His eyes drift down to the rigid set of my shoulders. “You okay, Beekman?” There’s something about the timbre of his voice that turns it into a command:Be okay, Beekman. You’re going to be okay.And then, suddenly, I am. Or my body is. My life, however, remains in shambles.
He’s always had that effect on me, this steadying siren only I can hear. It’s his incredibly specific (and useless) superpower.
I don’t realize how choppy my breathing has gotten until it slows back down to normal. Ethan takes me in, deciding how he’ll handle the woman in front of him. He must decide I’m well enough to meet with our normal antagonism. “This is a lot of plastic, Beek. Did you pack that Corkcicle bottle I got you for Christmas?”
“Oh good.” I cut him off before he can step onto his upcycled soapbox. Ever since a young Ethan watched a particularly incendiary rerun ofCaptain Planet, he’s been a dogmatic—and somewhat judgy—advocate on behalf of Earth. “You’re still weird about single-use plastic.”
I unscrew my Gatorade and make a big show of taking asip. His brow furrows in such adorable irritation that I can’t help but let a teasing smile creep up the corner of my mouth.
He fastens his seat belt with a click. “What?” He wipes his face self-consciously, as though my amusement is not to be trusted.
“I’m just enjoying you in your natural habitat.” I gesture between the dumpster and the bike rack in front of us, which is securing various rusted-out parts, the sum of which does not add up to a whole bike.
“The Kwik Trip parking lot isnotmy natural habitat,” he objects, reaching for the glove box. His arm brushes against my bare legs as he pops it open, and a satisfying tingle ripples from the point of contact. I’ve been so touch starved since my divorce that every swipe of skin from the FedEx guy or Barista Nancy or even Ethan has left me twitching for more.
But he tosses a bag into my lap, unaffected.
“A peace offering. Friends again?” He tugs the gearshift.
I turn the package on my lap and beam. It’s chocolate, the individually wrapped ones with inspirational quotes. He began mailing bags of them to me in law school. My “study diet,” he called it.
Sometime in the second semester of 1L year—when even the strong ones were starting to snap under the pressure—I fell into a bleak bout of anxiety-fueled superstition. I couldn’t walk into a test without unwrapping a Dove Promises chocolate and reading the message. It wasn’t that any of the wrappers were particularly insightful—they definitely weren’t—but the ritual was essential. Reading “Calories only exist if you count them” or “Hands are meant to be held” just before opening that blue book and regurgitating everything I wishedI didn’t know about the rule against perpetuities was a security blanket I desperately needed.
Twenty minutes before my property final, I realized I’d run out and called Ethan so he could talk me down.
Do they sell them at the bookstore?he asked me, voice crackling over the atrocious phone connection. He was somewhere near Vancouver at the time, opening for a big indie rock band on the Canadian leg of their tour.
It has to be one you send. It’s dumb. I know it’s dumb. I’m being dumb.
You’re not being dumb, he assured me.If you need a Dove Promise from me, I’ll get you a Dove Promise. Just trust me, okay?
The weirdest part was, Ididtrust him. It didn’t make any sense to, but his superpowers were strong, even internationally. He had this confidence in his voice that soaked into my skin like rain.
Seconds before I walked into the exam, his text came through. It was a picture of his hand, and between his long, dexterous fingers was a chocolate wrapper that read “Don’t be. Do,” followed by a message:I don’t know what that means, but I know you’re going to kick adverse possession in the ass.
And I did. Even after I graduated, he still sent the occasional bag of chocolates from the road.
“Yes! How did you know I’ve been craving these?” I greedily pop open the bag in the passenger seat.
“I can sense it across continents.” He pulls onto the frontage road headed north. The air-conditioning kicks back on, circulating the scents of sunscreen and the inexplicably happy basil plant that hangs over Ethan’s kitchen counter.
“I don’t know why you’re so surprised about Lo and Pete,” he says, checking his blind spot. His face is filled with such unbridled affection for them. If I didn’t know any better, I’d assume this wedding was a good thing. “They were always going to get hitched like this.”
“Don’t say ‘hitched,’ ” I beg around the half-eaten chocolate in my mouth. “It makes it sound even more unserious than it already is.”
“I think you could stand to be a bit more open-minded about relationships. Not everyone needs to be…” He trails off, noticing the corner into which he’s painted himself.
“Me and Rich?” I ask, finishing his thought for him. He has the decency to appear a little sheepish. “Look. Would I have liked my marriage to have lasted longer than a year? Of course. I’d also like to be farther along in my career and have the confidence to wear leopard as a neutral, but sometimes we don’t get everything we want just because we want it. Regardless of my marital track record, I know my sister. I can tell she’s not thinking straight. This whole wedding-crashing mission…” I circle my finger around the van. “It’s for her. It’s not as though I’mexcitedto reenactDeliverancewith you. I’m trying to prevent my sister from making the biggest mistake of her life.”
Ethan will never believe it—he has a soft spot for well-meaning disasters—but Laurel and Petey are doomed. This is the same woman who dumped a guy for being “suspiciously handsome” and who disappeared on more than one professional magician. But with Petey, she’s even worse. She’s never been able to take a measured, cautious approach. Each time they get back together always ends with her in a ball on her bathroom floor. This time, if they get married, someone willbe left holding the bag when it all falls apart. I can’t bear for that person to be headstrong, audacious Laurel. I don’t want her to end up as disillusioned as I am.
I do a full ninety-degree turn in my bucket seat to face him, because I’m only going to ask this once. “What’s it gonna be, Powell? Are you with me or not?”
“I’m driving you, aren’t I?”
I shake my head. “Not the same, and you know it. Are youwithme?”
He sighs the sigh of an Ethan who disagrees wholeheartedly but doesn’t have the strength to fight me on it. I know it well. “What are you planning?”
