Page 88 of The Love of My Next Life
“I am,” she whispers.
“Well, let’s go get him, then.”
The ceremony is short and beautiful. Mom cries. Claire cries. Lennon cries.
Hell, I think even Trent’s eyes well with tears. The only time I am close to crying is when Lennon catches my eye from across the aisle as the officiant instructs our parents to begin their adventure of marriage with a kiss.
The green in her hazel eyes is so bright, magnified by her emerald dress, and I can see every emotion pass through them. I can see them, and I can feel them. Happiness and sorrow. Joy and jealousy.
I’m a terrible, terrible son.
Just like in rehearsal, I walk with Claire down the aisle after the ceremony and Joe walks with Lennon. We go to the courtyard to take pictures while the hotel and catering staff switch the banquet room from the ceremony to the reception set-up. It doesn’t take much. Mom and Trent opted for a low-key luncheon rather than the traditional reception party. They’re going to eat, mingle, then jet off to Santorini for two weeks.
I thought I would be able to make it through without incident, but the moment Eric sits next to Lennon and puts his arm around her, I go rigid. I glare at them from across the table as they laugh with Claire and Josh.
Eric trails his finger up and down Lennon’s arm and she stiffens, but he doesn’t notice. Why does no one see her discomfort but me? Always. She needs to stand up for herself, but she doesn’t. Where’s the fearless girl who isn’t afraid to speak out? She’s never held back with me.
When Eric takes his arm off Lennon, I start to relax, but then he slips his hand under the table and, judging from the way Lennon flinches, he places it on her thigh. I give her two seconds to say something, to move his hand or her leg, or hell, to loosen the fuck up.
She doesn’t. So, I do.
“You’re making her uncomfortable,” I say, my voice low and directed at Eric. He glances at me, confused.
“What?”
“Your hand, Masters.” I sit up straight and gesture to Lennon’s lap. “She doesn’t like you feelin’ her up.”
“Oh...I...” Masters looks at Lennon, who is gaping at me.
“Shut. Up. M—” Claire starts to say, but I point my finger at her.
“No,” I tell her sternly, silencing her, then I look back at Masters. “Move your fucking hand.”
To his credit, Eric looks to Lennon with concerned eyes.
“Am I making you uncomfortable?” he asks softly, and I hate that I respect him in this moment. Lennon chews on her bottom lip before forcing a small smile, then shrugging.
“Yeah, a little,” she answers. Eric’s shoulders fall, and he puts his hand in his own lap. “I just... I’m not really...”
“No,” he shakes his head, “you don’t have to explain. I apologize.”
“It’s okay.” She nods. “Thanks.” She flicks her eyes from Masters to me.
I nod and stand from my seat. I need something. I’m not going to make it through the next two hours sober. I walk to one of the catering staff, a younger kid wearing black skate shoes with his catering uniform, and flash him a fifty-dollar bill. It was supposed to go to Jules for weed but desperate times.
“Can you swipe me a bottle of champagne?”
He looks from me to the money and back. He doesn’t even hesitate.
“Meet me in the courtyard in, like, two minutes,” he mumbles, then he disappears from the banquet hall. I walk to the courtyard, and the kid appears a minute later with two bottles of champagne.
“It’s cheap,” he says with a smirk. I chuckle and slip him the fifty, then he goes back to work.
I lean on a pillar in the courtyard, just out of sight of the entryway and pop open the bottle. I take a drink and wince. I hate the sweet, fizzy shit, but it’s gonna have to do. If I thought I could get away with a joint at my mom’s wedding, I’d already have one between my lips. So instead, I drink the first bottle slowly. I let myself enjoy the haze that blankets my body as the liquid disappears. I close my eyes and drop my head back on the stone and try to think about nothing but summoning the numb.
Before I realize it, half of the second bottle is gone, and my head is floating. There’s music coming from inside the banquet hall, signaling the end of the meal, and when I stand to head back inside, I regret not finishing my lunch. I put a hand on the pillar to steady myself and focus on the bite of cold in the December afternoon. It’s only a few weeks until Christmas and the weather is finally starting to feel like it.
Once I think I can walk without swaying, I head back to the wedding.
