Chapter 14

“Would it be terrible if we grabbed a slice first?” Nicholas asked, gazing longingly at Ray’s Pizza through the window of our Uber.

We were on our way to meet Natalie for dinner. She’d been enlisted by Nicholas’s parents to choose the venue for our rehearsal dinner. They were paying, but she was local and they weren’t. She’d called us earlier in the week and said she’d found the perfect restaurant. Given Natalie’s penchant for the eclectic, Nicholas and I were understandably concerned and made a reservation to see it for ourselves. Natalie invited herself to join us.

“Can you imagine if it’s all raw food like the episode in Sex and the City when Samantha meets Smith Jerrod for the first time?” I preferred my food cooked, but could make an exception if our waiter resembled Jason Lewis.

Nicholas turned away from the window and faced me, his eyes round pools of liquid brown. “She wouldn’t dare.” He never watched SATC, so I assumed it was the word “raw” that freaked him out.

I nodded. “She would absolutely dare.” My lips curled up. “But she didn’t. According to the website, they offer global eclectic fusion cuisine. It got good reviews on Yelp too.”

The car dropped us off and we entered At Vermillion. I took in the space—sleek and modern with multiple levels. Natalie and her guest were already seated and the hostess led us to their table. As we followed her through a room with bright red walls and filled with tables where patrons sat in sparkling white chairs, I inhaled the distinct scent of Indian spices. So far, so good. I wondered who Natalie’s guest was and hoped it wasn’t—

“You’re here,” Tiffany squealed.

“And so are you,” I mumbled, digging my fingernails into Nicholas’s palm. He told me he was going to tell Natalie it was inappropriate to involve Tiffany in the wedding planning given the circumstances. The circumstances being his bride-to-be asked him very nicely to make Tiffany appear much less often. Either Tiffany ignored the request or Nicholas forgot to give Natalie the memo. I’d ask him about it later, but for now, I planted on a smile. “I like your pants.” This was true. I coveted the hot pink stretch pants Tiffany was wearing.

Fifteen minutes later, we’d ordered food and had a round of drinks in front of us.

“What do you think?” Natalie asked, her dark eyes sweeping the vast space.

I took a sip of my cocktail. It was called India Meets Pakistan and it was delicious. “I like the space. It’s centrally located, which is good. But I think we should reserve judgment until after we eat.” I looked at Nicholas. “Right, honey?”

Before he could answer, Natalie continued, “They have several semi-private spaces and a range of price-fixed menus as well. I think it’s perfect.”

“Thank you for finding it,” I said with sincerity. It was one less task for my to-do list. I’d take the help where I could get it.

“Thank Tiffany. It was her suggestion.” Natalie’s eyes sparkled in Tiffany’s direction.

Tiffany waved her hand in dismissal. “We had a fashion week cocktail party here a few weeks ago and I thought of you guys.”

Not only was Tiffany stunning, she had a glamorous job at a fashion magazine. She was practically a character out of my favorite old-school chick lit novels. Thank Gawd I’d killed my jealous streak, because two years ago, her past with Nicholas would have freaked me out. Now she was merely annoying. Besides, my legal day job might be less than seductive, but I was a published novelist. Then I remembered my so-far insurmountable bout of writer’s block. I swallowed down my writing-related anxiety with a gulp of my drink.

“How’s the planning going otherwise?” Tiffany asked.

“Making progress,” Nicholas said with confidence. He told her about the cake we’d ordered two weeks earlier.

“What about a photographer?” Natalie asked.

“Done,” Nicholas said.

“Invitations?” Tiffany asked.

I responded this time. “Ordered. Just waiting for them to come in from the printer.” The lump in the back of my throat settled down as we continued to answer the questions in the affirmative. Maybe we weren’t as behind as I feared.

“Have you registered? Where? Please don’t say Crate & Barrel, Target, and Williams- Sonoma.” Natalie made a sour face.

Her lips pursed, Tiffany said, “What do you have against those stores?”

I wondered the same thing. We hadn’t registered at any of those places, but we hadn’t registered period. I took a sip of my drink to wash down the rebounding lump.

“Dullsville,” Natalie said before yawning for emphasis. “Why not do something different like ask for charitable donations in lieu of gifts? Or sign up for a gift card registry. Or ask your favorite mom and pop store if they have a registry so you can support local small business.”

Nicholas smirked. “These unconventional ideas courtesy of The Knot too?”

Sticking her tongue out at him, Natalie said, “Buzzfeed, if you must know.”

“We haven’t registered yet,” I said, happy for the well-timed appearance of the waitress with our appetizers. I took in the feast of sharable plates, including coconut shrimp, tamarind pork buns, and an assortment of naan. I rubbed my hands together in anticipation. “Moment of truth time. Dig in.”

For the next few minutes, we were silent aside from the sounds of chewing and other noises of approval. I hoped Natalie would stop with all the wedding questions. We did need to register soon, but it wasn’t going to happen in the middle of dinner.

“I think you guys should create a wedding website,” Tiffany said.

I let out a deep exhalation, tempted to lower my head to the table. “I don’t think—”

“Great idea,” Natalie said. “It will help your guests keep track of your progress. You can even make it interactive—let them choose your wedding song.”

“If I know Nicholas, the song for the first dance was chosen before he even bought the ring,” Tiffany said, beaming in his direction.

Nicholas glanced at me. “We actually haven’t decided—”

“Remember ours, Nicky? ‘The Space Between’ by Dave Matthews Band.” Tiffany closed her eyes and hummed a few chords.

“Lame,” Natalie muttered.

I agreed. Tiffany had singlehandedly ruined the song, and the musical group at large, for me with her sentimental musings.

“My song with Dean was ‘Live Like You Were Dying.’” Natalie smiled at me. “Dean was the love of my high-school life. We went through a country music phase.” Tilting her head toward Tiffany, she said, “Speaking of Dean, he friended me on Facebook.”

Tiffany pursed her lips. “He did?”

Nicholas cleared his throat. “It’s a bit late for a website at this point. I think we missed the boat.” He squeezed my knee under the table. “Right, Kimmie?”

“It’s too late for a lot of things,” I muttered before shoving a piece of naan in my mouth. We’d come up with a few options for wedding songs during Hurricane Daneen, but hadn’t found “the one.”

“What kind of dress did you end up getting?” Natalie asked.

Tiffany nodded eagerly. “Please tell us you have pics on your phone. Nicholas can look the other way so he won’t see.”

Dress shopping could have been a helpful distraction from my frozen writing mojo, but I hadn’t been motivated to make another attempt. I couldn’t bear to tell them I had yet to make it through a successful shopping session and was still sans gown. The resulting vocalizations of horror followed by panic and pity might do me in. I swallowed the bread and stood up. “I have to use the ladies’ room. Be right back.” Ignoring the look of concern that crossed Nicholas’s face, I excused myself and walked in the direction I assumed most likely to take me to the bathroom. But when I saw the sign for the restrooms, I kept going toward the exit of the restaurant. The back of my neck was slick with sweat and I struggled to breathe. I’d take a moment for fresh air and then return to the table ready for the second course.

I stepped outside and leaned against the building’s exterior. With my eyes closed, I inhaled deeply through my nose and blew the breath out my lips. I instinctively reached into my purse and removed my phone. If I’d thought checking my email would serve to lower my stress level, it was a good thing I wasn’t a betting woman. There was a message from Melina.

  

Hi Kim,

I wanted to follow up with you regarding Love On Stone Street. As I mentioned in my recent email, the publisher is unable to grant an extension. Remember, the longer it takes to get it to me, the less time you’ll have before the final deadline, so I hope you’re working diligently.

In the meantime, the marketing department has made the decision to reduce the second print run for A Blogger’s Life by half. Unfortunately, this means that based on past sales and the rate of returns, they lack the confidence in future sales to print another 7500 copies. It’s not horrible news, and if this run goes well, it’s more than possible they’ll up the number for a third, but I thought you should know.

Please check in with any questions.

Melina

  

And there it was in fine print. A Blogger’s Life hadn’t sold enough paperbacks to warrant a complete second print run. I’d been told to keep my expectations down with respect to paperback versus e-book sales, but I thought if I wished on enough errant eyelashes, penny fountains, and whenever the clock read 11:11, I’d prove them wrong and the disappointing fates suffered by other authors would skip me.

I sat on the curb and took a deep breath. It was times like this I wished I smoked. I’d have to make do with Latin/Indian fusion food and exotic drinks. Too bad I had to do it with my busybody but well-meaning soon-to-be sister-in-law and my fiancé’s ever-present first girlfriend. Alone time with Nicholas would have been better. Although he’d probably find some way to downplay this latest letdown—“Better half a print run than none, right? It means your book is selling, Kimmie!”

I rose to a standing position. I couldn’t focus on both my writing and the wedding planning at the same time. First and foremost, I needed to rectify the no-dress situation. Once I did, the words would flow again. So, the next day, I would go back to Genesis Bridal by myself and make it happen. If no one was with me, there would be no distractions—no unsolicited opinions or tear-soaked confessions. And Accuweather predicted a zero chance of precipitation. It would all come together once I had the dress. This was just the black moment before the resolution.