“I almost missed the vows, I was so busy looking at you.” Holy crap. Am I purring? “And I thought you were a smokeshow in a button down. Damn, Beck?—”
The sound of throat-clearing behind me has us releasing each other. I turn and find my parents. They are smiling, but the kind of smiles that don’t reach above the lips.
“Oh—I—Mom, Dad, this is my boyfriend, Beck Olivier.”
Beck greets Mom first, offering her his hand. “Mrs. Mercier, it was a beautiful ceremony. Thank you for having me.”
Mom blinks at Beck before shaking his hand, and, while I’m the last person in the world who could say anything about being socially awkward, it’s the first time I’ve seen this from her. Hillary Mercier is the Queen of Etiquette, so what the hell?
“Well… thank you, Beck… I know Hattie is glad you could make it,” she says with that growth-stunted smile.
“I am too,” Beck replies before turning to my dad, hand extended. “Mr. Mercier, it’s nice to meet you.”
My dad fares a little better than Mom. “Likewise. Hattie speaks well of you.” He takes Beck’s hand, pumps it, but then arches a brow. “Though I could have lived without that pocket-knife-underwire story.”
Beck’s gaze flicks to me and then back at my dad. Is it just the cathedral lighting or are his cheeks more persimmon?
I’m about to blurt out in his defense when Beck clears his throat. “When my mom was going through chemo and radiation, I watched her do that to all of her bras to make them more comfortable—though she used sewing scissors and probably made a neater job of it.” He shrugs. “Seemed a simple solution to make Hattie feel better.”
My Dad’s head cocks back. Something about Beck surprises him. I can’t tell if it’s the story about Beck’s mom or if it’s about Beck doing something to make me feel better.
Either way, it’s good. Because the lines of Dad’s smile lift to his eyes.
“Suppose you have a point,” Dad says. “Glad you could join?—”
“We need to get to the reception,” Mom cuts in. “The guests will already be there. We should go, Randall.”
Mom grabs my arm. “Come on, Hattie.”
But I plant my feet and tug it back. Mom has no choice but to let go or totter off her heels.
“I’m going to ride with Beck.”
I say the words and feel like I stand a little bit taller. Because I don’t ask.
I don’t say, I want to ride with Beck.
I say, I’m going to ride with Beck.
And I feel the difference. It’s a declaration, and it’s non-negotiable.
Mom might feel the difference too because she looks at me, her mouth open like I’ve caught her mid-word.
“I…” She looks from me to Beck and then back again. “Very well… W-we’ll see you at the Gibson House. Soon.”
Margaret and Merrick couldn’t have picked a better spot for their reception. The Gibson House, a late-Victorian estate on the north side of town, is a historically registered house kitted out with several refurbished outbuildings that have been converted to lodgings, a garden, a pool with a hot tub, and sprawling grounds.
Best of all, tonight the sprawling grounds are home to a big, fairy-light-festooned tent, a bandstand, and a dance floor, which means the music isn’t unbearably loud since this is all outside—instead of indoors crowded between walls and ceiling.
The eight-piece local band onstage is doing a kickass rendition of “Just the Two of Us,” and I squeeze Beck’s hand as we walk up the paved path. Except for the pictures we’ll take when Margaret and Merrick cut the cake—with those of us in attendance toasting them—I’m essentially free.
Free and with Beck.
The night is suddenly alive with possibilities.
We could go inside where the food is laid out, but that would mean having to talk to the old people—like Grandma Eloise and her cranky-old-twat cronies—who want to stay warm on overstuffed antique furniture, away from the music and dancing.
Nope. We can get food later. The wide front porch is set up with an outdoor bar, and that’s the direction I lead Beck.
