Chapter 4 #3
"At least he gave you a heads up,” Emma says.
“Yeah, but you should have done that.”
“I hate having these types of conversations.
Fine," I say, closing my suitcase with enough force to probably damage the zipper.
It protests but holds, which is more than I can say for my emotional state.
"I'll plan your wedding. I'll work with your fiancé's pack of devastatingly handsome groomsmen.
I'll pretend that seeing them again doesn't make me want to reorganize their entire lives and then flee to another state with better coffee shops. "
"That's all I'm asking for."
"But Emma? If this goes badly, if I embarrass myself or ruin your perfect wedding or have some kind of public emotional breakdown in front of half of Pine Hollow, I'm blaming you entirely."
"That's completely fair."
I drag my suitcase to the front door, then remember I forgot my laptop charger.
Back to the bedroom. Then I remember my portfolio of wedding photos that I'll need to show other potential clients who might want to hire someone whose life isn't falling apart.
Back to the living room. Then I remember my good camera, the expensive one I bought when business was still promising instead of a cautionary tale.
This pattern continues for twenty minutes.
Suitcase to the door, remember something essential, back through the apartment like I'm following a treasure map drawn by someone with short-term memory loss.
My organizational skills, usually my greatest professional asset, seem to have abandoned me entirely.
I'm like a headless chicken with a business degree and anxiety issues.
Finally, suitcase by the door, laptop bag over my shoulder, portfolio in hand, I'm as ready as someone can be to return to the scene of multiple romantic crimes.
My apartment looks sad and empty, like a life on pause.
Bills stacked on the kitchen counter like a paper monument to financial stress.
Dishes in the sink forming their own ecosystem.
The broken coffee maker presiding over everything like a symbol of recent failures.
My phone buzzes one more time.
Me to Xavier: The ride would be great. Thank you for offering.
Xavier: Looking forward to seeing you again.
I stare at the message until the words start doing a little dance across my phone screen. Looking forward to seeing you again. Polite professional courtesy or something more meaningful? With Xavier, it's impossible to tell. The man could make a grocery list sound like a medical journal entry.
But he volunteered to pick me up from the bus station. That has to mean something. Or maybe it means he drew the short straw in whatever conversation led to this particular arrangement.
My phone buzzes again with a final message.
Emma: You're going to be absolutely fine. You're going to be amazing and professional and probably save my entire wedding from disaster.
Me: From your mouth to the universe's ears.
Emma: Love you, Sav. Thank you for doing this even though I'm clearly asking too much.
Me: Love you too. Even though you're obviously insane for thinking this will work out well for anyone involved.
I lock my apartment door and head for the elevator, dragging my suitcase behind me like it contains evidence of crimes I didn't commit.
The hallway smells like other people's cooking and the faint mustiness that comes with old carpet and broken dreams. In three months, I'll either return triumphant with enough money to save Bourbon Bliss Weddings, or I'll return completely defeated with my heart broken in three new and creative ways.
The bus station downtown smells like diesel fuel and anxiety with high notes of regret and questionable life choices.
I buy coffee from the vending machine, bitter liquid that barely qualifies as caffeine but gives my hands something to hold while I wait for my chariot to emotional chaos.
My phone shows seventeen more minutes until departure.
I find a seat near the departure gate and watch other travelers shuffle past with their own burdens and destinations.
A mother with two small children, heading somewhere that requires three suitcases and a stroller that looks like it could survive the apocalypse.
An elderly man with a single worn duffel bag, moving carefully like his bones hurt from carrying too many years.
A college student with a backpack and headphones, lost in whatever music makes waiting bearable when you're young enough to think everything will work out.
Everyone going somewhere else, leaving something behind. Story of my entire life, really.
My phone buzzes with one final text from Emma.
Emma: P.S. - You should know they ask about you sometimes. All three of them. I thought you should know that too.
Maybe Emma's right. Maybe people actually do change.
Maybe this wedding is exactly what I need to find out who we all became while we were busy avoiding each other.
The bus arrives with a hiss of hydraulic brakes and diesel exhaust that makes me cough like a Victorian heroine with consumption.
I gather my belongings and join the line of passengers boarding for Pine Hollow, my suitcase wheels sticking on the uneven pavement because apparently even inanimate objects are conspiring against me today.
Clumsy. Still clumsy after all these years. Some things never change, no matter how much you want them to.
But as I find my seat and watch Colorado fade through the dirty bus window, I allow myself to imagine what it might be like to see Xavier again. His careful smile, his mint-scented professional composure, his way of making everything seem manageable even when it's completely falling apart.
Logan with his storm-gray eyes and steady presence that used to make me feel safe until it made me feel trapped. Griff with his easy charm and capable hands that built beautiful things until they built walls between us that I couldn't climb over.
Universe, if you're listening and not actively plotting against me, I could really use this one to go right. Just once. Please?
(Note to self: stop negotiating with the universe. It clearly has commitment issues and a twisted sense of humor that makes my failed attempts at comedy look like Shakespeare.)