Chapter Eighteen
WILL
I shuffle my feet and shove my hands in the pockets of my dress pants.
Across the pavilion, Morgan’s sitting alone at our table—not the kids’ table, after all.
Her purple dress flows to the floor, and the twinkle lights bathe her in a soft glow.
Other guests chat and laugh, mingling to the gentle acoustic guitar chords, but Morgan traces the condensation on her lemonade glass, a deep crease between her brows.
Man, even in her melancholy state, she’s stunning.
She’d been quiet during dinner, and it probably has everything to do with that phone call. I didn’t intend to see a text from her ex, but I did. And I recognized his stupid love-song ringtone.
Why hasn’t she changed it by now?
“Will, do you think your parents should join the boat club?”
I return my attention to my uncle Charlie. “Sure. That would be fun.”
He nods to Dad. “See? Your kids would love it. Worth every penny in the summertime.”
I’ve been standing with Dad and Mema, listening to Uncle Charlie drone on—well, half listening. Most of my brainpower seems to be routed toward keeping my chin from swiveling in Morgan’s direction. Not even the coveted boat club can claim my attention.
Everything feels different since that kiss, but while my heart and eyes linger on her lips, my head knows better. My brain has entered full-on self-preservation mode. Run the other way, it said. And so I did.
As soon as the meal ended, I left the table, mumbling some excuse about needing to talk to Mema.
Emma sat between Morgan and me at dinner, and while we both chatted with Emma, Morgan and I barely said two words to each other the entire meal.
Still, I have to keep reminding myself of all the reasons not to walk over there and see if she’s okay.
One—she’s a setup. Those never work.
Two—she lives far away and is in high school. I’m two months beyond that. Way too old for her.
Three—she doesn’t even like me and is pining over that other guy. Leo or whatever.
I’ve never met the guy, but do know he broke her heart, so I’m not a fan.
Yeah. That’s why I’m reacting this way. I’m protective of my new friend. And it’s why I hate that he wants to reconnect.
Riiight.
I did what I had to do. I have feelings I don’t want to have about a girl who is probably getting back with her ex. Self-preservation.
Morgan glances up, and I avert my gaze, pretending to be interested in Uncle Charlie’s boat story. Is he still talking about that? Did she catch my staring?
Eventually, our group scatters, and I’m left standing alone on the edge of the festivities.
“You look lost over here.” Hudson saunters over, his signature grin in place.
Emma follows, using her camera to boss everyone around. “Smile, you two.”
I fake one, and she snaps a photo.
“What are you doing over here by yourself?” Hudson leans against a support beam.
“Just thinking,” I mutter.
“About a certain bridesmaid, perhaps?” Emma frames another shot.
“What?” Why is everyone so nosy? I shove my rolled sleeves up my forearms. “No. Of course not.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Uh-huh. Keep telling yourself that.”
Emma snaps a photo of Morgan’s stoic expression. “Why don’t you go talk to her?”
“I don’t want to.”
“Yes, you do,” Hudson says.
“What is this—an interrogation?”
Hudson grins. “Maybe. We’re trying to get you to confess.”
“Confess what?”
“That you’re interested.”
I roll my eyes. “I’m about to tell your fiancé on you. She told you to stop bugging me about this.”
“Yes, but that was before I had evidence.”
“What are you talking about now?”
“Emma. Show him exhibit A.”
Emma flips her camera around and scrolls through her photos.
She tilts it my way when she finds what she’s looking for.
This photo was taken earlier at rehearsal.
Morgan and I are exiting the sanctuary arm in arm.
Our heads are turned toward each other, and she’s laughing.
I’m gazing at her with an easy—some might say, infatuated—smile. Clearly, she has my full attention.
“So? I told a joke. She laughed. Big deal.”
“Wait, there’s more.” She scrolls through photos in different settings—all of me gawking at or talking to Morgan. The last is from just a few minutes ago. Uncle Charlie is talking, and I’m staring across the room.
I laugh it off. “Emma, you’re creepy. You know that, right? How did you even take that?”
“I’m creepy?” She swats at my arm. “You’re the one staring at the beautiful girl who’s sitting all alone. Maybe she’s sad because you’re ignoring her.”
“She’s been ignoring me.”
Emma jams a fist onto her hip. “Go talk to her, big baby.”
My eyes go wide at this. “Whoa. Rude.”
She claps me on the shoulder. “Tough love, man. You need it.”
I sigh and crane around again. This time, Morgan’s looking at me, but she’s quick to duck her head.
“Well, that was interesting,” Hudson says. “As the cliché goes, you can cut the tension with a knife.”
“Can’t we please focus on your wedding? You’re getting married tomorrow. Big day and all.”
“I give you full permission to devote your attention to whatever’s going on here.” He indicates the vast space between Morgan and me.
“Admit it.” Emma bumps me with her shoulder. “You like her.”
“Okay, fine. I’m not not interested.”
My—um, well-meaning?—cousins high-five in front of my face, and then Emma steps back to snap a too-close photo of me. “I knew it. Called it.”
“You guys are so annoying.”
“But you love us.” He rubs his hands together. “So, what’s the plan? What are you going to do?”
“Plan? There’s no plan. She doesn’t even like me. Plus, her ex-boyfriend keeps calling. Maybe she still likes him.”
“Leo? That idiot? Nah.” He nudges me in Morgan’s direction. “Get over there, man.”
I don’t budge.
“All I’m saying is talk to her while you’ve got the chance. See where it goes. Maybe nowhere. Maybe somewhere. And a word of advice, give her a real apology for the ICEE incident, and especially the”—he pitches his voice low—“psycho comment.”
Sitting alone, Morgan pleats the edge of the tablecloth. He’s right, of course. My feeble whispered apology at dinner last night wasn’t worth much. And I didn’t even mean it. Before I have a chance to decide if I’ll go over there, Fran swoops in and takes the seat next to Morgan, chattering away.
The three of us stare in their direction. Hudson groans.
I rock back on my heels. “Great. She’s probably giving Morgan more to do.”
“Looks like I’m going to have to take matters into my own hands.” Hudson winks. Before I can ask what he means, he strides off.
“What’s he going to do?” I ask Emma.
“No idea.”
He approaches his fiancée and whispers in her ear. Ava nods, and a too-happy smile appears on her face.
“Oh no,” I mutter.
They step onto the small stage at the front of the pavilion.
“Attention, everyone!” Ava announces.
I have the sudden urge to bolt. What’s she about to say?
The guitar music halts, the crowd quiets, and Morgan and Fran turn in their seats.
I edge a step backward.
“We weren’t planning to do this tonight, but Hudson and I have decided we should practice our first dance for the reception tomorrow.”
I pause my retreat.
“If you can, we’d love for you to join in. Here’s how it will go. We’ll start it off, and after a minute or so, our parents and the bridal party should pair off and join us. Then, for the second song, everyone else should join in. Sound okay?”
With a buzz of agreement and excitement, people shuffle around the room.
Hudson leads Ava onto the dance floor and gives me a pointed glare when I’m slow to move from my spot. I try not to roll my eyes at his obvious matchmaking.
“Will,” he calls out, “you’ll be with Morgan.”
Emma and I groan in unison. “Did no one teach you guys the art of subtlety?”
She giggles. “Well, he is Fran’s future son-in-law. Now get over there before I call you a baby again.”
I shake my head and approach Morgan. Fran is talking again.
“Hey.” I try to sound casual, interrupting.
“Hi,” Morgan replies, her deep-brown eyes reflecting my nervous image.
“Sorry, Mrs. Thompson. But I need to steal Morgan away.”
“Oh, very well.” She stands, craning her neck over the crowd. “I need to find my husband. We’ve been practicing!”
Relief floods Morgan’s features as Fran retreats, heels click-clacking across the room.
I shuffle my feet. “Sounds like we’re dance partners.” Really, Will?
Morgan waves at Ava and Hudson, who gawk at us as they sway to the music. “I don’t think we have a choice.”
Based on that statement, I might think she didn’t want to dance. But she’s smiling, and laughter dances in her eyes.
I shrug. “Not when the creepy bride and groom are on a mission. Couple of stalkers.” I don’t voice what that mission is as I take her hand and lead her to the dance floor. She already knows.