TWENTY-TWO

CLAIRE

“I was surprised to get your text message.” David, dressed in dark pants and a white dress shirt—sleeves rolled to his elbows—pulls out my chair for me.

“I’m sorry it came so late,” I say, sitting down. “And I’m sorry I had to cancel our dinner date. Things have been . . . unusually hectic lately.”

“That’s all right.” He smiles warmly and takes the seat across from mine. It’s nearing nine o’clock. Nolan was already bathed and in bed when I slipped out. In a few hours, I’m going to regret eating dessert so late, but I scan the menu anyway and decide on a slice of cheesecake with chocolate and strawberry topping. David orders a key lime pie.

Though it’s near closing time, the restaurant is still busy. Only a few tables are free, but the space is calm despite the crowd, and the dimmed overhead lighting and tea lights on every table make for a cozy, romantic atmosphere.

“Our moms will be happy this finally happened,” I say.

He laughs. “That is . . . so true. My mom speaks so highly of you and your family. Like I said a few weeks ago, I feel like I know you already.”

The heat creeps to my cheeks and I confess that I don’t really know much about him, so he fills me in. He tells me about his time in college, and when he tells me the year he graduated I can’t help but laugh.

So does he. “You weren’t even thinking of college then were you?”

“I was ten, so no.”

He got married younger than he intended—a couple of years after he and his college girlfriend graduated. It recently ended, but of course I knew that already. She’d had an affair. Left him for another man.

“That must have been hard,” I say.

“It was. It is hard,” he corrects. “I don’t want to say I was perfect, but I did love her and I did try to make her happy. I did the best I could, but I knew she regretted getting married so young, too.”

“You make getting married young sound like a bad idea,” I say, only half-joking.

“It’s not. Not with the right person. But I’ll admit that my thirty-two-year-old self is very, very different from my twenty-two-year-old self. The maturity that comes with age helps.”

“I didn’t have that luxury,” I confess. “I was insta-adult at eighteen.”

“Because of Nolan,” he says.

“Yes.”

“Having a kid will do that, I’m sure. I’m grateful Renee and I never had kids—not that I don’t love them or want them—but at least we had a fairly clean break. I couldn’t imagine dragging children through this.”

“Kids are surprisingly resilient,” I say. “Nolan . . . I still think of him as my ‘baby,’ but he’s a strong kid. A good kid. Not perfect,” I add. “But really, really wonderful.”

“I’m sure you have everything to do with that,” David says.

My face seers at the compliment. “I try. I just love watching him grow up. I can’t wait to see what he’s going to be like at ten and thirteen and eighteen—to see what kind of man he’s going to become.”

“Maybe like his father?”

I consider this for a moment before shaking my head. “Not necessarily.”

More like his uncle, I hope.

* * *

We step outside, back into the warm mid-summer evening. Somewhere the moon glows and stars shine, though I can’t see them for the buildings and light pollution from the city. Knowing they’re out there, though, is enough.

“Well, I appreciate the dessert,” I say as we head to our cars.

“Me, too. This was nice.”

“It was.”

He opens his mouth to say something else, before hesitating, laughing weakly.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“No, it’s okay. What were you going to say?” I ask.

“I was just thinking that, yes, this was nice, but I get the feeling that you’re going to continue being very busy.”

I laugh. “Summers are crazy in the wedding industry,” I agree.

“I thought so.”

“My mom was right, though, for what it’s worth. You’re a really nice guy and I did have a good time,” I say.

“But you’re not looking for anything permanent,” he finishes.

“I don’t think so. Not at the moment.”

He nods, understanding. “Well, at least we can tell our moms we finally made this date happen. That might appease them for a while.”

“Somewhat,” I agree.

“And maybe . . . I don’t know, if you’re ever in the mood for cheesecake one night, you know my number.”

“Yeah, absolutely.”

He leans in and gives me a soft kiss on my cheek before we head our separate ways, and I offer a quick wave as I pull out of the driveway, turning left to head home.

At the very next stoplight, I scroll through my contacts list. When I reach David, I hit delete.

Are you sure? The message asks.

Yes.

* * *

“The whole event is Hawaiian,” I explain. “She was a Navy brat. She grew up in Hawaii and now her father is some big-shot at the Pentagon. The islands are very important to her.”

I am on the phone with Nico when Hans enters my office, a large package in hand. I lift my finger to show him I’ll be done in a minute as Nico asks about the bride’s flower preferences. I sift through the pages of the wedding I’m working on. It’s still ten months out, but she wants her flowers imported. I scroll through the list. “She wants plumeria, pikaki, ti leaves, hibiscus, and white ginger.”

“She will want leis, too, yes?” Nico asks.

I bite back a smile. “Of course.”

“How many are we thinking?”

I flip to the beginning of the notebook. “The guest list is not finalized, but the tentative number is two-seventy-five.”

“Two seven five,” he repeats, and I assume he is writing this number down. “Got it.”

“So go ahead and give me a quote for the leis, seven bridesmaids’ bouquets, the bride’s bouquet, and boutonnieres for two sets of parents, two sets of grandparents, and at least six other special guests or attendees. I’ll also need petals for the flower girl—not roses. Thirty table arrangements for the reception. Three arrangements for other tables. Four large ceremony arrangements and two medium ones.”

“When you say ‘large,’ for the ceremony you mean . . . ?”

“They want the ceremony arrangements free-standing. By large, I think at least four feet. There will also be an arbor.”

“Okay, Claire. I will see what I can do with Hawaiian flowers. Give me a week to get a quote and some pictures together for you.”

“Thank you, Nico.”

By the time I hang up Hans has slipped out of my office. I assume he wandered down the hall to see Lynette, so I make a note that the flower quote for the Van Mechelen wedding will be in next week and call: “Hans, did you need to see me?”

A few seconds later a breathless Hans appears at my door, Lynette just behind him.

“Yes, doll. I have a special delivery that has your name written all over it.”

“My name,” I repeat. “I’m not expecting anything.”

“Hence the surprise nature of this delivery.” He passes the box over the desk. Though it’s big, it’s not very heavy. I set it down and take the letter opener from my pen holder and slice carefully through the clear tape. Lynette and Hans hang in my doorway, smiling—Hans bouncing like a schoolboy.

I open one fold. And then another. And another. Whatever it is it’s wrapped in tissue, so I pull those pieces away as well, letting them rustle to the floor.

And I’m not quite sure what it is I’m looking at, at first. I run fingers across the square pieces of fabric stitched together. Different colors. Different thicknesses. I pull it out of the box. It’s a quilt. A blanket. I place it on my desk. There is another one inside. This one is smaller. And a stuffed bear. The bear is made of blue and green flannel material. And I know it. As soon as I see it, I know I know this fabric.

I run fingers across the larger blanket. “Oh my God,” I mutter. “They’re his.”

White and blue and striped patches from his favorite dress shirts. T-shirts mixed in. Flannel. All of the shirts he wore.

“These are all Sean’s,” I tell them. “I thought Jesse got rid of them.”

“He did,” Hans says. “He dumped them at my place and said ‘I want you to make something beautiful for my Claire. No expense spared’.”

“Really?” I ask.

“Not quite in those words, but yes. He did this for you, baby. We were originally going to stick with the blanket, but there were so many pieces to choose from that we were able to make the large blanket for you, the smaller blanket for Nolan, and you two can fight over the bear.”

I laugh through the tears stinging my eyes. “You are kidding me,” I say, voice barely audible.

“Now your baby can have a piece of his daddy, too.”

“I—I don’t even know. . . .” I slip around my desk to hug him. “Thank you! Thank you so, so much for this.”

“You’re welcome, but I only stitched the pieces together. This is all Jesse.”

“Jesse,” I repeat.

“You could do worse, you know, than waking up next to someone every morning who worships the ground you walk on.”

I swallow back another laugh. “Did he say that, too?”

“Oh, honey, he didn’t have to,” Hans says.

“He doesn’t have to say anything,” Lynette adds. “We can all see it.”

I hug the blanket against my chest. A heavy lump thickens in my throat, closing it, and the world blurs as new tears spring to my eyes, slip past my cheeks.

Lynette enters, circles the desk to where I’m standing, grabbing a tissue from the shelf on the way. We keep the tissues close by because there is always at least one bridal breakdown during the planning process of every wedding. “Oh, sweetie,” she says, handing it to me.

I dab at my eyes and my nose, my lungs shuddering as I struggle to breathe. “I ruined . . . everything,” I manage. “I did these awful things. I said . . . awful things. I didn’t think he could ever forgive me.”

My phone rings and, on instinct, forcing myself into what might pass for “composure,” I reach for it. It’s Nico, probably with a question.

“Do not answer that phone, Claire,” Lynette demands.

“But it’s Nico. It’s important.”

“It’s always important, but Claire, I think you need a break.”

“No, I’m fine,” I insist, swiping away tears as quickly as they want to fall. “It’s fine.”

“But it’s not. You are not fine.” She exhales a sigh. “Look, I don’t know your story. I don’t know what you said or did. Or didn’t say or didn’t do. I don’t even know much of anything about Jesse except that he’s Sean’s brother and Nolan’s uncle and that he’s a really nice guy, and that, whatever happened between the two of you, I don’t think he’s holding anything against you. I saw him at that wedding. I watched him watch you. I saw how the two of you were together. And Claire? You were happy. You were genuinely, unapologetically happy. Now, I think you owe it to yourself—and to Jesse—to work through this because the two of you? You are a forever kind of couple. Do you hear what I’m saying? Forever. And I know that you know that I’m right.”

She grabs a stack of Post-its and a pen from my desk and scribbles something on top.

“You’re taking the week off.”

“What? Lynette—”

“You’re also going to call this number and set up an appointment with Dr. Lang,” she said. “He is wonderful. He doesn’t take on new patients often, but I did his daughter’s wedding. He owes me a favor.”

She rips the top Post-it away and hands it to me.

“A whole week?”

“Claire, you’re a hard worker and a good student and a wonderful mother. I am so proud of you and everything you’re working toward—all that you’ve already accomplished and all that you will—but you are of no use to me if you’re not taking care of yourself. Make the call. Take the week. I don’t want to see you in this office until next Tuesday.”

“But this weekend—”

“Jenn and I will handle it. And the rest of the weddings will be here when you return.”

I nod, even as I bite back a fresh round of tears.

* * *

Dr. Lang—the therapist Lynette recommended—appears to be in his early sixties. Glasses. Salt and pepper hair. Khaki pants and a polo shirt, like he’s heading to the golf course as soon as we’re done. The office isn’t as clinical as I thought it would be. No leather couch or white lab coats. He sits down in a club chair across from me and flips through my information.

“So I see this is an emergency session. Do you have another therapist you usually go to?” he asks.

“No. This is my first time seeing or talking to anybody, actually.”

“Okay. So tell me why now? What brought you here today?” He sets the papers aside but keeps a Moleskine notebook in his lap, similar to the one I use for work.

“It was Lynette’s idea.”

“And why do you think she made the suggestion?”

“I, um, had a bit of a breakdown at work today.” I exhale a quick breath. “I’m in love with the father of my child’s brother,” I confess.

“Your son or daughter’s uncle, then?”

“My son. Nolan. Yes. It’s his uncle.”

He makes a note of this. “Is he aware of your feelings for him?”

“We had a relationship that seemed like it was going somewhere.”

“May I ask if the child’s father knows you have feelings for his brother?”

I stifle a laugh. “Not unless his ghost is following me around, which, in that case, God, I hope not.”

“I’m sorry?” Dr. Lang says, adjusting his glasses.

“No. I’m sorry. It’s . . . humor. Bad timing. I’m sorry. No. He’s not in the picture anymore. He died just over four years ago.”

“I’m very sorry to hear that. May I ask what happened?”

“Car accident. It was my fault.”

Dr. Lang sits taller. “Okay. Do you want to start at the beginning? As far back as you feel you need to go.”

I take another deep breath.

Once upon a time. . . .

“My dad’s company transferred him the summer just before seventh grade. We bought a house and moved here. I was sitting on the lawn reading beneath the oak tree out front while the guys unloaded our boxes and furniture. It’s not like I could do anything to help so I was trying to stay out of the way.” I laugh, remembering. “I was always in the way. And then a boy from the neighborhood rode by on his bike. He slowed when he saw me, but kept going. A few minutes later he came around again. This time, he stopped to say hello. His name was Jesse.”