Page 4 of The Wedding Party

I find nothing.

And yet, whatever was in that box was not nothing.

It was the reason Oliver was more passionate last night, the reason he kept telling me he loved me. There was a desperation to him that, while all-consuming, was not him. The something I’m looking for has already found me. And it’s trouble. I feel it in my bones.

Chapter Three

My morning at Denver’s Memorial Hospital starts with another child and another mother freaked out about her baby. The little girl has meningitis, which is not as common as most people might think and is really quite lethal. Fortunately, Dr. Mathis, one of our top pediatricians, steps in, and the little one responds to the medication and we turn her circumstances around rapidly.

Feeling harried, I step into the facility break room for coffee, and he joins me. He’s a tall man, with dark hair, very TV doctor–like with his good looks. All the nurses swoon over him, but he is, of course, married. Though warm and friendly, at least with me. But then, I’m that average girl who never looks higher than her status—except once. And I’m marrying that one.

“You’re good with kids,” he comments, filling his cup. “You going to get pregnant and retire to raise your kids with that rich fiancé of yours?”

“I don’t actually want kids,” I confess. “So you’re stuck with me here for a very long time.”

He leans on the island next to me, appearing genuinely interested in what I have to say, perhaps a little too much. “No kids? Really? Why not, might I ask?”

My defenses bristle under his scrutiny. “You don’t have kids.”

“Yeah, well, that’s because my wife and I barely like each other. We’re divorcing.”

“Oh,” I say. “I, uh, didn’t know.”

“I’m not making it public,” he says. “And I’d appreciate it if you don’t.”

“No. No, of course not. I’m . . . sorry?” It’s a question. I never really know if divorce is a grief-type situation or one of celebration. I think it’s like a medical treatment: often highly individual.

“I’m not sorry,” he says. “And I see enough sick and dying kids around this place. I don’t need one of my own to worry about.” With that, he pushes off the counter and walks away.

I think he might have been digging around about the state of my marriage, for personal reasons, which obviously backfired on him—and me, for that matter. He’s hit a nerve, one that I have nightmares about, and rather frequently.

I’ve always believed that if I were to have a child, that child would end up dead.

Oliver dismisses it as fear of such a great responsibility, but there’s more to it than fear. And one day we’ll face that truth. Until then, I don’t intend to think about it.

By lunchtime, I’m ready to throw my wedding diet to the birds. Which is how I end up at Mama Mac’s, where mac ’n’ cheese rules, with Lana Melody, the newest nurse on our staff. But despite Lana’s mere six-month tenure at the hospital, and our opposing places in life right about now—she just went through a nasty divorce, while I’m marrying my Prince Charming—we have become fast and, dare I say, close friends. A feat made easier as Erin Sterling, my other best friend, has a dislike of Oliver that has become a wedge between us. But then, Erin doesn’t like men. Lana just doesn’t like assholes. Her words, not mine.

“The card,” I announce after telling her about the box, “was written in distinctively female script.”

“And you know this how?” she asks, sipping her diet drink.

“I saw it with my own eyes. He took it or I’d show you.”

“My ex wrote like a girl. No kidding.” She grabs her phone and tabs through photos, adding, “I keep a copy of my divorce decree so anytime I feel sad, I can give it a look-see and I’m all cheered up. Here.” She slides her phone in front of me and shows me the signature line. “Like a girl. Dr. Fenley does, too.”

I scan her ex’s signature and she’s right. I’d call it feminine. “Okay,” I say, handing back her phone. “Signature aside, why not just show me what was in the box? I’m a big girl. I can take a joke, even a bad one. And then he shut the door in my face.”

“Okay,” Lana says, mimicking me as she digs her fork into the center of her Mexican mac, “I see why the shut door bothered you, but”—she holds up a finger and takes a bite, swallowing before she continues—“what if it was something just really raunchy and gross? He loves you. He wants to protect you.”

“What in the world could be that gross?”

She shrugs, shoving her blonde hair behind her ears and waving a fork as she says, “You know”—she stabs a cluster of pasta—“guys are universally gross together. Believe me, it’s not just in Colorado. I saw it in Boston, too. Though thank God I’m back home in Denver. The men aren’t that different, but the Tex-Mex is killer.” She motions to her mac. “Even this has green chilies done right.”

At this point, my fork is down, and I’m ignoring my mac, which I can’t afford to eat anyway, while she’s a waif of a woman who can eat what she wants. “Raunchy?” I ask, my voice appropriately appalled. “Like what?”

“Hmm. Well. Maybe something like topless photos of all the women they’re bringing to his bachelor party. Immature, yes, but isn’t that kind of what bachelor parties are supposed to be?”

“We’re having a combo party in Estes Park. All the women and men will be there. You know this.”