Page 58 of Brushed and Buried
20
Vince
The afternoon sun streams through the reception hall’s floor-to-ceiling windows as we follow wedding event coordinator Olivia through her venue walkthrough. She moves with the crisp efficiency of someone who’s coordinated hundreds of weddings, tablet in hand, checking off items that exist only in her mind.
“We’ll have the ceremony here at the water’s edge,” she explains, gesturing toward the beach where an archway will be positioned to frame the ocean view. “Sunday’s late afternoon light should be perfect for the golden hour, but we’ll have the backup plan ready in case weather becomes an issue.”
Adrian walks beside her, jotting notes down when Olivia rattles off numbers or details. She’s folded him into her rhythm without missing a beat, treating him like he’s part of her coordination team rather than just Becca’s friend tagging along. The way she delegates tasks to him feels natural and confident,making his presence seem less like a favor and more like genuine professional support.
“The lighting for the reception will be key,” Olivia continues. “Especially with the new floral plan. Adrian, your friend, Javi, is still available for Sunday afternoon setup?”
“Confirmed,” Adrian says without looking up from his notes. “He’ll be here by noon to test everything before the ceremony.”
Olivia’s phone buzzes insistently. She glances at the screen and frowns. “I need to handle this vendor issue. Adrian, can you take them through the rest of the walkthrough? You’ve got all the details.”
“Of course,” Adrian says.
“Perfect. I’ll catch up with everyone later.” Olivia hurries off, already answering her phone as she disappears around the corner.
A car pulls up to the main entrance. Through the glass, I see a petite Asian woman step out. Late twenties, maybe, with sleek black hair tied back in a neat ponytail and the sure, efficient stride of someone used to long hours on her feet.
“That’s her,” Adrian says, his voice carrying the first trace of warmth I’ve heard from him today. “Ayaka’s got an incredible eye for florals. You’re going to love what she brings.”
She spots us through the windows and waves, balancing a large folder and a bucket of fresh-cut samples as she heads toward the entrance. There’s confidence in her movements thatcomes from experience, from knowing she can take a vision and make it bloom.
She pushes through the doors, and her face lights up when she sees Adrian. They embrace like old friends, with real affection and shared creative history. I catch the faint smudge of green on her fingertips, the kind that never quite washes out after working with stems and leaves all day.
“Adrian!” Her voice is warm and bright, carrying a slight trace of an accent I can’t place. “You look good. It’s been like, what, almost five years since that trip I made to L.A.?”
“I can’t complain,” he says, and I can hear genuine happiness in his voice. “Thanks for coming on short notice.”
“Are you kidding? This is exactly the kind of challenge I live for.” She steps back, looking around at the space with an artist’s assessing eye. “Besides, when you described the venue, I got about six different ideas immediately.”
They fall into a quick professional conversation about logistics and timing. Adrian contributes when needed but doesn’t try to dominate the discussion. It’s clear he respects her expertise.
“And you must be the infamous groomsmen,” Ayaka says, turning to our group with a grin. “Adrian’s told me way too much about all of you.”
“Good things, I hope,” Trevor shoots back, his own grin easy and unbothered.
“Mostly.” Her eyes twinkle with mischief. “Though there was something about a stripper incident that sounds highly entertaining.”
Lance laughs. “That wasn’t entirely our fault.”
“It never is,” she says with mock seriousness, then turns to George, Lance, and me.
George and Lance introduce themselves, George with his usual nod and grunt, and Lance with his easy charm. Then her attention turns to me.
“Vince,” I say, taking her hand.
She pauses, studying my face. Then her expression shifts, recognition dawning like sunrise.
“Vince Holloway,” she says, and there’s something in her voice I can’t identify. “Holy shit.”
Adrian goes very still beside her.
“I mean, sorry. I remember you,” she says, her grip on my hand tightening just enough to make it clear. “From high school. You took art for the last term, didn’t you?”
My stomach drops. “Yeah. That’s right.” I scramble, trying to place her face, but it’s a blur. Maybe I did see her back then. I’ve always been shit at remembering people.
