kick marriage’s ass and make it cry? You’re going to win?”
“I already have, honey. This is what winning looks like.”
He cups my chin and kisses me.
Thirty-Five
Glass Slippers and Everything
Bess
It’s totallypossible to plan a wedding in three weeks. And, honestly, I’d recommend a hasty wedding to anyone. You don’t have to fret over all the decisions, because there simply isn’t time.
“Take the first venue that’s open on your date,” my brother had suggested as soon as he got over his shock at my news. “Don’t look at the price, I’ll pay it.”
It hadn’t occurred to me to have my brother contribute to my wedding. But when I realized that the impulse was some kind of macho reaction, I let him get out his checkbook.
Besides, the man has a daughter, and he ought to know what he’s getting into in case he decides to have more.
The rest of my wedding planning happened at top speed, too. I selected the first invitations the printer showed me. Then I gave the florist and the cake baker free rein to exercise their crafts.
“This wedding will be small,” I told them. “It will be held in a Victorian-era mansion, and it’s two weeks from today. You do your thing, and I’ll love it, I promise.”
When it came to dress-shopping, though, I needed guidance. Becca swooped in to help me choose the gown in a single afternoon of shopping.
“It doesn’t have to be a bridal gown,” I’d said. “My only rule is that it can’t be strapless, or I’ll spend the whole night worried that it will plummet to my ankles as I accidentally flash the guests.”
“Noted,” Becca had said. Then she’d promptly found a long, white, velvet burnout dress in my size on the rack at Bloomingdales that made her squeal with delight.
I might have squealed, too, just a little, over its boho vibe, empire waist, and un-fussy V-neck. The burnout pattern reminded me of antique wallpaper. In a good way.
Even as the dress was being wrapped, Becca had demanded that we go shoe shopping next. “They have to be fabulous.”
“I can’t learn to walk in heels in the next fourteen days, Bec,” I’d told her. “They can’t bethatfabulous.”
“Fine. Your dress is a maxi length, anyway. Let’s see what they have in a ballet slipper style.”
