Chapter Twenty-Four
WILL
I pull at my collar as I sit on a step outside the chapel. Hudson paces in front of me, wearing a charcoal suit, and he can’t seem to stop fidgeting with the white rose of his boutonnière.
It’s fifteen minutes until go-time.
He’s a ball of nerves. Apparently, the feeling’s catching.
“Dude. You’re making me nervous.” I shake out my jitters. “You good? You’re not thinking about running, are you?”
He slows and gives me a look. When I grin, he relaxes his shoulders, and the corners of his mouth turn up. “No. No way. Just nervous. Big moment and all.”
“Understandable. Everyone will be staring at you.”
“Yeah. Thanks for that.”
“No problem.” I lean back and peek through the cracked doorway. “Looks like it’s almost time.”
The other groomsmen are seating the last of the guests in the elegantly transformed sanctuary.
The archway Morgan and I assembled is unrecognizable, adorned with white roses and an assortment of blue flowers that cascade down its sides.
As guests file in, a string quartet plays soft music, lulling everyone into a peaceful calm—well, everyone except Hudson and me.
“You better get up in case Fran comes back and catches you sitting out here in that suit.”
“Nah, she won’t be back. They’re about to escort her to her seat.” But I stand up anyway. Just in case.
“I need a distraction. Let’s talk about something other than the wedding. Let’s see what can we talk about?” He taps a finger to his lips, pretending to think. “Oh, I know. The photos I found in my truck.”
I groan. Earlier, I faked an errand to escape his teasing. He’d shown all the groomsmen, Emma, even Mema. And I’m sure Ava confronted Morgan after Emma sent her the photos. Who knows how that conversation went.
“Don’t start. You’ve embarrassed me enough for one day.”
“Okay, okay. But just between you and me. How was it? The kiss, I mean.”
I draw in a slow breath, waiting for his taunts to continue, but then let it out when they don’t. “It was…good.”
He slides his phone from his suit jacket’s inner pocket, locates the photo, and then waves it in front of my face.
“Okay, fine. It was really good. There. Are you happy? I said it.”
He tucks his phone away. “Yes, actually. I’m happy for many reasons.” He peeks into the sanctuary, and I follow his gaze. “You need to ask her out, but we’ll circle back to this conversation in a week or so.”
He returns to pacing, and I roll my eyes. He’ll never give up. I continue to scan the room until I scowl at a tall boy with an annoyingly charming smile.
“What? What’s wrong?”
“There he is. This is why there’s no need to revisit the Morgan conversation. I can’t ask her out. She’s still hung up on what’s his name. The pretty boy.” I gesture toward Leo chatting up guests.
Hudson scowls. “What’s he doing here?”
“She invited him. Why else would he be here?”
“I don’t know. The last I heard, she’s not a big fan of the guy. Maybe he just showed up. And if I’m right, you have to stay and see how things play out. You’re not still planning to leave after the reception, are you?”
“We’ll see.” I trail off, not quite believing his theory. She had to have invited him.
The music crescendos, and the other groomsmen join us.
We take our places next to Hudson on our side of the archway, facing a chapel of friends and family and breathing in the white roses’ scent.
The photographer must’ve arrived because a man I don’t recognize snaps away on a fancy black camera.
My mind wanders while the song comes to a close. Maybe I should talk to Morgan. Find out for sure what’s going on with Pretty Boy.
When the guests stand and pivot toward the back of the sanctuary, Leo smiles and winks at someone I can’t see, though I know who it is.
Maybe not.
The music changes, and my chest tightens when Morgan appears between the open doors.
The evening sunlight streams around her as she leads the bridesmaids on their slow procession.
Her silvery blue dress flows around her, and her bouquet of white and blue flowers perfectly matches the room.
Her long, golden-brown hair, though partially pinned back, still cascades over her shoulders.
Her warm brown eyes peer over her pink cheeks. She ducks her chin as everyone stares.
She’s breathtaking.
Those cheeks lift into a smile, and I return the gesture before she takes her spot on the archway’s other side.
The other bridesmaids and Ava make their way down the aisle, and the minister begins.
The ceremony flies by in a blur of vows and rings. The bride and groom are pronounced husband and wife, and we file out to congratulate the happy couple. Once the sanctuary clears, we return for photos and then follow the guests to the reception.
The lake glitters. The sun is low, promising a fantastic Oklahoma sunset. The strung lights are already twinkling around the pavilion, showcasing our hard work over the last two days.
I’m seated at a table with various family members while Morgan dines with her parents and an assortment of other guests. Leo’s at another table with his mother. Good. He cranes his neck to glimpse Morgan. Of course, so do I, so I turn around to my dinner.
After a while, Emma saunters over and captures clips for her send-off video from my family. I’m not ready to deliver mine, so I tell her I’ll do it in a little while.
“Will, I just heard about the wedding planner fiasco,” my mom says from across the table as she cuts the last bit of her chicken. “You didn’t tell me you had to work so much this weekend. I’d hoped the lake time would be fun since you had to miss part of your senior trip. Has it been terrible?”
Mema snorts a laugh.
Mom eyes her. “What?”
“Will has had a fine time from what I’ve seen in photos.” Mema winks, and my mouth drops open. No. Don’t say it. I beg her with my eyes.
Mom blots her lips with her napkin. “What do you mean?”
“You should ask him about Morgan.”
“Oooh, who’s Morgan?” My sister, Sophia, jumps all over this. “The girl you were dancing with last night?”
Mom elbows Mema, but Fran takes the mic, saving me from explaining anything or pointing her out. But then Fran says, “Morgan? Morgan Whitney?”
Everyone quiets.
Morgan reluctantly waves from where she stands with her parents near the dessert table.
My other sister, Brooklyn, points. “There she is. It is the girl you danced with!”
Thanks, Fran.
Fran gestures for Morgan to follow, so she obeys and follows the older woman out of the pavilion and to a hut that serves as the kitchen. I track her movement until the door closes behind her.
The reception returns to full volume, and my brows knit together. Oops. Mom and Mema are watching me with matching grins.
“Yes, Mom, that’s Morgan.”
Mema fans her hand at me. “Well, go save her from that woman.”
I shake my head. “Morgan can take care of herself. Besides, I thought you said not to speak ill of anyone.”
“Oh, pishposh. You know very well I could’ve used any number of adjectives there.”
When I chuckle and pretend to zip my lips together, she pats my hand. Then Mom and Mema drift off to the dessert table, but my attention keeps returning to the hut.
They’re probably making Morgan do more work. And they’ll put me to work if I go over there. I’m done volunteering.
It’s not my problem.
I pick at the white tablecloth, letting out a long breath.
Fine. I’ll go. But then I’m coming right back to this table.