Chapter 52
Ellie
Everything has gone off without a hitch. In spite of my insistence that I am not a party planner, I do a damn good job at it. After hours of running around frantically, convinced that there was surely a disaster somewhere that I was missing, I’ve finally taken a moment to soak it all in.
“Ellie, you crushed it,” Connor, the footballer-turned-realtor whose name I have finally internalized, says, bumping my shoulder and handing me a glass of prosecco.
“No way, we crushed it,” I say, bumping him back. “You’re basically the Picasso of balloon arches.”
“Yeah, well, that’s what happens when you’ve got three kids who decided that balloon arches belong at every event, not just birthdays. You should have seen the turkey arch I made for Thanksgiving, that shit would have gotten me on Ellen back in the day.”
The balloon arch over the entrance truly is a work of art–we decided to lean into an elevated school dance aesthetic after coming to the realization that there’s simply no way to do a reunion that isn’t cheesy.
Streamers are twisted and hung artfully across the exposed wood beams, intertwined with fairy lights to add a soft glow.
But in lieu of a DJ, a live band in the back corner of the room plays classic country hits as people two-step around the black-and-white checkered dancefloor.
Instead of crappy punchbowls begging to be spiked, there are champagne flutes and whiskey glasses, and where there would typically be a corny photobooth, we’ve rented a 360 slow-motion video cam.
It’s not a desperate attempt to recreate the glory days–it’s a reminder of how we’ve grown, and the people we did it with.
“Well, I’ll know who to call for any of my balloon-arch related needs from now on.”
He squeezes my shoulders in a side-hug, grinning and waving as he walks away to join the boisterous group I’m assuming is the rest of the former Larkspur High varsity team.
My gaze sweeps slowly around the rest of the room, warmth blooming in my chest at the sight of so many familiar faces laughing and reminiscing. It’s exactly what we intended it to be–a walk down memory lane.
“Remember when–”
“Oh my God, that time you–”
“Can you believe we used to–”
I can’t help the smile that seems to be perma-plastered on my face. I make my way across the dance floor, stopping to say hi and begrudgingly accept praise from my classmates as I approach the food table.
“Have you seen Abby?” I ask Aaron–who knocked the catering out of the park, by the way.
“She was looking for you, I think,” he says, swapping fresh platters of hors d’oeuvres and mini desserts for the empty ones.
“There you are!”
I spin around and nearly get knocked to the floor by the wild mane of red curls that are clearly on a mission.
“I was just coming to find you,” I say, grasping her arm and regaining my footing after side-stepping less than gracefully to avoid a collision. “Do you know what time it is?”
“Time for you to get a watch!” Aaron yells from behind us, a bellow of laughter bursting from him as he slaps his knee gleefully at his own joke.
“You have got to give him a kid as soon as possible so he at least has an excuse for the dad jokes,” I tease.
“Yeah, okay,” Abby says, rolling her eyes. “Give it a few years, then we’ll talk.”
“More importantly,” she continues, her expression suddenly full of intense focus. “It’s time for you to go work your magic.”
My stomach swoops with nerves, and I swallow roughly. I have one final surprise in store for the night–but this one isn’t for the whole class. It’s for the boy I loved then, and the man I desperately want to love now.
“Okay,” I nod. “Can you hold down the fort? Find Tori if there are any emergencies.”
“There won’t be, now go on and get,” she says, shoving me toward the door that leads to the gardens. I laugh, but before I can exit, she grabs my wrist.
“You’re going to be fine,” she whispers in my ear, pulling me in for a hug. “There aren’t two people in this world more destined to be together than you two.”
Emotion rises in my throat, threatening to spill over when she fixes me with a stern look. “Don’t tell my husband I said that.”
I mime zipping my lips, walking backward toward the exit with my eyes still locked on hers.
“And don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!”
“That isn’t a very long list, my sweet ginger angel!” I yell over my shoulder, pushing the door open and stepping out into the cool evening air. I pause for a moment, closing my eyes and inhaling a shaky breath before I square my shoulders and walk determinedly toward the rose gardens.
I reach the entrance, an arrow pointing to the right hanging beneath a sign that says Memory Lane.
Glancing quickly around, I slip past the easel blocking the left side, a Do Not Enter sign propped up on it.
Originally, memory lane was supposed to be a full circle through the gardens, but I’ve commandeered the entire western half of the loop for one more Ellie Turner grand gesture.
I just hope to God it works.