I pull out my phone and tap toward my rideshare app, but my vision is blurred, the tears I suppressed earlier breaking through.
“I’m calling you a cab,” Jacob says, his voice deep, and it makes the tears come faster. I’m too tipsy for this. I want to go home.
“Don’t be nice to me,” I say.
“I’m not.” He’s quiet for a moment, standing beside me, looking out onto the street. “This weekend means a lot to Maggie. To your dad. And I’m not going to let you ruin it.”
“I’m not going to—” A sob rises in my throat. “I’m not going toruinit.” I step away. “I’ll find my own way to the hotel. Just leave me alone.”
“No,” he grits out between his teeth. “I need you to get back safely.” I turn to look at him, but it’s too dark outside to read his face.
My heart thuds.
I don’t understand him. This hot-and-cold thing he’s doing. He was so honest, so transparent last night, and now he’s in shadows.
“Why do you care?” I ask him, challenging.
“Because I need you to show up tomorrow.” He steps toward me, erasing the distance. “You’re going to drink some water, and go to sleep, and get to the wedding on time. You’re not going to say anything that upsets Maggie, or your father, and then you’re going to fly back home.”
His next words are quiet, muttered under his breath, but it sounds a lot like, “Where you belong.”
A tear spills down my cheek just as a car arrives, stopping in front of us. He maneuvers me to it, helping me inside.
Last night, I felt like this man saw me, understood me. He opened something, pulled out pieces of me that had been buried for a long time. But now…
“I don’t understand why you hate me,” I say. “I don’t understand what I did to make you hate me.”
Jacob goes still. A streetlight catches my face, blinding me for a second, and when my vision returns, he looks stricken, conflicted. But then his expression shutters.
He rattles off the name of my hotel to the driver, then ducks low, clicking my seat belt for me.
“Don’t be late tomorrow,” he says, shutting the car door.
I watch him through the window as the car pulls away, taking me back to my hotel room. Alone.
7
I’m going to be late.
I woke up early this morning, my mouth dry, a piece of hair sticking to my cheek. I had all the classic symptoms of a hangover, an experience I haven’t had in more than five years. But even though I was out of practice, I remembered to consume carbs, drink water, and take ibuprofen. I drew the shades shut and turned off all the fluorescent lights, hoping that would minimize the pounding in my head. I hadn’t expected to drift off again, but now it’s noon, the venue is nearly an hour away, and the ceremony is supposed to start at two sharp.
I jump into the shower, deciding I don’t have time to wash and style all my hair. I just blow-dry my bangs, tossing the rest of it up in a bun. I slip on my second navy-blue dress—another one that I frequently wear to weddings—and put on a pair of flats, thinking about all the uneven cobblestone streets.
I don’t know why my father couldn’t get married somewhere in the city. Instead, they chose some small kirk in the countryside, onethat required I either figure out a complicated bus system with multiple changes or book a rental car to get to. Since I have experience driving on the other side of the road, thanks to the show and the international destinations we frequently visit, renting seemed like the easiest option. And thankfully, the pickup spot is just down the street.
I hurry over there, get my keys and car, and soon, I’m behind the wheel, driving safely but quickly to the church.
My parents’ wedding took place in a church as well. A cathedral back in India, with hundreds and hundreds of guests, nearly every Indian Christian family in Chennai in attendance. I haven’t seen many pictures, but my mother’s told me about it. Pomp and circumstance and flowers. Endless greetings from people she didn’t know, a reception filled with strangers.
As I park in front of the steepled stone building, I know this wedding will be entirely different. For one, I don’t think this church would be able to fit one hundred people. And second, I can hear the telltale sound of bagpipes, welcoming guests to the celebration.
I walk to the entrance, following a few women with fascinators clipped in their hair. I wish I’d thought to get one. I don’t know when I’ll get a chance to wear one or attend a wedding in the UK again, but it’s probably for the best. I need to draw as little attention to myself as possible.
That proves difficult, however, when I turn the corner and get my first glimpse of the bagpiper.
Tall and broad-shouldered, with familiar waves of pitch-black hair. His fingers move deftly over the pipes, his cheeks puff in and out, and he’s wearing a green-and-blue kilt. Behind his wire-rimmed glasses, his brown eyes meet mine.
The music stutters for a moment, then continues.
