“Pearl invited me. Our whole group, actually. We don’t see each other much anymore. Everyone’s busy. This was a good excuse. I’ve always admired Roger, even if we don’t know each other well. And Pearl’s always been really great about finding ways to keep us all together.”
Something flickers in her expression. Barely, but I catch it. Pearl planned this whole wedding, Rose did nothing to help. And yeah, Pearl started her own event planning business, so coordinating a wedding wasn’t a stretch for her, but I am curious why Rose wasn’t more involved.
I ask, “Are you looking forward to being a bridesmaid?”
She snorts. “God no. Pearl picked out the dresses. I have no idea what she chose. Jo said she didn’t care about the whole wedding party to-do, she just wants to marry Dad, but Pearl insisted there be a full lineup. Her, one of Jo’s friends, Jo’s sister, I think even Harlow is a bridesmaid.”
“Pearl roped me into being a groomsman.”
Rose makes a face. “You’re a groomsman?”
“I know, it sounds strange, but Roger didn’t seem to care one way or another, and it made Pearl happy. She insists it’s mostly for pictures, so there’s an even number of people. I’m sure she could have found someone his age, I know your dad has plenty of friends, but whatever.”
She nods slowly, mouth curving. “Maybe she just wanted some young blood up there.”
I laugh.
Rose hugs her mug with both hands, looking down. “Honestly, I almost didn’t come for the wedding. My dad and I—our relationship is complicated. It’s always been complicated, but lately more so. When my flight got canceled, I thought, okay, maybe this is a sign from the universe telling me not to go.” She pauses. “But that’s a shitty way to think about your dad’s wedding.”
“So, if your cancelled flight was a sign to skip it, what does a plane crash signal?”
She laughs, and it’s quick and real, her hand coming up to cover it. High cheekbones, thick dark brows. Everything about her face is dramatic, more so when she smiles. Like something painted on a museum wall. I never let myself look at her long enough to enjoy it, but I do now.
“Good question. At this point, I’m taking it as the universe telling me to get my shit together. I suppose it’s time.”
I want to ask what she means by that, but Marielle drops off our plates, and Rose digs right in before I can.
All day I’ve watched her scowl, screech, snap, laugh sarcastically—since the moment this entire journey to hell began, we’ve been at each other’s throats. Now, her eyes close briefly, and a serene smile crosses her face, and I can’t stop staring as she stuffs a slice of waffle and whipped cream in her mouth.
She shoves a fresh strawberry in before she’s even swallowed, and says, mouth still full, “Dis is soo good, oh my god, oo haf to try it.”
Her dark, expressive brows lift as she nudges her plate toward me. It’s such an easy gesture, something you do with people you’re comfortable or intimate with, and it catches me offguard. I’m even more surprised when I reach my fork across the table and cut into her waffle. I haven’t done that in years—eat waffles, I mean. I don’t think I’ve ever eaten off a woman’s plate. Doubt I’ve wanted to.
My life is a series of organized routines. Egg-white omelets for breakfast. Same lunch every day on rotation. Chicken, turkey, fish, vegetarian. Always heart healthy. Five days a week in the gym, cardio and weights, each session ends with twenty minutes of stretching. I date women from my social circle who fit into the narrow margins of my schedule, show up to events on my arm, and don’t make my life complicated. It works.
Everything in my life is careful.
Nothing about this trip fits into my carefully constructed life.
Rose steals my fork—apparently I’m moving too slowly for her—loads it with waffle, cream and strawberry, and holds it out to me. I take it from her and take a bite. Her cheeks go a shade darker as she watches me.
God, it’s good.
I nod once, dismissively, sip my coffee, and break into my burger—another thing I haven’t touched in almost a year. It’s good. Better than good. This place is not what I expected. None of this is.
“How are you feeling, really?” I ask between bites, wanting to take advantage of the temporary peace between us.
“Better. I took a nap. The food is helping. My headache is gone.”
I pause mid-bite. “Why didn’t you tell me you had a headache?”
She waves a hand. “It started before the crash. It’s fine.” She tilts her head. “What about you? You walked away without a scratch.”
She’s the one with the bruise, the headache, the concussion risk, and she’s asking about me. “I’m fine,” I say. She’s stillwatching me, waiting, like she actually wants to know. “Really,” I emphasize.
“So, is that diner near the hospital as good as this?” Her voice has gone light, almost teasing. It takes me a second. Then I remember what I said about her getting a job at a topless diner. Something about her only skill set is having a nice rack.
“The food isn’t nearly as good. Though I suspect that’s not the reason the place stays busy.”
