Talking to him every day again has brightened the colors that had faded for me, and I swear to myself now that I will never let it get that way again.
Onstage, the singer is finishing out the song, pausing so the crowd can sing along with the last verse. Ren turns toward me for the final notes, soft smile never leaving his face, and my heart starts doing something that feels vaguely familiar, but new, like I’ve finally pulled it off its shelf and blown off the dust, cracked its spine again, and opened it up to my favorite page, the one I thought I had memorized, only to discover there are so many things I may have missed.
chapter twenty-one
Ren rests an arm on the window, his other hand on the steering wheel as we wind our way to the coast the next morning. It feels like summer back in Oregon, salt air whipping through the open windows while music from the festival yesterday plays through the speakers, Ren occasionally nodding along to a song.
We arrive at the sandstone mansion where Willow and Martin will get married tonight, check into the hotel just adjacent to it, what Willow referred to as a “terrible eyesore” when she called to tell me she was so excited I’d be coming to the wedding.
The “terrible eyesore” is actually a half estate itself, sprawling and historic, with ocean views on one side and sweeping garden vistas on the other. Ren and I luck into a corner room with a balcony that overlooks the water.
Once we’ve hung up our wedding attire, I spot a fluffy white bathrobe and shrug it on over my clothes, hold my arms aloft, twist my hips side to side. “Is this the fanciest place we’ve ever stayed?” I ask. “Should I wear this to the wedding?”
“The hat really ties it all together,” Ren says from where he’s lounged on his bed, one hand behind his head, nodding at the Red Sox baseball cap I put on this morning.“You’ve really got a handle on the whole black-tie thing.”
I laugh and lie on my stomach next to him, feet kicked up behind me. He untucks his hand and reaches down to tweak the brim of my hat.
“Far cry from the screen porch,” I say, glancing over at the open balcony door, a sea breeze coming through, bringing with it the sound of waves rolling in, seagulls swooping for dinner.
Ren follows my gaze. “I think I prefer our view on the West Coast.”
As the afternoon wears toward evening, we take a short path through a garden to the mansion, joined on the way by other people in ground-sweeping dresses, suits, laughter bubbling around us that sounds very old money.
We enter the candlelit space, everything done up in cream tones, roses lining every surface, and pluck cocktails off a passing tray—an elderflower martini and an old-fashioned, only the first signature drinks of the evening—and wander over to where three banks of doors are thrown open to a huge stone balcony overlooking the ocean. We find a spot to one side near a pillar.
Ren squints at the glass in his hand. “Pretty sure this bourbon would be in high school by now,” he says. He hands it to me and I take a sip.
“I’m getting notes of whiskey,” I say. Ren’s eyes crinkle with laughter, and I smile over the rim of the glass, test another drink before handing it back to him. “Since when are you up on your bourbon game?” I ask.
“I’m not,” he says. I raise an eyebrow, and he relents, sinking one side against the pillar. “Amanda’s dad was big into whiskey. Tried to study up to impress him.”
“Ah. Well, you impressed me.” I take a long drink from my own glass, let the sweet of it wash away the bite of the old-fashioned, the mention of Amanda, the smell of Ren’s woodsy hotel shaving cream.
We sit through the elegant, if over-the-top ceremony, drink wine at dinner with some people from art school who I only vaguely recognize. When the plates are cleared, desperate to escape the small talk, we excuse ourselves and observe the room from the bar: the ornate gilding on the ceiling, the crowded dance floor, Willow and Martin floating through it all like they were made for the spotlight.
“That guy,” Ren says, leaning down so our faces are level. I follow his nod toward a man in a deep blue tux, the flop of blond hair on top of his head obviously fake. “He’s the richest guy in the room.”
“Look at his tux,” I say. “You think that’s old money?”
“I never said old money. I said richest in the room.”
I face him as he stands to his full height. “You make a habit of knowing what tells rich people have?”
Ren laughs as I reach up to tweak his tie, some invisible force drawing my hand there. His eyes lift across the room again. “Obviously,” he says. “You have to know who to bump into at the right moment. Who else is going to invest in all my million-dollar ideas?”
“Name one million-dollar idea you’ve had,” I say.
Ren pretends to think. “Quick-freezing ice.”
I snort. “Okay, Webster, you go wow Mr. Toupee over there with your idea forquick-freezing ice.”
“Fine, I admit it,” Ren says. “I have no ideas. I want him to invest in a high-speed, cross-country railway so it’s easier for us to see each other.”
“You think a high-speed railway would be faster than flying?”
“Joni,” he says, almost incredulous, eyes sparkling as they focus intently on me.“Yes.”
When Willow is in her third dress of the night, the classier, early-evening band is replaced by a DJ, the musicloud, and it occurs to me that Martin might know how to throw a party as well as Willow knows how to attend one.Their playlist is mostly comprised of songs that played in frat house basements in college, and bottles of something that costs as much as my student loan payment are being passed around.
