Chapter Twenty-eight
Ryan’s wedding is beautiful, but even after he and Danielle depart for their honeymoon, the reception goes on.
And on. And . . . on. It is well into the wee hours of Sunday morning before we return to our hotel suite, but sleep eludes me.
Finally, when dawn peeks through the curtains, I head down to the lobby for the hotel’s continental breakfast.
Surprisingly, Gretchen is already dressed and sitting at a table.
Seeing me, my sister lifts one perfectly sculpted eyebrow. “You look terrible.”
“Thanks.” I plop in a chair and dump cereal and milk into a bowl. “How do you look so good? You had the same weekend I did.”
“It’s called makeup, honey. You should try it. You look like the living dead.”
“Yeah. Feel that way, too.”
I pick up the spoon and dig it into the cereal and then pull it out and do it again without taking a bite.
Three days. He’s leaving in three days. I can’t get it out of my head.
“Who’s leaving in three days?”
I blink. Look up. “Did I say that out loud?”
“Uh, duh. So . . . ?”
“Noah.”
“Oh, that’s right. I talked to him at Smoked Salt a couple of weeks ago. He waited on me and Justin one night.”
“How nice for you.” I scowl at my bowl. “Mom forbade me from eating there.”
Thankfully, Gretchen doesn’t respond to my surliness. “You know, you have pretty good taste, kid. I mean, sure, Noah’s always been a nice guy. Most guys that cute are just, well . . .” She pauses and then crosses her arms and glares out the window. “They’re just so stinking full of themselves.”
Gretchen shakes off her scowl and looks at me. “What I mean to say is that Noah’s not like that. Not at all. I tell you, Faith, if you didn’t still have a thing for him, I might . . .” She laughs.
Classic Gretchen.
“Oh, don’t look so murderous. I’m kidding. Even if I chased, I don’t think I’d catch one like him.”
I stir my cereal some more. “What’s wrong with Mr. Perfect?”
“Yeah, Noah’s pretty close to perfect. Maybe too perfect, if you know what I mean.” Gretchen drums her French manicure on the table top. “You know, Mom might be on to something there. I mean, when a guy seems that good, there’s usually something seriously wrong with him.”
“There’s nothing wrong with Noah. Please.” I roll my eyes. “But I wasn’t talking about him. I meant Justin the Great. Your perfect boyfriend. The one our parents adore.”
“Oh. Him.” Gretchen purses her lips and looks out the window. “Yeah, they do love him. He’s purr-fect.” She says the word with distaste. “But . . . case in point.”
“Gretchen?” I bite my lip. Sure, Justin gives me the creeps a little, but is he worse than I thought? “Justin’s not, like, abusive or anything, is he?”
“Abusive?” Gretchen snorts. “Hardly. But thanks for asking.” She smiles, and I’m touched by the warmth, the tenderness of it. “That’s sweet. My little sister is worried about me.”
“I just don’t want you to get hurt by some stupid preppy jerk.” I wince when I realize how pointed that comment was toward Justin. “Uh, sorry.”
“Don’t be.” Gretchen laughs. “It’s actually refreshing to hear someone in this family call Justin a stupid jerk. Everyone else seems to think he’s God’s gift.”
“Where is he, anyway?”
“Still asleep, I guess. I don’t really care.”
“Oh. Are you guys . . . having problems?”
“Are we having problems? No. Everything is super. Just, super.” Gretchen taps her nails again.
“Justin gets to show me off to all his buddies and impress his family that my dad’s a cardiologist. Woo-hoo.
” She makes air circles with her index fingers.
“And I get to bring him home and have Mom be happy about something I scored that doesn’t involve a volleyball. Yay for me.”
The way she says it doesn’t sound nearly as big-headed as it could have.
“Justin had the best time last night,” she says, her face a bright beacon of sarcasm.
“I mean, who wouldn’t love having Janet Prescott take him around and introduce him to all the relatives, gushing about how wonderful he is and how good we look together, and what a bright future he has ahead of him and—”
When I giggle at her impression of Mom, Gretchen stops and grins.
“Mom was laying some pretty serious hints about engagement rings in Justin’s ear at the reception,” I say.
“Mom had way too much champagne. I could have strangled her.”
“You and me both. She made me dance with that one old guy. Great Uncle Fester or something.”
“Foster.” Laughter bubbles through Gretchen’s voice. “Great Uncle Foster. Yeah, he’s a winner.”
“He was trying to look down the front of my dress the whole time I was dancing with him!”
“That sounds about right.” Gretchen tilts back in her chair and laughs. “He’s a total perv. Mom used to make me dance with him, too, at the family weddings. But now I have Jus-tin.” She says his name in a singsong voice and draws an imaginary heart in front of her face.
“Lucky you. When I told Mom that Uncle Fes—Uncle Foster was a dirty old man, she compared him to Noah.”
“Ha!”
I give her my most poisonous glare, which I’m guessing is pretty scary for real this morning, once you factor in my sleepless night.
“Aw, Faithy.” She pats my arm. “Mom had too much champagne. She didn’t mean it. Probably.” She frowns. “Eat. Your cereal’s getting soggy.”
“I’m not really hungry.” I slump back in my chair. “Noah’s leaving for London in three days, and I didn’t even get to say good-bye.”
“You really like him that much?”
“Yes, I like him ‘that much.’ He’s my best friend.” I inhale a shaky breath. “But it’s more than that, Gretch.” My eyes burn. “I love him. I really do love him.”
Gretchen studies me for a long moment. “I’m sorry you’re hurting. Really. The way Mom treated Noah was not cool.”
“Thanks.”
“I’m sorry you had to deal with that. And I’m sorry I didn’t stick up for you.
Not that it would have done any good. I mean, it’s Mom.
I know how she gets.” Gretchen’s sigh holds the most compassion I’ve ever heard from her.
“But you’re a smart girl. If you really want to see him before he leaves, you’ll think of something. You still have three days, right?”