Chapter Twenty-Nine
Twenty-Nine
THE WEDDING ITSELF was undeniably lovely, held out on the aft deck on our final night at sea after we set sail for Texas—with a ribbon of wake in the water behind us and an orange-and-purple sunset as a backdrop.
I tried to focus on my sister’s happiness and not my own misery, I swear.
I tried to stand up there in my genuinely lovely pink organza strapless bridesmaid dress and feel insistently grateful that Ashley’s newly altered gown draped perfectly now and made her look like an absolute goddess.
I tried to focus on that blazing sunset, and the thrill of the breeze, and how Grandma Dodie had brought her new gentleman friend, Edward, as her plus-one, and how my parents were now sitting side by side in the front row—holding hands.
There really was so much to feel lucky about.
But the dread of the serenade pierced through everything.
And fine. I’ll say it. It wasn’t just dread.
It was dread plus heartbreak.
Thanks a lot, Cooper.
Name any emotion that it sucks to feel, and I was feeling it.
So, yeah. It was hard to just decide to be happy.
But I sure did fake it.
Once the deed was done, we took a thousand photos before we lost the light. And then we went inside to the ballroom, and I stared at—but could not bring myself to eat—a pale white chicken cutlet with capers on top … while sitting next to Cooper’s empty seat.
I cut the meat and rearranged the pieces, covering my plate with a hundred tiny cubes like mosaic tiles.
That’s when Ashley raised her glass and clinked it, and as we all got quiet, she thanked us for being here, declared earnestly that it had been the best week of her life, and announced that her sister, JoJo, was going to kick things off.
And so here we were. We’d arrived at my moment of not dying.
I rose and walked toward the microphone.
I wasn’t sure I could feel my legs. And was that a rushing sound in my ears, or just the ocean outside being noisy?
We’d set the A/C in this room too low, that much was certain, at least. What was it in here?
Forty degrees? I had actual goose bumps on my arms.
I picked up the microphone with cold hands and turned around to face the room.
What was I supposed to do again? Not die?
I didn’t like my chances.
The sight of all those faces turned toward me prompted an icy crackle of fear in my chest—and I remembered the tragic feedback loop of how being afraid can make being afraid worse.
But I ignored it. I brought the mic closer to my mouth, and I clutched it tight.
So tight, my hands felt like the metal claws in those claw machines.
And then I just stood there.
I couldn’t sing. But I also couldn’t not sing.
I couldn’t do the thing Ashley wanted—but I also, apparently, couldn’t let her down and not do the thing she wanted, either.
And so I just … froze.
I froze with a miserable smile on my face, and I listened as the pleasant ambient sound of forks on plates and cups on saucers shifted into a building murmur of concern.
But that’s when, as I was really just about to change my bet on the dying thing, I saw a figure moving through the room and coming toward me.
Cooper.
FOR REAL: COOPER.
The same Cooper who had missed the boat. The same Cooper who had quit the wedding. The same Cooper who had—in no uncertain terms—left.
Here he was. Magically returned, somehow.
Ashley’s tropical vision for her wedding involved linen and pastels. To my horror, on her “Ashley & Brody Forever” home page, she’d encouraged the men to wear linen suits to the ceremony with their own choice of solid tie. Tropical, three-piece, beige linen suits.
“Beige?” I’d demanded, when I saw the look.
But Ashley held up a hand, like Stop. “Not beige. Natural.”
Needless to say, most of the wedding guests were not pulling off this look.
Even Brody, ostensibly the most important man there, looked a bit wrinkled.
But then Cooper walked in, mini banjo in hand.
His beige suit was too hip to be beige. Maybe it was flax. Or biscuit. Or stone.
Whatever it was, it was working. Cooper looked absolutely lethal: rocking his linen suit—vest and all—and wearing the very same ice-blue tie he’d blindfolded me with.
I stared at it in horror as he strode closer.
“What are you doing here?” I asked, ventriloquist style, when he got close enough.
Cooper shrugged, like nothing was weird. “Rescuing you.”
I turned to face away from the audience so I could speak to him normally—remembering to cover the mic. “I don’t need to be rescued, thanks very much.”
But Cooper wasn’t there to fight. He just said, “Okay. You don’t need to be rescued. But would you like to be rescued?”
I didn’t want to give him the victory. I didn’t want to give him anything.
How dare he show up here and be nice?
Dammit!
But I was too desperate for principles.
“Fine,” I said.
“Fine, what?” Cooper said, a smile peeking through.
“Fine, you can rescue me this time. But don’t do it again.”
“You got it,” Cooper said with a little nod. “Never again.”
Then he turned around to face away from the audience, too, lining up next to me. And then, out of the breast pocket on his suit jacket, he pulled out a pair of heart sunglasses and slipped them to me like we were passing notes in class. Then he pulled out a second pair for himself.
He gave me a sideways look and a nod, like This is what we’re doing.
Reading his movements in sync, I slipped my glasses on just as he did his, and then I turned around when he did—Blues Brothers style—to face the room.
Like this had been the plan all along.
The room burst into cheers.
Okay, maybe I had needed to be rescued—a little bit.
With Cooper beside me, and the safety blanket of my new heart glasses, I closed my eyes and did what I was best at: I pretended Cooper and I were in my bedroom.
Next to me, Cooper started strumming our opening chords. And then I gave myself over to Cooper, and his mini banjo, and the soul-deep pleasure of singing a perfect harmony with another person. And then I just knew, in a way that I never, ever knew anything, that I was going to be okay.