Chapter Two
Two
OTHER REASONS THIS person just couldn’t be Cooper:
Cooper lived in London.
Cooper didn’t talk to me anymore.
This dude was much more—um—strapping than any known version of Cooper.
Cooper knew better than to stress out my mom by crashing a wedding she was hosting.
Unlike this mountain man, Cooper could not grow a full beard.
At least—not the last time I’d seen him. Which, granted, was four years ago—right after college graduation. But we’d been across-the-street neighbors from ages eight to twenty-two. I was pretty sure I could pick out Cooper in any lineup anywhere.
Which is why I was so stumped to be stumped.
Was it Cooper?
Let’s revisit the new physique for a second: The Cooper I knew did not have big, solid, pommel-horse-Olympian-style shoulders.
He did not have the kind of muscles you could see through a T-shirt and under a rucksack.
He didn’t have forearms that seemed to be looking for something to squeeze, or a way of standing on the floor like he owned it, or a manly look that would make anybody—least of all me—stop in her tracks.
The Cooper I knew—the Cooper I’d hung out with every day for ten-plus formative years—was a boy. This French Alps hiker crashing my wedding was …
A man.
Impossible.
And yet.
My brain was saying No, it can’t be while every other part of me was saying Um—hello?
—it definitely is. I was like a hunting dog on point—frozen in his direction.
There was something to see here. Something important.
For a minute, the rest of the world blurred away and left only the two of us there.
The organ music quieted. Mrs. Allen faded. The itching stopped.
All I could see was this total stranger—who I already knew.
I stepped closer. “Cooper?” I said, peering at him.
It couldn’t be.
“Hey, Joey,” he said. “Happy wedding day.”
Holy shit!
It was.
Cooper’s normal greeting was to grab me around the neck and clamp me into a headlock. But he wasn’t doing that now—yet.
I shook my head. “You were boycotting! You put it in writing.”
Cooper shrugged. “I changed my mind.”
“You’re going to be in so much trouble when my mom finds out,” I said, uttering our childhood catchphrase.
But Cooper shook his head. “I emailed her. She approved.”
“She didn’t approve that,” I said, gesturing at his mountain-man ensemble. “You look like hell.”
It’s possible I was lying.
He looked like hell only if like hell also meant very, very … surprisingly sexy.
I took a deep breath to pull it together.
This was Cooper. He used to sit on me and fart.
But that’s when Cooper lifted those dark blue eyes and looked right at me through his black lashes.
I felt a buzz in response. Like I was a doorbell, somehow, and he was … ringing me.
Had I just tried to convince anyone that Cooper looked bad?
Even Cooper didn’t buy it. He gave me what can only be described as a flirty look and said, “Liar.”
Now he’d gone too far.
It was one thing to crash my wedding—late—in full Patagonia and walk in here with all those muscles. It was quite another to give me a flirty look.
This was a kid I’d peeled grapes with so we could call them eyeballs. This was a kid who’d dared me to suck a spaghetti noodle up my nose. This was a kid who’d hocked Jell-O cubes out of his mouth into the air so I could catch them in mine.
We were way past flirting.
“What are you doing here?” I asked.
He shrugged. “My oldest friend is getting married.”
“So?”
“So, I should be here.”
“You RSVPed no. With extreme prejudice.”
“I was being an ass.”
“Yes. You really were.”
“I’m sorry about that,” Cooper said.
“No, you’re not.”
Somewhere, in a distant land, an ancient lady named Mrs. Allen was waiting for me to start my bridal procession.
But how could I do that when Cooper was stepping closer—and looking me over?
“You look like a bride,” Cooper said next, in a tone like he couldn’t believe it.
“I am a bride.”
I guess Cooper knew enough about my whole dynamic with Pearce to ask next, “How did you get him to propose?”
I thought about lying. But this was Cooper. We were even more beyond lying than we were beyond flirting. So I confessed: “Ultimatum.” Then I said, almost just to see how Cooper would react, “I told him to shit or get off the pot.”
Cooper blinked and then said, deadpan, “That’s romantic.”
I deadpanned back, “Isn’t it?”
Cooper took in the sight of me again and said, “Well. However it happened, you look beautiful.”
Beautiful? I felt a funny sting in my chest.
I hadn’t even been hoping for beautiful today. I’d just been hoping for not covered in hives.
Had Cooper ever said anything that nice to me before?
But there was a rasp in Cooper’s voice. He meant it.
Then, before I could stop myself, I said, “You don’t think I look like Fozzie Bear?”
At that, Cooper squinted at me like I was equal parts adorable and ridiculous, tilted his head, and repeated—carefully—so I could really hear the question I’d just asked reflected back:
“I do not”—a pause—“think that you look”—another pause—“like Fozzie Bear.”
I didn’t appreciate the mockery. But it did make me feel better.
“You,” I said, just to get us back to normal, “look awful.”
“So you’ve mentioned.”
I reached up to tug on his beard, like it might be a vaudeville prop with an elastic strap. “What’s going on here?”
“It’s a beard,” Cooper said.
“I see that,” I said. “But why?”
A hint of a shrug. “Why not?”
“It looks like a pigeon built a nest on your face.”
At that, he broke into a big grin.
“A pigeon with a bad personality,” I added.
“Why do I love it when you insult me?” Cooper asked.
“Because the truth feels good.”
Cooper tilted his head again. “Does it?”
“And I’m not insulting you,” I said. “I’m helping you.”
“I knew you were going to say that.”
“And what’s going on with this?” I reached up and mussed his hair next. “Is this a man-bun?”
“It’s a ponytail,” Cooper corrected.
I shook my head. “What were you thinking?”
“I grew it out.”
“It’s so bad.”
“You don’t think I look kind of great?”
I sidestepped the question. He did look kind of great. “That hair is a tragedy,” I declared. “Shakespeare could’ve written that hair.”
Cooper was still smiling. “You really hate it.”
“I one thousand percent hate it.”
“That’s a lot of percentage points from a math major.”
“I’m begging you to cut it,” I said. “Stick your head under a lawn mower. Anything.”
“Noted,” Cooper said. Then he added, “You, by the way, look amazing. Just to be clear.”
I didn’t feel amazing. I looked down, like I’d forgotten myself. “I look like I’m wearing someone else’s wedding dress.”
“Are you?”
I nodded, all solemn. “Pearce’s mother’s, to be exact.”
“Who cares?” Cooper said. “You look epic.”
“The zipper’s broken,” I said, tugging at the collar. “So I’ll never get back out. This is basically my skin now.”
Cooper evaluated that idea. “Maybe that’s a good thing,” he said. Then, like it was a declaration: “I caught my breath when I saw you.”
“Did you really?”
Despite everything—despite the job he’d taken in London without telling me, and the texts of mine he’d ignored for four solid years, and his now-famous meanest wedding RSVP in history—the idea of Cooper catching his breath at the sight of me made me catch my own right back.
The truth feels good.
It was maybe the best feeling I’d had all day.
But before I could savor it, Mrs. Allen cleared her throat.
I looked over.
Oh, god. I’d almost forgotten.
She gestured at the sanctuary, like Ahem! We have a wedding to complete over here.
I turned back to Cooper with an apologetic shrug. “I have to go get married now.”
“Yeah—of course,” he said, gesturing at my future. “Get after it.”
“Okay,” I said. “And thanks for coming after all.”
Cooper gave a wry headshake. “Couldn’t miss it if I tried.”
“And you’re not forgiven for that RSVP, by the way.”
“Unforgivable,” he agreed. “Hold a grudge. I support you.”
“I might forgive you eventually,” I said, walking backward now, holding eye contact.
“Don’t even think about it,” Cooper said.
Mrs. Allen was eyeing Cooper like he might be about to mug me as she came forward with my beige bouquet to usher me on. She signaled the organist, and spun me around by the shoulders to face the aisle, and was about to push me through the doors—when I heard Cooper’s voice behind me one more time.
“Joey!”
I turned back. “Kinda busy here,” I said as he jogged to catch up.
As he reached me, Cooper nodded, like I get it. Then he put his hands on my shoulders, squeezing a little, like he was steadying me.
My bare shoulders, I should note. Under his bare hands.
Next, Cooper said, “You’re okay, right?”
I frowned like he’d lost his marbles. “Of course I am.”
“Because you look—”
“Beautiful, right? You said. That was so weird.”
“Beautiful—yes. But you also look—”
Then, before I could think better of it, I finished for him: “Like I’m about to call off the wedding?”
Cooper stilled.
I stilled, too.
Then he pulled in a breath and said, “Are you?”
“I thought that’s what you were going to say.”
“I was going to say, ‘You look a little nervous.’”
“Because I’m not calling it off,” I said. “Why would you even think that?”
“I didn’t think that,” Cooper said.
Now we had ourselves a standoff.
We stared into each other’s eyes.
Right then, the organist began the processional—a baroque-hits favorite of the Richmonds’ that launched with a howl of menacing horror-movie chords.
Wait—did I have a pebble in my shoe?
I handed Cooper my bouquet for a minute so I could grab his shoulder for balance with one hand and pull off my pump with the other.
“What are you doing?” Cooper asked.
“I’ve got a pebble in my shoe,” I said, shaking it out.
“What is it with you and pebbles?” Cooper said.
But as I straightened up to take back my bouquet, Cooper tugged me closer by the waist and leaned in so close his breath tickled my ear. And then he said, “Don’t take this the wrong way, okay?”
“What?” I asked.
“It’s pretty easy,” he said then, “to fake a faint.”
I pushed back and glanced toward the sanctuary. “I don’t see how that’s relevant.”
“It’s not,” Cooper said, lifting his hands in innocence. “Just random trivia.” But then he leaned back in. “The trick is to roll as you hit the floor so you don’t hit your head.”
I flared my nostrils at him. Then, for my official response, I flipped him off.
Cooper feigned shock at the gesture and said, “You can’t do that in a bridal gown.”
“It’s not my bridal gown,” I pointed out.
But with a wry headshake, Cooper said, “It is now.”
That’s when Mrs. Allen got aggressive and tapped me on the shoulder. Hard.
I took another step back. “Time to go.”
“Congrats on your wedding,” Cooper said with a little salute. “And don’t forget what the firefighters say.”
“The firefighters?” I said, falling for it. “What do they say?”
Cooper tilted forward just a little, like You got this. Then, with an infuriating micro-nod, he said, “Stop, drop, and roll.”