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I turned around and walked back into the restaurant, not knowing what Brooklyn would decide, but making my own choice, as well: to, for a moment, choose my own happiness above hers.
ChapterThirty-Five
NATHAN
When Ciara returned from her bachelorette trip, she was quiet, contained. I asked her what was wrong, but she dismissed my concerns with a bright smile, telling me it was nothing.Just menstrual stuff,she said, flapping a hand.No biggie.
No biggie, my ass. I had a sister; even if it was “menstrual stuff,” it was a big deal.
But I saw what happened to the men that even mentioned a woman’s time of the month at the wrong time or in the wrong way, so I didn’t want to get myself in trouble. Instead, I offered hugs and cuddles, and that seemed to soothe her for a time. But every so often, I’d catch her looking out the window in a daze, or checking her phone as if she was waiting for a call. I figured it had something to do with Brooklyn, but I didn’t want to rub salt in the wound, so I didn’t say anything.
So we went through the wedding rehearsal, reviewing the ceremony and replaying each part of it in more detail than I thought we’d ever need. And before I knew it, we were at the rehearsal dinner.
It was held in the Hemingway Arts Museum, a place that Ciara had seemed to frequent. During the day, natural light streamed through the glass ceiling and onto a courtyard area, which was filled with lush plants and vibrant flowers and dotted with statues here and there. At night, wall lights fashioned after torches illuminated the space, giving everything it touched a romantic glow.
Small, round, high tables had been set up around the outskirts of the courtyard, allowing our guests to stand and chat. Servers weaved in and out of the crowd, offering hors d’oeuvres on silver or ceramic platters. Ciara and I made sure to greet everyone as they came in, but Sara and Mack made sure we got prime real estate near the server’s entrance so we could grab our food before they made their rounds. People stopped by to chat, but there were pockets of time where it was just me and Ciara.
I wanted to check in with Ciara, but I knew it wasn’t the time or the place. Still, her restless energy put me on edge, to the point where, when Harold placed a hand on my shoulder to greet me, I jumped.
He frowned, tilting his head a little. “You okay, man?”
I willed my heart to stop racing and smiled. “Yeah, just trying to rebound from your heavy-ass hand. You enjoying yourself so far?”
“Of course; what’s not to enjoy?” Harold looked around, tilting his head back to look at the glass ceiling. “Great venue, you two. Or should I say, Ciara. I know you probably got very little help from Nathan.”
Though her smile was tenuous, the sight of it made me relax a little. “Nathan’s been a big help,” she said.
Harold raised an eyebrow, leaning toward her. “You don’t have to lie for him,” he stage-whispered.
Ciara giggled.
“Hey now,” I faux-warned. “Stop trying to turn my wife against me.”
Harold held up his hands in a conciliatory gesture. “Listen, I’m just sayin’. She doesn’t—and shouldn’t—lie to me. I’m a lawyer, after all. I seek justice and truth.”
“Oh? Contract lawyers seek justice and truth now?” I pursed my lips.
“This one does.” He winked at Ciara, and she grinned.
Suddenly, I felt a buzzing against my leg. When it continued, I realized it was my phone in my pocket. I took it out, squinting at the screen. Briana, my assistant, was calling. I frowned.
Turning to Ciara, I showed her my phone. “It’s my assistant,” I explained. “This shouldn’t take long. You okay to hang out here?”
“Of course.” Worry furrowed her brow. “Everything okay?”
“I hope so.” I shrugged. “I’ll be back soon.”
With a kiss to her forehead, I hurried to the quiet room I had seen earlier, off the main room. I didn’t want to risk missing her call, so I picked up immediately. “Hello?”
“Hey, boss,” Briana said quickly. “We’ve got a situation.”
She explained what was happening—the teachers’ union strike started the following week, and she just realized we would be affected as we were going into the schools that week. We talked it through in five minutes, and then she hung up.
When I got off the phone, Harold was coming toward me, regret stamped on his face. “Hey, sorry to eat and run,” he said. “But my mom slipped and fell off a ladder while she was hanging pictures. Dad’s at the hospital with her now, but she has a pretty bad sprain and I wanna check on her.”
“Oh shit,” I said. “Do you need a ride or anything? I can find one of my siblings—”
“No, that’s okay; I have my car. I’m able to drive.”
