No one needs to know I’m sick of the rain.
“Holly still wants you to be a bridesmaid, but we haven’t heard anything from you. You got your bridesmaid box, right?”
Yes, and I am suffering the consequences of it every day, dear brother. How could I forget the pink and gold box that came in the mail a month ago, filled with bridal puns and entirely too much confetti, the silent but deadly fart of the crafting and gift-wrapping world.
After the box came the Save the Date, a cute picture of Caleb and Holly standing backs to the camera wearing matching jerseys. Holly’s said, “Save” with the number five, and Caleb’s “the Date” with the number twenty.
I received them all, ignored responding, and placed them in my room to taunt me until a decision was made, because I suck, and I’m both a masochist and the ultimate procrastinator in any uncomfortable situation. Of course I want to go to my brother’s wedding, and I wouldn’t mind being a bridesmaid, either. Holly Bell is fantastic. The problem is more with where Caleb’s wedding is.
Tallow, Massachusetts—home.
A place where my overbearing, high-society Southern belle of a mother, Caroline, reminds me what a constant disappointment I am for, well, everything.
Since any boundary I establish with Caroline crumbles faster than a day-old donut under the pressure of her patented guilt trip, we need the robust and unchanging confines of the Atlantic Ocean between us to survive.
I doubt I’d make it past baggage claim before she greeted me with a critical scan, her mouth twisted into her perpetual my-daughter-is-a-disappointment frown, and I apologized for my general existence.
“Oh, Evelina,”she’d say with a sigh,“what a shame that with your little situation(my endometriosis)you’ve wasted so much time on trivial things(pursuing my lifelong dream of becoming a pastry chef).I’ve always wanted what’s best for you, sweetheart(marriage and children)—even if it’ll take a miracle, bless your heart(I’m hopeless).”
But dealing with my mother from hell-planet Georgia aside, Caleb should understand being in the same wedding party with the lifelong infliction that is Liam Kelly isn’t the charming situation other women might think it would be.
After fifteen years of second-place finishes and unending torture at Liam’s hands, my first trip home in six years to small-town purgatory as a shell of my former self might be one blow too far.
I’m barely surviving. I don’t need to add smug men who pull childish pranks and use their dimples to their advantage into the equation.
“Yeah, I have everything. Sorry, I’m swamped with work. I want to come, obviously, and I’m super happy for you both. But a transatlantic plane ticket isn’t cheap, and then there’s the bridesmaid dress . . . and . . . three months was rather soon for me to scrounge that all up. Seriously, isn’t this whole wedding happening fast?”
“I don’t think so?” Caleb laughs. My stomach twists into a knot. That’s his signature he’s-omitting-part-of-the-truth laugh. “But don’t worry about the money, we can purchase your plane ticket, and Mom wanted to buy your bridesmaid dress anyway.”
“Of course she does, and it’ll be two sizes too small, so I have to lose weight too.” With the rain slowing to a trickle, I round the corner, nearing American Press.
An exasperated breath from my gentle giant of a brother echoes through the phone. “I’ll talk to her, Evie. Just please come. I need you there.”
“I’ll need to get a few things in order before I buy tickets, but I’ll let you know soon, okay? I love you, and I’m trying.” A familiar streak of platinum blonde hair dances through the crowded sidewalk ahead—my roommate Maria. She catches sight of me and halts, huddled in an oversized turquoise scarf and her favorite blush trench coat, providing me with the out I need here. “Maria’s waiting for me, though; I have to go.”
“Sounds good.” He sighs. “You’ll have to tell me how today goes too. Say hi to Eli for me.”
“Wait, how do you—” Caleb hangs up before I can ask how he knew who I was headed to meet. Considering he gave up wishing me a “Happy Birthday” because “dates are hard,” this sudden awareness of my social calendar is peculiar. But I shake it off, approaching the Swedish love of my life. She quirks an eyebrow, gaze narrowed at the can hanging by my side.
“Did you really have to go to the American goods store, dear?” She laughs. “You know there’s perfectly good cheese in Paris. Cheaper too.”
Yes. Yes, I did. My soul identifies with this cheese on a deeper level than any soft, pressed, or blue-veined cheese ever could. We have the same origins, body composition, and general lackluster appeal. This synthetic cheese and I are one.
“But if I didn’t go there, how would I have gotten you this?” I tease, reaching into my pocket to grab the well-adored peanut butter cup nestled there. A box of Reese’s and a waffle iron brought us together in a dorm room six years ago, and we’ve been in a platonic state of love ever since.
Clutching the chocolate to her chest, she squeals, “You’re too good to me.”
“Queens deserve to be spoiled,” I say, leaning in for a bise.
Our cheeks press together, and an unsatiated rumble only donuts can satisfy growls in my stomach. Luckily, we’re close. I just need to travel a few meters around this last corner, and then bam, Eli.
And a buttload of donuts.
Which I will promptly shove in my face.
Our steps slow, and we pass the corner flower market Maria frequents in her capacity as the best wedding planner in Paris. Colorful blooms bunch together in galvanized tins and wooden baskets, scattered at various heights. Fragrant hints of lavender and rose swirl around us, offering a brief respite from the city’s less pleasant aromas.
Linking arms with me, Maria huddles into my soggy self. “Do you see him?” she asks. Her light blue eyes sparkle, roaming the rain-coated cobblestone, glistening in the emerging sun. They’ve never met in person, but Maria and Eli became fast friends over my regular FaceTimes with him.
