The Week Before the Wedding Page 11

“I have feelings for him, okay? Warm, caring feelings.”

  “Ew.”

  “It’s true. In the deepest, darkest part of my soul, I want to hold hands with him at the opera.” Emily let out a little squeak of despair. “I told you, I need to be slapped.”

  Summer put down her glass. “Believe me, it’s taking all my self-control to hold back.”

  “And this is all his fault! The last time we went out, he told me a bunch of stories about how he went to his nieces’ ballet recitals and how he hires a snowplow service to make sure his mom’s driveway is clear in the winter.”

  Summer shook her head. “That bastard.”

  “I don’t do relationships,” Emily cried. “This was just supposed to be a fun little fling.”

  “But he refuses to be flung.”

  “Exactly. He’s making me have feelings. And now I’m getting attached.” She slammed her open palm against her leg. “Damn it!”

  Summer regarded her with disgust. “Holding hands at the opera. My God. Someone’s seen Pretty Woman too many times.”

  “Take it up with my subconscious.”

  Summer twirled her straw, considering the options. “Okay, so you have feelings for him. So you’re getting attached. So go for it, right?”

  “I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  Emily struggled to explain this, as much to herself as to her best friend. “Because he’s perfect. Smart and successful and stable and sweet, and I’m…” Her shoulders sagged. “I’m me.”

  “All of a sudden you have an inferiority complex?” Summer demanded. “Knock it off. It’s boring, and also, self-doubt is not a good look for you.”

  Emily took a deep breath and tried to explain. “I don’t feel inferior, exactly, but he’s always been all about self-control and delayed gratification, and I have not. You know I have not. I’ve tried to tell him a little bit about how I used to be, but I don’t think he gets it.”

  “He probably loves it,” Summer said. “Good guys can’t resist reformed bad girls. All the naughtiness with none of the drama.”

  “The point is, I’m not his type.”

  “Well, you kind of are. He’s a surgeon and you’re a fancy-pants financial executive.”

  “Which is why he thinks I’m his type.”

  “And so he keeps asking you out and you keep saying yes.”

  Emily sighed with resignation. “Yeah.”

  “Well, what’s the worst that could happen? You hold hands for a while? You fall in love and live happily ever after?”

  They both laughed, and Emily said, “Now who’s seen Pretty Woman too many times?”

  Grant never actually took Emily to the opera, but they did hold hands a lot: at coffee shops, at hospital events, at Grant’s apartment.

  One blustery Sunday in April, while the wind blew so hard that the rain seemed to be falling sideways, Grant paused in the middle of getting ready for work and asked her, “If you could go anywhere in the world, where would you go?”

  “Right now?” She stopped reading through work e-mail on her laptop and glanced out the window at the dark skies. “Bora-Bora sounds pretty good.”

  He yanked a blue scrub shirt over his head and started across the room toward her. She moved her computer to the coffee table so he could sit down next to her on the sofa. After he kissed her, he pulled her against his chest and said, “Bora-Bora, huh?”

  She rubbed her cheek against the soft, thin fabric. Scrubs felt even more comfy than pajamas, which was why she loved to steal his at any opportunity. Even the faint trace of surgical soap that clung to his skin smelled appealing to her. “Yeah. Although, to be honest, I’m not even sure where it is.” She leaned forward, opened a new browser on her laptop and did a quick Internet search.

  “Over by Tahiti, I think,” he said.

  “You’re right; there it is.” Emily scanned the Web site of a luxury resort. “Ooh, look at this place. It’s got an actual marine biologist on staff to take you snorkeling.”

  “Let’s go.” Grant stood up and reached into his pocket.

  She blinked. “Right now? I thought you had to go to work.”

  “No, I mean for our honeymoon.” He dropped to the hardwood floor next to the sofa. His knee hit the floor with a thud.

  Emily sucked in a breath. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine,” he insisted. “Don’t ruin the moment. I’m proposing here.”

  She stared at him, shocked into speechlessness.

  He took her hand in his and offered up a black velvet jeweler’s box. “Emily McKellips, will you marry me?”

  She couldn’t focus on the sparkly diamond ring. She was too busy trying to process the fact that yes, this really was happening. They hadn’t been dating that long, and they’d certainly never discussed marriage. She’d had no clue he was even considering it.

  He rushed to fill the silence. “Angel, I may not be the smartest man in the world—”

  At this, she burst out laughing. “Oh, let’s be real. Yes, you are.”

  “—but I know what I want when I see it. I always said that if I found a woman who is everything I want—who is sweet and selfless and beautiful and brilliant—that I would be smart enough to stop looking and settle down. And that’s you, Emily. You’re everything I want. You’re perfect for me.” He appealed to her with earnest blue eyes. “Come to Boston with me. Be my wife.”

  Reeling with surprise and disbelief, she tried to stay in the moment as he slid the ring onto her finger. “Yes. Yes, I will marry you.”

  He got back up, but before he could kiss her, she added, “On one condition.”

  “Anything,” he agreed.

  “You have to let me ice your knee.”

  He laughed. “You’re a tough girl to sweep off her feet.”

  “You have to stand at the OR table for hours at a time,” she pointed out. “You need your knees.” She was filling up a plastic bag with ice cubes when Grant’s pager buzzed.

  He glanced at it, frowned, and strode toward the door. “Damn. I have to go.”

  “Wait!” Emily finished assembling the ice pack. “Your knee.”

  “My knee will heal,” he assured her. “I’m more concerned about this guy’s heart. I should be home around eight. Make reservations, and we’ll have dinner to celebrate.” He grabbed a thermos of coffee and his black leather briefcase on his way out. “Love you forever.”

  “Love you forever,” she echoed, and after he shut the door behind him, she had a moment of delicious solitude. She slid the ring between the base and the knuckle of her finger, basking in quiet joy.

  She didn’t feel like she was in a fairy tale. She wasn’t hoping for happily ever after.

  Real life—real love—was going to be so much better.

  “What the hell?” Summer had gone apoplectic upon hearing the news. “How are you engaged? I haven’t even met this guy!”

  “Only because you both have ridiculous work schedules. He’s always at the hospital and you’re always on some flight to Europe.”

  “But isn’t it too soon to be getting engaged? You’ve only been dating him for…?”

  “It’s been, like, eight months,” Emily said. “Miss Frequent Flier.”

  “Has it really been that long? Lemme see.” Summer grabbed Emily’s hand and checked out the ring. “Classic setting, lovely stone. Well done.”

  Emily helped herself to a bit of Summer’s chocolate torte and fanned out her fingers so she could admire the diamond for herself. “It was his grandmother’s.”

  “Of course it was.”

  “And we’re going to Bora-Bora for our honeymoon.”

  “Of course you are.”

  “I know, I know, I’m all gushy and obnoxious.”

  “No, you’re just happy.” Summer hesitated a few seconds before adding, “Really happy. I haven’t seen you this happy since…”

  “Since when?” Emily prompted.

  “Well, since you and Ryan—”

&nb
sp; Emily practically spat out her cake. “Don’t you even speak his name. I wasn’t happy with Ryan. Not really. I was just hopped up on hormones and fantasies.”

  “If you say so.”

  “I do say so! Ryan was an immature, delusional jackass, and Grant is—”

  “The perfect doctor from the perfect family with the perfect engagement ring. I heard.”

  “He’s not perfect,” Emily said. “I don’t think that anymore. He’s great, and his family is great, but he’s not perfect. He’s just perfect for me.”

  Summer leveled her fork at Emily. “Be that as it may, you’re not officially engaged until I approve the guy. When are we meeting?”

  The three of them had dinner a few days later, and as the appetizers arrived, Summer pulled an index card out of her bag and began interviewing him like a job candidate. “So, Grant. Did you always know you wanted to be a surgeon?”

  “I actually worked as an EMT for a couple of years after college,” Grant said. “Our job was to get patients stabilized and drop them off at the hospital, but after a while, I couldn’t stand to leave them at the ER doors. I wanted to go in there and finish the job.”

  Summer scribbled down a few notes. “So you decided to go to medical school?”

  “Yeah. I had to go back and take some upper-level science courses, and some math.”

  “And you kept working as an EMT while you took classes?”

  Grant nodded. “Had no life. But it was worth it.”

  “And what about now?” If Summer had been wearing glasses, she would have been peering over the top rims. “Do you have a life now?”

  He grinned. “I’m building one with Emily. That count?”

  Emily snatched Summer’s index card away. “Will that be all, counselor?”

  “No further questions. For now.” But when Grant turned away, Summer caught Emily’s gaze and mouthed, “I love him.”

  Emily rested her hand on Grant’s shoulder and mouthed back, “Me, too.”

  She loved Grant then and she loved him now. She never had doubts about him.

  All of her doubts stemmed from herself.

  She could hear a dog barking out by the lake, and she imagined that it was Ripley, out for a late-night romp with Ryan.

  Unruly, unpredictable Ryan Lassiter with his dark hair and his trusty canine sidekick and her name etched indelibly into his skin.

  Why was he here? Why now?

  And why couldn’t she keep her mind off him?

  The barking stopped and she finally fell asleep, but she didn’t dream about holding hands with her future husband. Instead, for the first time in years, she dreamed about her ex-husband, and in her dream, she and Ryan were doing a lot more than holding hands.

  And when she woke up the next morning, sweaty and shaken, Grant’s side of the bed was empty.

  “Why are we doing this, again?” Summer huffed and puffed next to Emily as they jogged down the gravel path that led to the lakeside trail.

  “I run every morning,” Emily said. Unlike Summer, she hadn’t yet broken a sweat or started to breathe hard. Instead, her mind started to warm up along with her body. She could feel her fatigue and stress fall away as her leg muscles settled into a steady, familiar stride. Cold speckles of early-morning dew splashed across her ankles as she ran. “It’s important for my mental and physical health. And for making sure I fit in my wedding dress.”

  “Really?” Summer hocked a loogie into the underbrush. “You’re going to be one of those distorted-body-image brides? I thought you were better than that.”

  “This isn’t about body image,” Emily countered. “It’s about a twenty-six-inch waistline. And that’s with the side seams let out.”

  “So why are you torturing yourself into this dress? I’m sure Georgia would have let you borrow her Vera Wang. The one with the little ruffly pleats in the back? That one was gorgeous.”

  “Don’t start with the Vera Wang. I already got an earful from my mom.” Emily glanced at the heart rate monitor on her wrist and picked up the pace. “But Grant’s mom and grandmother got married in this gown. It’s a family heirloom. It’s tradition.”

  Summer grabbed Emily’s arm and slowed the pace back down. “Tradition’s great, but just remember you have a family, too. I know we’re not white picket fence material, but we’re awesome in our own way.”

  “Last Christmas, you were working on a flight to Paris and my mother was in Hawaii with some guy she met online,” Emily said. “So sue me if I want a normal family with normal holiday traditions.”

  “Normal is just another word for boring.”

  “Not on my wedding day. Not on Christmas. I want Currier and Ives, baby. I want sleigh rides and snowball fights and homemade cookies. I want hot cocoa and marshmallows and chestnuts roasting on an open fire.”

  “Great.” Summer wheezed. “Now I’m starving.”

  “Just a few more miles,” Emily urged. “Then we’ll have some egg whites and fresh strawberries at the Lodge.”

  “A few more miles?” Summer slowed from a jog to a walk. “I quit. And let me just say this about your precious in-laws: The only reason they seem normal is because you don’t know them well enough.”

  “That’s not true. They’re the kind of family I always wanted. Everyone loves one another. They all get along and want the best for each other.”

  Summer rolled her eyes. “No, they don’t.”

  “Yes, they do.”

  “Bullshit. Every family has problems.”

  “Not the Cardins. You saw Bev and her sisters yesterday. They’re like the three musketeers. Three jolly little peas in a pod.”

  “Eh.” Summer waved this away. “They’re probably just repressing their true feelings of rage and resentment.”

  “Why is it so hard for you to believe that a healthy, happy extended family exists in real life?”

  “Because my job involves taking cross-Atlantic flights with large groups of people. I’ve seen families just as shiny and happy as the Cardins crack under the pressure: flight delays, sleep deprivation, financial extortion for packets of pretzels. The stress gets to them and they turn on each other two hours before landing. It’s ugly.”

  Emily laughed. “You’re crazy.”

  “I’m telling you, the three musketeers are either hiding something or they’re heavily medicated. Wait and see.”

  Emily tugged Summer back into a run. When they veered right at a trio of pine trees, the shores of Valentine Lake appeared before them. The water was dark and calm, with a heavy gray shroud of fog blanketing the surface. Emily could hear the gentle lapping of the waves between her breaths. “See? Isn’t this lovely?”

  “It’d be a lot more lovely if my heart weren’t about to explode.” Summer clutched her chest dramatically. “You know, I don’t remember you running in college. Or getting up at the crack of dawn.”

  “Grant got me started. He runs every morning. He calls it the ‘Five at Five’—five miles at five o’clock.”

  “That’s a prison sentence, not a workout.”

  “You get used to it. He convinced me to give it a try, and now I love it. It helps me stay focused and energized.”

  But that wasn’t strictly true, she realized as she slowed her pace to accommodate Summer’s struggle to keep up. She hated dragging herself out of bed while it was still dark outside, and she’d never been able to find “The Zone”—the peaceful euphoria Grant claimed to experience while sprinting through rain and sleet and suffocating humidity. But she always got up, with or without Grant, and she always ran the whole distance without shortcuts or complaints. To prove that she had finally developed discipline. To prove that she had evolved beyond the flighty, fickle girl she used to be.

  “Okay, I’m out.” Summer grabbed the hem of Emily’s shirt as she sagged against a tree trunk, gasping for breath. “If you need a running buddy, go find Grant. Me? I’m your drinking buddy.”

  “Come on. Don’t you want to push yourself?”


  Summer gave her a withering look. “Don’t you want to just chill out for once?”

  Emily tightened her ponytail and tried to forget about her target heart rate. “Yes. You have no idea.”

  “Great. Let’s start right now.” Summer trudged toward the beach. “I hardly even recognize you these days. You’re so…so…”

  “So what?” Emily asked, even though she was a little afraid to hear the answer.

  “So proper. Serving punch and pastry, wearing your mother-in-law’s wedding dress, running five miles every morning…Honestly, Em, what happened to you? You used to be so happy-go-lucky.”

  “I was out of control,” Emily corrected. “I had no structure, no sense of balance.”

  “But you were happy.”

  “I thought I was happy.”

  “Oh, sell that crap somewhere else.” Summer collapsed into the damp sand, heedless of her pristine white shorts. “I was there, remember? You were happy, full stop, end of discussion. You were a crazy desperado, but you were happy.”

  “I’m still happy,” Emily said. Yet she seemed incapable of following her friend onto the beach. She couldn’t bear to think of all those gritty grains of sand getting into her socks, her shoes, her toes. “Plus, now I have clean baseboards and the cholesterol levels of a teenager.”

  “Clean baseboards?” Summer made a face. “I wouldn’t brag about that.” She turned her face into the sun that was starting to stream through the morning mist. “Lord. You and Grant are so perfect, it’s a little frightening. Ken and Barbie in their dream house.”

  “Now, now. I haven’t found the dream house,” Emily argued. “Yet.”

  “You know everyone in your new neighborhood is going to hate your guts.”

  “Oh no, they won’t. Not after I bring them all homemade cookies at Christmas.”

  “Puke.”

  “Why are you being so negative?” Emily gave up worrying about sand stains and sat down next to Summer. “I thought you liked Grant.”

  “I do like him. But I love you, and I want to make sure you really know what you’re getting into.”

  “Grant is everything I want in a man: He’s kind; he’s smart; he’s family oriented. Our relationship is built on mutual trust and respect. We’re adults, you know?” Emily paused. “Plus, he can cook. I really can’t overstate the importance of that.”