Chapter 25
BY LATE AFTERNOON, I feel like my insides are eating away at me, and Nate’s continued to be distant.
Sure, my parents do have him working hard on the gazebo, but that’s no excuse for how he’s treated me.
After last night, the fact that he doesn’t even have the decency to talk about it, to make sure we’re both on the same page (clearly, we’re not), speaks volumes about the kind of person he really is.
And it’s all I can do to hide my anger and humiliation from the rest of the family.
By the time he takes a break, the house has gotten way too busy for me to talk to him alone.
In addition to the Leg Tears, who’ve come over from the hotel down the road to crowd our yard and eat my Dad’s smoked brisket, a few more bridal party guests have started to arrive, including Jessica, Cara’s maid of honor, who shows up with arms full of presents and bachelorette gear—champagne bottles, fake tiaras, dick necklaces, dick lollipops, dick everything.
It’s surreal, watching Cara’s friends surround her. It makes me see her as a whole person.
It makes me wish I had Sybil, Willow, and Emma here too.
The place is turning into pure chaos until finally, Cooper suggests taking everyone out to karaoke and beer at Big Jay’s in town.
“Great idea, babe!” Cara says, but I can’t help but notice that the smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes.
It’s funny: I’ve seen Cara be “fake” in all the petty ways—those sugary-sweet jabs we’ve traded for the past week and a half.
But looking at her now, I’m reminded of that day at the dress shop when she pretended to like the gown my mom picked out.
Like she’s putting on a facade to make someone else happy.
And right now, it’s clear that “someone else” is my brother.
Cooper is totally in his element—making carpool groups and laughing about the time Pete tried to sneak him into Big Jay’s when he was only twenty—and still looked about twelve.
Cara’s pulling off an impressive performance of a cheerful bride, ready to celebrate with this ragtag, impromptu bachelor/bachelorette party crew—but clearly, something is bothering her. Maybe whatever she and Nate were arguing about earlier?
But I don’t have time to dwell on it long, as we’re all ushered out to the driveway.
Mom visibly wilts with relief as we pile into cars to head into town, and I wonder for the millionth time if it was really such a good idea for her to volunteer to host this wedding with so little time to plan.
If I should hang back and help her out. But even as I start to offer exactly that, she waves me off.
“Go have fun with the kids,” she insists.
I resist reminding her that unlike Cara and Cooper and all their friends, who are all in their twenties, I’m actually a full-grown thirty-year-old adult now.
A thirty-year-old who tried to tell the guy she likes how she feels, and it blew up in her face.
Cooper and JP head to the bar to order everyone a round, while Cara and Jessica head directly to the karaoke sign-up. The rest of us claim seats as close to the stage as possible.
I shouldn’t be here. I’m the opposite of fun right now. But the idea of curling up in my little hole of a storage room alone for the night seemed equally pitiful, and I guess my pride doesn’t want Nate to think I’ve withdrawn because of him. Because of how much his brush-off hurt.
Everyone else seems to be having a good enough time not to notice my wallowing anyway.
The place is packed—neon lights flickering, the smell of beer and barbecue still clinging to our clothes.
I’m pleased to see that Cara has come to understand the immense cringe of Cooper and his band days.
Though, even I have to admit that his former bandmates—JP, Dave, Kyle, Bryan, and Hunter—are high energy and hilarious.
They’re currently reminiscing about past “gigs” (mostly grad parties and a few bonfire nights), where they played such undiscovered hits as “Your Dog Sucks” and “She’s My Kool-Aid. ”
Meanwhile, Cara’s girlfriends are giggling as they drape her with a satiny brIDE sash. Even my older siblings seem loosened up—Linney’s got a rosy glow of someone who rarely has more than one drink, and Pete is trying to challenge half the bar to a game of darts.
I take a sip of my drink and try to feel what they feel. Excited. Carefree. Something.
The wedding is in two days. How have the days flown by so quickly?
I was supposed to be at home for a reset, but I haven’t made a single plan other than accepting the spin-off show role.
Which is kind of like planning to enter a tornado.
And I haven’t even taken more than a cursory glance at the apartment listing Sybil sent me—or looked up any of my own.
In two days, Cooper will be married. Linney will go back to Atlanta, and Mom and Dad will probably soon follow, after they downsize and sell the house. And I’ll be back in LA, apartment-hunting like mad while I prep to turn my entire life inside out again via LovedBy.
And as for Nate… My eyes find him across the bar. He’s laughing at something one of the other band guys—Bryan—is saying, head tilted back, eyes crinkled, crooked incisor on full display.
It’s nothing, I tell myself. We said we’d be friends, and what happened between us was a mistake.
Maybe we’ll see each other at occasional family events—the birth of Cooper and Cara’s first child… An image of Nate holding a wrinkly, warm bundle of baby blooms in my mind like a bruise, tender and aching all at once.
I grab one of the shots Cooper and JP dropped off at our table and throw it back.
A group of college kids takes the stage, and I try to keep my mind on the moment instead of spiraling about what my life will look like forty-eight hours from now.
It’s hard to stay moody when four twenty-one-year-olds are scream-singing “Mr. Brightside,” and by the end of their song, I actually feel a little lighter.
At one point, Nate hops onstage to sing a rendition of “Any Man of Mine.” Two lines in, and he has the entire bar singing with him.
Watching Nate onstage is like watching him work.
He has an assurance and a presence that draws you in.
He also has a truly amazing voice and the stage presence to back it up.
I recall him joking about how competitive he was in his a cappella group—I guess it wasn’t really a joke at all.
Makes me wonder what else he’s said that he actually meant, but that I didn’t take seriously at the time.
Like only wanting to be friends. Like not being in the right headspace for a relationship. Just because we’re attracted to each other, just because we had one amazing night together doesn’t mean he’s suddenly changed his mind about that.
He’s been telling me the truth all along. I just haven’t been listening.
A bunch of Cara’s bridesmaids start dancing in front of the stage, and they pull me up to join them. “C’mon, Nikki!” one of them cries. I don’t even remember her name, but I’m a ball of mixed emotions over how nice they’re all being. As if I were celebrating the union of one of my actual friends.
“Okay, okay!” I laugh half-heartedly, then grab my vodka tonic and down it. Honestly, this is much easier—and maybe even more fun—than facing the messiness of whatever is going on, unspoken, between me and Nate.
Then I’m up on my feet, dancing and swaying to a bunch of badly sung songs.
Though to be fair, the crowd is singing along so loudly, you almost can’t hear the person holding the karaoke mic.
I try to channel what Sybil would do—wave my arms around and shimmy my butt and get into the party spirit—but I can’t help glancing over to our table every now and again, searching for Nate, seeing if he’s watching.
If he’ll catch my eye. If he regrets how he acted earlier.
Except he’s not at the table now, and I swivel around, trying to see if he headed over to the bar. I turn around in a circle, heart racing. Where’d he go?
And then I’m suddenly dizzy, swaying a bit more than intended.
“Whoa there.” Nate’s beside me, appearing out of nowhere, his voice cutting through the noise. His hand brushes the empty glass in my hand—how many has it been now?—before I can reach for another. “You planning to remember any of this tomorrow?”
I shrug. “We live for the present, Nathaniel!” I shout over the music—my voice laced with sarcasm.
He gives me a small, confused smile, his golden stubble catching the glow of the colorful Christmas lights that festoon the bar. “If you say so.”
“If you say so,” I say, poking him in the chest. Jeez, maybe I’m a bit tipsier than I realized. “Isn’t that your MO?”
“Isn’t what my MO?”
“Living in the present! You don’t do long-term!” I say, still shouting. And possibly slurring, just slightly.
“You want some water? Why don’t we get you some water,” he says, holding my elbow gently.
“Fine,” I relent, mostly because I am thirsty. And also because maybe if we head over to the bar, under the guise of just getting water, we can actually talk for a minute.
Unfortunately, though the bar is on the opposite side of the room from the stage, it’s still pretty hard to hear each other.
“I didn’t know you were a Shania guy,” I say when Nate pulls a barstool out for me and then takes the one next to me.
He sort of half wraps around me—only to wave to get the bartender’s attention, but still, it feels intimate.
Protective. I’m surrounded by him. His scent—sunlight and sawdust—hangs over me, making the air thick.
It’s overpowering, going straight to my head, more than the shots I did earlier.
Nate finally gets our waters and hands one to me. His lips brush against the shell of my ear as he whispers, “Shania’s my guilty pleasure.”