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My mom’s bedroom door opens, and Tealey and Marlow walk out in short pale purple gowns—fitted on top and flaring out at the waist. The shoes are simple strappy flats, which my mom will appreciate since heels will mess up her lawn.
But it’s Tealey’s eyes that shine like the sun hides in them—bright and beautiful, so much like who she is—that render me speechless. She comes to me and adjusts my boutonnière. Looking up, she says, “You look very handsome, Counselor.”
I’m not sure what to say. I want to wrap my arms around her, tell her how she’s utterly breathtaking, kiss her, claim her, and keep her safe from the rakish Frenchman waiting to pounce on her at the first chance he gets. I’m just not allowed to. Not yet. Not without giving her a say. And there’s no room to talk for the time being.
Cade is sent marching down the aisle, and we’re told to line up. We pair off as it should be—Marlow and Jackson, Tealey and me. Like a drill sergeant, the wedding planner inspects all of us. She steps back to take us in, and her face sours. “No. This isn’t working.” Grabbing Jackson, she says, “You and . . .” She doesn’t have to say it. There are only two couples.
Tealey’s hand tightens around my arm, and I place my hand on hers to hold her right where she is. Then the planner says, “We have to hurry. Tealey,” she says with a snap of her fingers. “Come up here.”
“I think this works.”
“If the two ladies swap partners, it looks better visually. You’re going to have to trust me on this. I’ve been organizing weddings for years, and the photos are what remain long after the vows. Let’s make Cammie’s look the best they can.” Fuck that.
Tealey huffs, but then her grip loosens. Looking up at me, she swallows, and then says, “She’s probably right. You and Marlow are the better match.”
“I disagree,” I whisper. She gives me a look to go along with it and turns away. Why is it that every time we think we’ll be together, something intervenes?
She’s handed her bouquet and then looks back once she’s on Jackson’s arm. The planner shuffles them out the door before I can tell her that my love for Tealey matters more. And I fucking oppose the planner’s decision. I prefer Tealey standing next to me over any other woman.
Marlow straightens her shoulders. “This is also better for appearances.” Marlow beside me, even for Cammie’s benefit, feels wrong.
I look at her in disbelief. “Fuck appearances. I’m done playing games with you. He bought the apartment. You got what you wanted.”
She arches a perfectly manicured brow. “You did too. Don’t forget that.”
The planner gives my shoulder blade a little shove, and we start walking. With each step, my annoyance at Marlow and this entire situation continues to build.
Something about her tone makes it seem as if I owe her father something for making partner—if I make partner. And as we pass Bob Marché while we step down the aisle, I realize something: my partnership has nothing to do with him.
I’ve busted my ass for years. I’ve worked myself into the ground. I’ve put my heart and soul into my work, and while Bob’s divorce may have helped me get there in the end, I would’ve gotten there anyway.
And Marlow would’ve too. I glance at her profile. She’s come a long way over the past year. She may be flippant, and she may be shallow, but she works hard. She tries to do the right thing. And she’s a good friend and a good person. Her metamorphosis was intentional, and she lost a little bit of that today on the beach with her father and Lorie. She fell back into a persona she’s tried so hard to shed.
“You know what?” I ask quietly. “That’s bullshit.”
“What’s bullshit?” she whispers and then flashes a forced smile at someone in the audience.
“I worked for my promotion. I’ve worked for it longer than the past couple of months. If I get partner, it has nothing to do with you or your dad. Don’t get it twisted.”
She stutter-steps. Her long blond hair is twisted up in the back, restraining it from swinging through the air as she whips to look at me while we cross the deck. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
“You know what’s wrong. That crossed every fucking line in my book.” I stop on the grass. “This is not who we are, Marlow. Don’t let your dad and stepmom drag you back into a version of yourself that you left behind. On purpose.”
A clearing of the throat grabs our attention. The planner grits her teeth. “Go.”
Marlow sighs heavily but takes my arm again, and we start walking. Through tight smiles, we continue fighting, though. She says, “Not everyone is handed—”
