8 #2
“There she is,” says a guy with blond hair and a smile that probably gets him in trouble. “We were wondering where West’s been hiding you.”
“Damn, West,” says another one. “No wonder you’ve been keeping her to yourself.”
“Shut up, Hurley,” West says, but he’s smiling. His hand finds the small of my back, and I can feel him standing a little taller.
“I’m Hurley,” the blond guy says, extending his hand. “The good-looking one.”
“I’m Liv,” I say, shaking his hand. “The one with good judgment.”
The room erupts in laughter and “ooohs,” and I feel some of the tension leave my shoulders.
“I like her already,” says a guy with dark hair and kind eyes. “I’m Marcus. The girls are getting ready with Chelsea.”
“Guys,” Hurley says, raising his beer bottle. “To the groom. May he survive his wedding day and the hangover that follows.”
“To Reed!” everyone choruses, raising their bottles.
West hands me a beer, and I raise it with everyone else, feeling like I’m being welcomed into some kind of brotherhood family. They have smiling faces and a warmth with each other that makes me happy. I glance at West, enjoying the fact that he’s part of this.
“To Reed,” I say, and West smiles, drinking with me.
The guys launch into conversation, and I steal a glance at West.
He’s watching me with something that looks dangerously like pride.
Like he’s genuinely happy I’m here.
Like this isn’t fake at all.
9
The beer is cold, the guys are loud, and Liv is laughing at something Hurley said that’s probably inappropriate but harmless.
I should be relaxed. This is exactly what I wanted.
Instead, I’m standing here with a death grip on my beer bottle, watching Liv fit seamlessly into my world like she’s always belonged here.
Which is a problem.
Because she doesn’t belong here. She’s not actually my girlfriend. She’s doing me a favor, and in two days she’ll be back in LA until the next wedding.
But watching her now, the way she throws her head back when she laughs, the way she’s already memorized everyone’s names, the way Marcus is showing her pictures of Gabby on his phone like she’s family, I can’t shake the feeling that I don’t want it to be over.
“Yo, West,” Hurley says, appearing at my elbow. “Your girl’s got a mouth on her.”
“What?”
“I was telling her about the time you got stuck in that revolving door in Toronto, and she said it explains a lot about your hockey career.”
“She said what?”
“Something about how you approach problems by just pushing harder instead of thinking them through.”
I look over at Liv, who’s now deep in conversation with Reed about something that’s making them both laugh.
“She’s not wrong,” I say.
“Nah, she’s not. But she’s funny as hell. Where’d you find her?”
“She’s Tessa’s best friend. We’ve known each other forever.”
“And you just decided to make a move?”
“Something like that.”
“Good for you, man. She’s way too good for you.”
“Thanks for… that.”
“Anytime.”
Reed claps his hands together. “Alright, boys. Time to head over to the Airbnb. Ceremony starts in an hour.”
We pile into cars, and I end up driving Liv, Hurley, and Marcus to the venue, which turns out to be a large house with a backyard that’s been transformed for the wedding.
String lights are hung between trees, folding chairs are arranged in neat rows, and there’s an arch made of flowers at the front where Reed and Chelsea will exchange vows.
“This is beautiful,” Liv says, and she sounds like she means it.
“Chelsea did all the decorating herself,” I tell her. “She’s been planning this for months.”
“It shows. It’s perfect.”
We find seats in the third row, and I’m hyperaware of every point where we’re touching. Her shoulder against mine. Her hand resting on the armrest between us.
When the music starts and Chelsea walks down the aisle, I should be watching the bride. She looks beautiful, radiant, happy, everything a bride should be.
But I can’t stop looking at Liv.
The way she smiles when Chelsea reaches Reed. The way her face softens during the vows. The way she bites her lip when Reed starts talking about how Chelsea makes him want to be a better man.
Without thinking, I reach over and take her hand.
She smiles and doesn’t let go.
Reed’s vows are unexpectedly emotional. He talks about finding someone who challenges him to be better, who feels like home.
Chelsea’s crying. Liv’s tearing up. And I’m sitting here holding the hand of someone who’s being paid to pretend to care about me, wondering what it would feel like if this were real.
“You may kiss the bride,” the officiant says, and the small crowd erupts in cheers.
Liv squeezes my hand, and when I look at her, there are actual tears in her eyes.
“That was beautiful,” she whispers.
“Yeah,” I say, but I’m not talking about the ceremony.
After Reed and Chelsea head off for photos, we help move chairs and clean up the ceremony space before heading to the community center for the reception.
The community center has been transformed with more string lights, simple centerpieces, and a DJ set up in the corner playing music that’s just loud enough to create atmosphere without drowning out conversation.
When Reed and Chelsea arrive at five, the small crowd of maybe forty people cheers like they’re arriving at Madison Square Garden.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the DJ announces, “Mr. and Mrs. Reed Hendrix!”
They do their first dance, and I keep my hand on Liv’s lower back as we watch from the edge of the dance floor.
“They look happy,” she says.
“They are happy. Reed almost lost his career over her.”
“Really?” she asks, surprised. “I’m glad it worked out for them.”
“Me, too.”
I move my hand from her back to her wrist, then to her hip, and each touch feels natural and intentional and completely right.
Which is completely wrong, but I can’t seem to stop myself.
Dinner is served buffet-style. It’s nothing fancy, just good food and good company. I’m cutting into my chicken when I notice Liv struggling with hers.
“Here,” I say, reaching over with my fork and knife.
“I can cut my own food, West.”
“You’re taking forever.”
“I’m being careful.”
“You’re being slow.” I cut a piece of her chicken and put it on her fork. “There. Problem solved.”
She picks up her butter knife and points it at me. “Do that again and you’ll be eating through a straw.”
“Promises, promises.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I. You’re cute when you’re threatening me with cutlery.”
She rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling, and I realize we’re flirting.
Actually flirting.
Like a real couple.
The toasts start after dinner, and they’re exactly what I expected from the guys.
Hurley goes first, and his speech is a barely coherent ramble about the time Reed got food poisoning before a game and played anyway.
“And that’s when I knew,” Hurley concludes, raising his beer, “that Reed would do anything for the people he loves. Even play hockey while actively dying.”
“That’s not romantic!” Gabby shouts from across the room.
“It’s romantic if you’re a hockey player!” Hurley shouts back.
Colton goes next, and his toast is surprisingly poetic, something about finding someone who makes the ordinary feel extraordinary, who turns a house into a home.
“To Reed and Chelsea,” he finishes, “may you always find magic in the mundane.”
Everyone raises their glasses, and I catch Liv wiping her eyes again.
“You’re emotional tonight,” I tell her.
“I’m a sucker for love stories.”
The dancing starts around eight. I dance with Liv first, because that’s what boyfriends do, and she fits perfectly in my arms.
“You’re not a terrible dancer,” she says as we sway to some slow song.
“I took lessons.”
“You did not.”
“I did. Tessa made me when we were sixteen. Said I needed to know how to dance for my wedding someday.”
“And here we are practicing.”
“Here we are.”
The song ends, and before I can say something, Marcus is cutting in.
“Mind if I steal her?” he asks.
“Go ahead.”
I watch as she dances with Marcus, then Hurley, then Colton. She’s laughing and joking with all of them, and they’re eating it up.
She fits in too easily.
She’s not supposed to fit in this well. She’s supposed to be awkward and out of place, making it obvious that this is all pretend.
Instead, she’s charming everyone, making inside jokes with guys she met three hours ago, and looking like she belongs here more than I do.
“Enjoying yourself?” Reed asks, appearing at my elbow.
“Yeah, this has been great. Congratulations.”
“Thank you,” he says and then he looks over at Liv. “How long did you say you’ve been together?”
“Four months.”
“Four?” he questions like I might be lying.
I nod. “Yeah. We’ve known each other forever.”
“That explains it.” He claps my back, eyeing his bride across the dance floor. “That’s a good foundation.”
I nod in agreement. “Yeah.”
“You planning to keep her around?”
I look at Liv, who’s currently being twirled by Hurley while “Don’t Stop Believin’” plays, her cheeks flushed and her hair falling out of the careful style she started with.
“I’m planning to try,” I say, and realize I mean it.
The night continues, and I stay close to Liv but not too close. A hand on her back when we’re standing together. Fingers brushed against hers when I hand her a drink. Small touches that look casual but feel electric.
Around ten, the DJ puts on a song and the entire reception becomes a sing-along. Liv knows every word, shouting them at the top of her lungs with her arms in the air.
She looks young and happy and completely unselfconscious, and I realize I’m staring at her like an idiot.
“You good, man?” Colton asks, following my gaze.
“Yeah. Just watching her have fun.”
“She’s great. Really great. You did good.”
“Thanks.”
“Seriously. Hold onto that one.”
“Yeah.”
But even as I say it, I know it’s not that simple. Because she’ll be on a flight, and this will all be over until the next wedding, and I’ll be back to pretending I don’t care about her more than I should.
The song ends, and Liv bounces over to me, breathless and glowing.
“That was fun,” she says, grabbing my arm for balance.
“You’re a little drunk.”
“I’m a little happy.”
“Good drunk or bad drunk?”
“Good drunk. The best drunk. The kind of drunk where everything is funny, and everyone is beautiful and the world makes sense.”
“How many drinks have you had?”
“Not that many. Maybe three? Four? I’m not drunk drunk. I’m just... happy drunk.”
She’s swaying slightly, and her cheeks are pink, and she’s looking at me like I’m something wonderful.
I’m completely screwed.
Because somewhere between this morning and right now, between watching her fit seamlessly into my life and seeing her laugh with my friends and holding her hand during the ceremony, I’ve stopped pretending.
This isn’t fake anymore. At least not for me.
“Dance with me again?” she asks, tugging on my hand.
“Sure,” I say, and follow her back onto the dance floor.
The DJ puts on something slow and romantic, and I pull her close, closer than I need to for show.
“Thank you,” I say into her hair.
“For what?”
“For being here. For being perfect. For making this look real.”
“It doesn’t feel fake,” she says quietly.
“No,” I agree. “It doesn’t.”
We sway together in the middle of the community center dance floor, surrounded by string lights and the quiet conversations of people who are happy and in love, and I think about how Reed’s vows talked about finding someone who feels like home.
Liv feels like home.
And that’s a very big problem.
Because in thirty-six hours, she’ll be on a plane back to LA, and I’ll be alone again, pretending I never figured out what I’ve been looking for all this time.
I’ve been waiting for her.