NINETEEN

JESSE

The sun rises on a beautiful Saturday morning—the perfect day for a summer wedding. I am up just as the orange light peeks through my blinds even though I had a pathetic night’s sleep, tossing and turning—Claire’s words playing over and over again in my head, the million things I could have said. That I should have said.

The rumbling of vans at the street pulls me out of bed.

The flowers have arrived.

I slip on a pair of shorts and a fresh t-shirt, use the bathroom, brush my teeth. I’m downstairs in time to let Claire inside. She’s in casual clothes, ready to work—a pair of jeans with a hole in the knee and a t-shirt, her hair pulled into a messy bun. No makeup. Dark circles beneath her eyes. Still beautiful.

“Good morning,” I say.

We didn’t speak to one another after our fight at the hospital. That I’d commented on her “power” to affect the lives of others so negatively—so absolutely—were the last words uttered between us. We returned to find the house decorated. All evidence of the table Nolan had destroyed in his fall was gone. The bloody tablecloth. Shattered glasses. It was perfect: the lights, the place settings, the gauzy white linens floating around the porch. The foyer was set up for check-in. A table for presents. I didn’t know how Claire and Deb planned to get one hundred fifty guests and a wedding party into my downstairs, but between the three main rooms and the porch, it appears they succeeded.

“Coffee?” she asks, handing me the tray. One cup has my name scribbled on the top and one has hers—a pale lipgloss print around the rim. I try not to think about those lips—the ones I touched with mine. And I wonder if the coffee is just a habit now and doesn’t mean anything, anymore. I wonder if she debated whether or not to buy me one at all, or if she realized showing up without one would seem rude or obvious since she’s never come to my house for a wedding-related task and not brought coffee.

I am overthinking this.

The whole thing is like a game. She wants me to blame her, but I don’t know how. She clearly thinks two and two is four—that the situation is pure black and white—when there’s so much more to it than that. Yes, she might have been texting Sean that morning, but he didn’t have to text her back. The only rule she broke was texting in class, probably. He was texting while driving. He broke the law—not her—and that’s only assuming her “timeline” is even right. And Mom? She chose to leave. Dad ate shit food all the time. The house just is what it is.

I thank her and carry the tray into the kitchen. The next few minutes are spent drinking the first half—alone—and waiting for the caffeine to kick in. When I return to the porch the back doors to each of the three floral vans are wide open, and Claire is doling out instructions. I help a couple of the men unload.

“It’s your wedding day?” an older man asks me when I return, ready to grab another vase.

“No, sir,” I reply. “It’s just my house they’re using.”

He glances over, taking it all in. “Oh, yes. It is beautiful.”

“Thank you very much.”

“You rent it out for parties? For receptions?” he asks.

“No. This was a favor. For a friend.”

“Okay. Yes,” he says.

Each table gets a large centerpiece in various shades of white and green and purple. Each place setting has its own smaller piece. There is garland for the stairs and the overhang. Two large arrangements for the pedestals placed at the front door. The gift table and check-in table each have their own arrangements. A monogrammed runner is put down, leading from the street to the front steps. I watch them secure it to the ground and Claire empty six buckets’ worth of white petals on either side. The porch railings are draped with white and purple flower garlands, and two columns are set up by the runner. They dig a small hole to secure the column in the ground and lock the vases of flowers in place. When they test them, shaking it, they refuse to budge.

Two joggers approach, heading up the street, but stop when they reach the house. The girl unstraps her phone from her armband and takes a photo, even though workers move in and out of the house.

The photographer and two assistants arrive to take photos of the site. We stay out of their way as best we can, then the florists and their delivery team leave to re-load their vans. Next stop? The church.

Claire grabs her purse and the coffee I haven’t seen her take a single sip of. “Photographers should only be about an hour or so. I’m going to head over to the church, then I’ll need to shower and change, but I’ll be back in time to let the caterer in.”

They’re the first words she’s said to me in a couple of hours. The only others were, “You don’t have to do that,” when she saw me unloading the vans. And again I don’t know if this is even a conversation she wants to have or if she’s only talking to keep me in the loop.

“I can let them in,” I tell her.

She hesitates. “They’ll have a lot of equipment. And the cake is coming not long after.”

By this time I know better than to argue with her. I can offer her all the help in the world, and she will still want to do this her way. According to her plans. Her schedule. If she can’t relinquish enough control to let me make sure the caterers get their shit inside, there’s nothing I can do.

“If anything happens or goes wrong, call me, okay?” she insists.

What I want to tell her is that everything has already gone wrong. That it’s not supposed to be like this between us, but I nod and tell her “no problem,” then slip back inside the house.

We are both showered and dressed for a wedding when I see her again—me in the dark suit I’d purchased for the occasion and a new violet tie, matching handkerchief in my pocket; her in a smart, cream-colored pantsuit and matching heels, hair pulled up in an elegant twist. My heart aches when I see her, and when our eyes finally connect I want to think that hers might, too. And I wish to God we could stop everything and talk about this. I want to tell her that she looks beautiful. I want to tell her that I don’t blame her for Sean’s death. I want to tell her that he was his own person with free will—that making reckless decisions was part of his nature. That even if someone could go back and compare messages and times and when that first 911 call came in—even if they could prove that yes, Sean was texting Claire when he drove off the road, it still wouldn’t matter to me because Sean was texting Claire. He was doing the driving and responding, and he shouldn’t have been. But I don’t say any of this. I can’t. I can’t even get out a “you look beautiful” before she’s on the move. Arranging. Adjusting. Speaking to caterers and staff. She texts. She makes phone calls. She refers to notes and folders. She is completely in her element. Deb stops by to take a final look at the site and I am no longer part of the background when she stops to tell me how beautiful the house is, how any number of offers will be on the table after people see it this evening.

“Maybe, but it would have to be better than the offer I’m already considering.”

Claire, coming through the foyer, stops immediately.

“You have an offer?” Deb asks. “Was it that couple who was here the other day?”

“Yes, but I haven’t accepted it, yet. I told Cathy I needed a night to sleep on it.” I tell Claire this, instead of Deb.

“So it was solid?” Claire asks.

“I might counter.”

She nods, forces a smile. “Congratulations. That’s. . . .” Her expression falters because she doesn’t know what to say after yesterday—when I told her I didn’t want to sell it at all.

“It’s good news,” I finish for her. “It is.”

“Yeah,” she agrees, voice barely audible. She turns to Deb. “I’m going to head over to the ceremony site. The party will be arriving soon.”

“I’ll stay here to keep an eye on things.”

“Great,” she says. “You know my number.” Then Claire turns to me. “Can I give you a ride?” she asks. “I mean, I know it’s early, but. . . .” She trails off.

“Nah. I’m going to walk when it gets closer to ceremony time.”

She exhales, and I’m not sure if it’s a sigh of disappointment or relief. “Okay.”

I arrive at the church a few minutes before the ceremony begins, more of a voyeur than an attendee—not a member of either family or part of their circle of friends. My house is the only reason I’m here, so I wait until I’m one of the last ones to go in, tell the usher I’m a friend of the bride, and take a seat in one of the last pews inside the church.

The church is beautiful.

An aisle runner matches the one at my house. More flower petals. Each pew with its own flower arrangement on the end. Two large arrangements gracing the columns at the front. An ensemble plays—a pianist, a couple of violins and cellos, a harpist. I open the program and flip through the order of events. I wonder what “sand ceremony” means and read the names of the bridal party all the way down to the flower girl and ring bearer. I don’t recognize a single one. A candle is lit to honor the friends and families who couldn’t be with us. A thank you to their parents.

Grandparents are seated. Mothers are seated—Mrs. Porter in a sparkling navy blue dress and feathered hat, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue and nodding and waving to people, saying hello to friends on her way in. And then Preston enters, stands tall and proud at the front with the minister, hands folded. And a stab of jealousy pricks at my insides for someone who—on the surface, at least—seems to have it all together. Everything he could possibly want.

The music changes and the bridesmaids walk the aisle, and they and the groomsmen line the front. And then there’s Mia, arm in arm with her father, wearing a sparkling satin gown. Her makeup is immaculate. Not a hair out of place. We stand for her, but she doesn’t even seem to be aware of us. Her eyes remain fixed on what waits for her at the end of the aisle: the perfect man at this perfect ceremony on this perfect day.

* * *

“Looks like you could use a drink.”

Lynette hands me a cold beer. The reception has long since moved from dinner inside to the party out. The sun has set, toasts were made, tears shed. Some of the older guests have left already. The crowd is thinning, but the backyard is lit and the party still rages, the DJ doing a solid job of keeping everyone on the dance floor.

I thank her and take it as she sits down beside me. “You don’t need a drink, too? After all of this?” I ask.

“I do, for sure,” she says. “But we don’t drink at our events. And if you ask her to dance,” she goes on, and I know she’s referring to Claire, “she’ll say no, too. She’s a rule follower, that one.”

“She would’ve said no, anyway.”

She sucks her teeth. “That girl. I’m sorry. I know she’s been through a lot. You both have.”

“Yeah. I just don’t get. . . . How do you do it? I mean, how do you plan and execute these events knowing that odds are good it isn’t going to last?”

“Your parents divorced,” she confirms.

“My mom left us. Me and my dad. After twenty-something years. Twenty. I mean, you choose to spend twenty years with someone—you’ve gotten that far—why not go all the way, you know?”

She exhales, sits taller. “The thing is, Jesse, my couples—my brides, usually—come to me because they want the perfect day to celebrate their love. I deliver. And yes, sometimes we joke about how long a marriage will last. When you’ve been in this business as long as I have you learn the signs. That doesn’t mean I want them to fall out of love and separate. But that’s not what I do. I focus on this one day. Right now, on this day, Mia and Preston are in love. They want the world to know, and Claire and I helped them throw the party they wanted to celebrate that love. My focus is on this moment. This day. When you break it down, this day is a quick breath in what might be a long, hard road. But the rest of those moments are up to them. And that’s all we have, really. One moment after another after another.”

“I bought her a ring,” I confess, taking another swig of beer, feeling it mix with the wine I had at dinner. “I wasn’t going to propose—not yet—but I wanted to be ready the second she was. And now I feel like an asshole because it’s like . . . I don’t know. Maybe she’ll never be ready. And if she’s not, then what were the last nine years of my life for? Why have I never been able to shake the feelings I have for her if we’re not meant to happen? If I could just let her go, it would be okay. But I can’t. We were apart for four years and boom. I’m back and nothing’s changed.”

“I’m sorry,” Lynette says. “For what it’s worth, I saw how she was these last few weeks. I noticed the change in her. You two seemed very good together. I hope she comes around.”

“I just—I can’t bank on that anymore. I’m here if she needs me. Otherwise. . . .” I stop here because I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to say. I’ve forgiven Claire, but maybe it’s not enough—not when she can’t forgive herself.

“I know it doesn’t change anything, but I do have one tiny bright spot for you this evening.” She reaches into her folder and removes a check from the Porters—the last five thousand they owe for taking over my house these last few weeks.

“Ten thousand dollars for one reception.” I shake my head, disbelieving. “And Jesus, I don’t even want to know what they spent on flowers.”

Lynette smiles. “It was a beautiful day and a beautiful reception. And yes, ten grand is quite a bit above market value for the space, but Mia was mostly paying for peace of mind. She was so happy to see the house when she got here. Her mother was pleased. I’ve heard nothing but wonderful things about your home, Jesse.”

I’ve ignored two calls from Cathy today. I know she’s waiting for my answer—to know if I’m going to counter. But it’s late now and tomorrow is Sunday. One more night to think about it. Then maybe I can let it go.

“Anyway,” she continues. “We all appreciate your flexibility. Especially Claire. I know I took a risk passing this event on to her, but you made this aspect of the planning—the house—so very easy for her.”

I’m glad.

I’m glad I could make something easy for someone else.