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I need to get my life back.
Within five minutes of getting settled, Paloma rings my phone.
“Your sister’s here,” she says.
“Send her back. Thank you.” I clear a couple of junk emails while I wait and scan the conflicts checks Paloma sent me this morning. Six new client appointments this afternoon. Twice as many as yesterday. And thank God. At this rate, I’ll be back to my old pace by the end of next week.
“Knock, knock …” Claire sing-songs from the doorway, a three-ring canvas-covered binder tucked beneath her arm and two coffees in hand. “Ready to go over the details of your big night?”
“Only if you agree to stop calling it my big night …”
She shuts the door and takes a seat across from me, splaying the binder across the middle of my desk and flipping to a section with my name on the tab.
“Fine, we can call it your little shindig. Is that better?” Claire sits taller, legs crossed and hands daintily resting on the top of her knee.
“Smartass.” I sniff. “Hey, did you know there was some woman at the hospital after my accident?”
“You’re going to have to be more specific than that.”
“Grant said the woman who called 9-1-1 also came to the hospital and waited in the waiting room.”
“Yeah. Now that you mention it. I think there was someone there, but I didn’t get a chance to talk to them. It was all so crazy. But how would Grant know her?” Claire wrinkles her nose.
“Because he got her number and now he’s marrying her …”
She bursts into laughter. “What? Say that again? I don’t think I understood you.”
“It’s weird, right?”
“Which part?” she asks. “Grant getting married or some random woman waiting in the hospital for you?”
“All of it.” I slump back into my chair. “It’s all fucking weird as hell.”
Not unlike what my life has become since that fateful night …
“Grant’s going to make the worst husband ever. Does he realize that?” she asks.
“I tried to tell him. Then I got accused of not being happy for him.” I shrug. “He’s bringing her to the party.”
“Yeah, I saw he RSVP’d for two, but I just assumed he was bringing Serena …”
We marinate in silence, though I’m positive we’re thinking matching thoughts. “Anyway, enough about your mentally-insane best friend. I’ve got another meeting right after this, so let’s get down to it.” She clears her throat and flips to the next page. “So the venue I got us is in the East Village. It’s called The LaGrange Experience. Brand-new upscale casual hybrid restaurant with outdoor space and a private dining room that can hold up to a hundred people. Just opened two months ago. I held a wedding reception there last month and it was breathtaking. You’re not going to find anything nicer than this at a month’s notice, so the fact that they’re working us in is incredible.”
“How many people did you invite?”
She lifts a finger before flipping to the next page. “Which brings me to the next item—the guest list. So far we’re at a hundred and five RSVPs”
“Claire.” I exhale and bury my face in my hands. “A hundred and fucking five? You said it was going to be a few friends …”
“I’m sure not everyone will show up. You always need to account for the flaky ones. Anyway, it’s not my fault you have so many friends.”
“I have a lot of acquaintances. I have a handful of people I’d actually consider true friends.”
“Well apparently dozens of people feel differently about you, so maybe you should reexamine some of those relationships before you go writing them off …”
I lean back in my chair. “Whatever. Go on.”
“The bar is crafting a special drink menu in honor of the occasion. I gave them a list of your favorites. I think it’s only fitting that we celebrate your life by drinking your go-to cocktails.”
“Claire … this sounds more like a funeral after-party than—”
“—Cainan.” She tilts her head. “Hear me out. Six months ago, we were almost planning your funeral. Your friends, your family … we could’ve lost you. Why can’t we celebrate the fact that you’re alive? There are people flying in from San Jose, Seattle, Houston, Ontario, Liverpool … they want to show that you mean something to them, that they’re glad you’re alive. Don’t rob them of that opportunity.”
“You’re fucking nuts. And I say that with love.”
“Thank you.” She winks and then sticks her tongue out. She’s a James and that means she doesn’t give a fuck what anyone thinks of her. We’re cut from the same cloth that way. “For the record, when you were in the hospital, my phone was constantly buzzing and chiming and ringing. Texts, calls, emails. Everyone was worried sick. Praying, rooting, whatever. Believe it or not, for some insane reason, people give a shit about you, Cain.”
