Chapter 29 How to Tell Your Best Friend
HOW TO TELL YOUR BEST FRIEND
DAVINA
The fabric swatches were spread across my desk in color order, and inspiration boards were covering the floor. Right now, those boards were all Paris. Jewel-toned swatches pinned next to venue photos and silhouette sketches.
“The burgundy velvet is giving mother of the bride,” Marcus announced from across the room, holding up a swatch. “We need something that says we're taking over Paris, not that we brought a side dish.”
“The burgundy velvet is staying.” I didn't look up from the blazer sketch I'd been fussing with all morning. Structured shoulders, nipped waist. It was almost right. “It's rich, it photographs well, and we're keeping it.”
“It photographs like my grandmother's curtains.”
“Your grandmother has good taste.”
He made a pained sound and leaned back against his drafting table. Marcus was six-two and built like a linebacker, but he committed fully to the drama. I'd learned to work around it.
“Fine,” he said. “But when they call the collection aggressively cozy, that's on you.”
My phone buzzed. Fourth time in the last hour. Since the podcast went live yesterday, it hadn't really stopped. I'd been leaving most of it unread.
I grabbed the phone and knocked over my coffee. Cold latte spread across three swatches and the blazer sketch.
“Shit…”
“Did you just say shit?” Brooke's voice came through the speaker before I'd even said hello. “Because that's exactly what I said this morning when I checked my phone and found out my best friend got married without telling me.”
Marcus sat up straight.
“Brooke, I can explain…”
“Explain?” Her pitch climbed. “Davina Marie Lawson…”
“Lawson-Dodger. Or just Dodger.” I winced. Poor timing.
“Oh, so you know your own name. Interesting. I would've thought someone who knew their name might also use their best friend's phone number to share, I don't know, major life news.”
Marcus had fully stopped working. He was just watching me now.
“You were on your honeymoon,” I said, pressing a tissue to the coffee spill. It fell apart immediately. “In Italy. I didn't want to interrupt.”
“Matt and I were eating gelato in Florence when my phone started going off. I had to explain to a very concerned Italian waiter why the American woman was yelling at her screen while her husband watched his best friend get emotional on a podcast.”
“Dallas didn't cry.”
“His voice cracked. Same thing.”
I pressed two fingers to the bridge of my nose. Around me, the Paris boards looked annoyingly organized. I had a timeline. A plan. “Best friend finds out about Vegas marriage via international call while coffee destroys fabric” was not on the timeline.
“Can we start over?” I said. “Hi, Brooke. How's Italy?”
“Italy is lovely, and I was enjoying it until I found out my best friend got married without me.”
“You said that already.”
“I'm saying it again.”
Marcus had produced popcorn from somewhere. I genuinely had no idea where. The man was a problem.
I gave up on the swatches and walked to the window. “It happened fast,” I said. “We were already in Vegas for your wedding, and things just moved quickly.”
“Things moved quickly.” Her voice had come down a register. “That's your explanation.”
“Yes.”
“Three months ago, you called Dallas Dodger a testosterone-poisoned man-child with the emotional depth of a puddle.”
“I stand by the assessment.”
“You married him.”
“People are complicated.”
Silence. I could picture her in some Italian square, in a white dress, running through all her emotions.
“Okay,” she said finally, quieter now. “I watched the podcast. The whole thing, and then the clips again because Matt made me.” A pause. “But Davina. The way he talked about you. That wasn't a performance. That man is in love with you.”
I didn't say anything.
“The way he looked at you,” she said. “You can't fake that.”
“I don't know what we are,” I said, and the honesty came out before I could stop it. “I know it's real. Whatever it is, it's real. But it's also confusing. I'm a month out from Paris, and I can't think straight because he keeps looking at me like…”
“Like you're the answer to a question he didn't know he was asking?” She was quoting him back at me. I could hear her smiling. “Yeah. I caught that.”
“Don't.”
“Don't be happy for you? Don't want you to have someone who really sees you?”
My eyes were burning.
“I'm still mad,” Brooke added, but the edge was gone. “I missed your wedding. I didn't get to be there. I didn't get to stand beside you as your maid of honor or threaten Dallas within an inch of his life…”
“Delilah handled that part.”
She huffed out a laugh. “Your sister threatened him?”
“They had a conversation about surgical instruments and a detailed knowledge of anatomy.”
Brooke laughed, and the tension in my chest loosened. “God. Okay. You're not fully forgiven, but I love you, and when I'm back next week, I want the whole story. Every part of it. Including how you got from 'I'd rather eat glass' to 'I do.'“
“It's a long story.”
“I’ll make time.”
Marcus appeared at my elbow with a fresh cup of coffee. Peace offering, or fishing for information. Probably both.
“I have to go,” I told Brooke. “Paris doesn't care about my personal life, and Marcus has more feelings about velvet he needs to share.”
“The velvet is still a mistake,” Marcus said, not quietly.
“We're doing a dinner when you're back,” I said. “Everyone together.”
“Go make your show.” Her voice was warm. “But Davina, you deserve this. You deserve to be happy. Even if it's with a man-child.”
“I hate you.”
“Love you too. Tell your husband, welcome to the family, and that I know people.”
“You know Matt.”
“Matt is large and loyal. Close enough.”
The call ended. I stood there a minute, looking at my reflection in the window glass.
“So,” Marcus said. “Your husband. The wrestler.”
“Don't.”
“I'm just noting that you have a husband now, that went on a public podcast and said things that made the entire internet feel something.”
“Marcus.”
“I'm just saying if he ever wants to do a photoshoot, I have thoughts. Very tasteful thoughts. Low lighting, strong jaw…”
“Fired.”
“You say that every week.” He nodded toward the Paris boards. “Velvet or no velvet. That's the real question.”
I took a breath. The burgundy velvet was staying.
“Both,” I said, picking up my ruined sketch. “We're doing both.”