Chapter 3
NOLA
Somebody toward the back of the canopy tent taps a knife in rapid succession against their champagne flute and the happy couple at the front of the dinner party leans into one another for a long kiss.
The first time this happened, it was sweet; the second time, it was acceptable, but by the third, I was over it.
And now we’re experiencing it for the four hundredth time this evening, provoked by my matron of honor speech that was that perfect mix of heartwarming and funny.
I’m truly happy for my younger sister. Belle found the love of her life in Ethan and Hawaii is a beautiful spot for a wedding.
But my happiness for her is scattered among a myriad of other emotions.
I’m sunburned and jetlagged, and my strong-willed ten-year-old can’t stop fretting about the school assignments she’s been missing while we’re away.
“Mom,” my daughter shout-whispers. “How much longer until we can go back to our room? I need to turn in my math assignment before Ms. Peterson docks me.”
My mini me’s chocolate eyes go wide and her brow worries.
Her hair, once curled for the evening’s event, is frizzy and stuck with sweat to the sides of her face.
The remnants of a pineapple whip treat decorate her lips as well as down the side of her dark pink dress that, at some point during the reception dinner, became her napkin.
“Emma,” I smile and begin to recite the same monologue I’ve told her for the past five days, “everybody knows you’re gone for a wedding and they said you can turn things in next week when you get back.
Ms. Peterson isn’t even watching for assignments right now—it’s late back home.
She’s either asleep or watching Netflix. ”
“You don’t get it, do you?” she huffs. “You already took perfect attendance from me and now you want to make me lose my straight As? What’s next? Get me kicked out of STEM Club? I’m the vice president—that would be so embarrassing.”
I throw my arm around her shoulder and pull her in close. With a kiss on the top of her head, I tell her, “You, darling child, have had too much sugar and not enough water, protein, or rest.”
“Moooom,” she laments. “My math assignment.”
“It will be fine until tomorrow. I want you to know that even if you get a B, I’ll still manage to love you.”
Her nose wrinkles and her eyes narrow. “But it’s the end of the quarter. This wedding couldn’t have come at a worse time. When I get a B, I will never forgive you.”
“Noted.” She wiggles out of my arms and, despite what I’ve just told her, she heads off to the dessert table.
The ceremony, followed by dinner and dancing, is held at a beautiful resort on the North Shore of Oahu.
We’ve been here a week, and every minute has been booked to the max with snorkeling, kayak tours, surf lessons, hikes to waterfalls, food trucks, and doing a day of volunteerism by cleaning up a beach down the road.
There was also the traditional day-of bridal party pampering and the rehearsal dinner last night.
It’s been a lot, especially with a tightly wound daughter in tow.
I wish she’d realize that while caring about grades is important, there’s more to life than a report card.
And, I mean, it’s Hawaii. I’ve worked overtime all week to make sure she enjoys every second and all she can worry about is turning in a page of fractions.
Ethan takes Belle’s hand and leads her to the dance floor after the best man’s speech.
In the center of the tent, they sway to the DJ music for their first dance as husband and wife.
I plop my elbow on the table and lean my chin on my palm.
Beyond them lies the dark, rocky shoreline and the turquoise water, against the bright green of the palm trees lining the property.
The evening lighting begs me to capture it.
I leave the shelter of the open tent and head to the edge of the lawn.
Framing everything just right, I snap a few photos and then tuck my arms around me, a light breeze blowing in and out of the area like kids playing tag.
Everything about this whole scene is so romantic, my thoughts can’t help but finally drift back to what happened at the bar.
I’ve forced myself all week not to go there.
That move was crazy out of character for me.
I’m a single mom in my mid-thirties—I never go to bars.
But then to go up to some random guy I had a brief chat with and kiss him on our way out the door?
The multiple Alexander Hamiltons loved it, sure, but nobody was more vocal about it the rest of the night than Belle.
“Who are you, and what happened to my big sister?” she’d shouted more than once into the downtown night.
She wouldn’t drop it even after I’d taken us to the last stop of the night—Sid’s Garage—to indulge in greasy burgers, fries, and milkshakes for soaking up their festive evening. Belle gave a rousing speech, thanking all of us for her party, including a sidebar dedicated to me.
“You’re always so rigidly structured, Nola. You can’t help it. You were born part robot or old cat lady, but tonight was one for the books. I’m sad we didn’t get bar-guy’s number or give him yours or make him come with us to Hawaii and do a double wedding.”
That last part made me crack a smile, and she ran with it. “How fun would that be? Besides, when was the last time you kissed a man? Or even went on a date?”
“Who has time?” I asked the group nonchalantly, twirling my onion ring through fry sauce. I say it like a relationship would be the hardest thing to fit into my life, but there hasn’t been anybody since my late husband, and the idea of somebody new scares me.
“How was the kiss?” James Madison had asked me; a curious grin crawled up her cheeks.
I had brushed it off as nothing that night at Sid’s, but now that I’ve slowed down and am standing in this tropical paradise, sky turning into soft pinks and oranges, I remember every second.
How perfect the whole thing was. His initial shock, then him giving in and pressing his lips against mine in a way that told me he enjoyed my bold move.
However, there’s not a chance on this green earth he’s given it a second thought.
The confidence in the way he approached me in the hall, the side-eye he gave us the whole time for disrupting his evening, and his reaction to the grand slam during the game—bouncing around the room like a frat boy as he high-fived other patrons.
The whole production gave off the air of a guy who is used to attention and enjoys it. That’s why Belle dared me to kiss him.
At every stop throughout the night, she’d tasked one of us with some kind of dare but up until Gin and Bear It, they’d been juvenile challenges.
The bridal party had been subjected to dumb things leftover from childhood sleepovers, such as ordering a round of drinks in a British accent.
Text an ex-boyfriend out of the blue. Karaoke that song from Hamilton.
Nothing that involved getting into a stranger’s personal space.
Under normal circumstances, I would’ve told her absolutely not.
But she’d dared me to kiss the hottest guy we saw during the night, and my so-called rigidity made me follow her rules.
I’d zeroed in on him the moment we walked into the bar.
She’d noticed me watching him and promised if I went through with the dare, I wouldn’t have to gift her a wedding present.
Considering everything I’d already done for her as Matron of Honor, along with taking a whole week off of work to tend to her every need, I hadn’t realized that she was expecting something from her registry. In the moment, doing a dare felt like a major win.
Joke’s on me because here I am, a week later, still thinking about it.
A throat clearing pushes me back into the present, and I turn to find the best man, hands shoved into his pockets, looking sheepishly at me.
“Hi, Trent.”
“Hey, Nola. You looked like you were deep in thought, but they announced the wedding party’s dance and they’re kind of waiting on you and me to join in before they start.
” He nods his head toward the tent where sure enough, I’m the reason for the pause in merriment-having and Belle is giving me get-over-here-now eyes.
Heat creeps into my cheeks as I hustle over to the dance floor, grabbing Trent’s outstretched hand on the way.
Taking our place, the DJ puts on “I Gotta Feeling.” The Black Eyed Peas wouldn’t have been my first choice for any kind of wedding song, but Belle insists it is a huge trend on social media and lovingly reminds me I’m six years older and lame (which translates to I’m a mom and that subsequently puts me out of the cool loop) so I wouldn’t know.
Kicking my sandals off to the side, the long, mellow intro lends itself to small talk.
Trent’s tall frame leans down closer so I can hear him. “Ethan was telling me you’re an artist in hotels? What’s that exactly?”
The half-correct job title conjures up images of painting murals on hotel lobby walls or sitting idly in the breakfast room doing caricatures for guests on their way out the door. “I’m actually commissioned as a freelance artist by hotels,” I clarify.
He releases an unsure chuckle. “I’m still not following.”
The music picks up, and the group starts jumping to the beat in sync like a flash mob.
“That’s a fancy way of saying I’m hired by hotels to provide art for their whole building.
Usually it’s a singular location, but there are accounts where I do a nationwide campaign for a hotel chain doing a remodel. ”
“That’s cool,” he nods.
“What do you do?” I ask. My new brother-in-law is a CPA and yet most of the guys who have come to the wedding are not exactly stereotypical number crunchers.
That’s the polite way of saying Belle’s husband is the only one who is a bit of a geek.
Nothing wrong with that but he’s surrounded by a group of lifelong friends who appear to be the complete opposite of him and it’s been fascinating to watch this dynamic unfold all week.
Trent’s tall and built, a little scruffy in a bad boy way. Nothing screams tax preparer or financial analyst when I look at him. “I own a bike shop. Mostly it’s focused on mountain bikes, but with e-bikes becoming such a huge market, I’ve—”
“Moooom,” Emma comes up to us and drags my name out. Her eyelids are heavy and she looks green.
“Oh, monkey.” I grimace at Trent, who appears all too eager to retreat toward his friends, while I take Emma to the nearest table. “Think you’ll make it to our room?”
“Yeah.” She sounds miserable. “I feel sick. I don’t think I’ve had enough protein, sleep, or water.”
A smile hitches in the corner of my mouth, and I lean down to gather my sandals. “I agree. Let’s get you in the shower and then it’s right to bed, okay?”
“Will you tell me a story?” she asks weakly and my heart leaps.
For years she asked me every night to tell her a story.
Her room is full of books, but her request was always for me to make up a tale and lull her to sleep.
As a solo parent, craving a minute to myself more nights than I care to admit, I silently wished the phase would end and for her to fall asleep on her own or pick a book off the shelf, allowing me to be not quite as present.
Then, one night in third grade, it all stopped, and she started putting herself to bed.
I wasn’t ready for the change and cried, upset at myself for not soaking in every moment while I’d had it so good.
Now, Emma asking me to do this tonight has become the perfect ending to our pretty perfect trip. “Absolutely.” I try not to sound too excited as we cross the large lawn and head for the elevator, but I think she can see right through me even with how bad she’s feeling. “Any requests?”
“Mmm. . . there definitely has to be a handsome man and at least one kiss.”
“Deal,” I tell her, immediately picturing the stranger from the bar who continues to live rent-free in my brain.