28. Reid
Reid
I wake up to sunshine on the bed and Quinn in my arms. Her soft, warm body is still naked, pressed against mine and making me instantly hard. But then I panic.
“Fuck!” I shout, startling her. We both jump and bump into each other as we bolt upright, her mouth colliding with my chin.
“Shit,” she says, covering it and guessing by the stinging in my jaw, I can only imagine how her mouth must feel.
“Jesus, I’m sorry,” I let out. “Are you okay?”
“It’s 8am,” she says, and my energy shifts from concern and guilt back to panic.
“Fuck,” I say again. Because of course, this isn’t your average wedding. It’s a beach wedding. A brunch wedding. A wedding that starts in an hour.
We both leap from the bed in a flurry. Neither of us has any clothes on, but neither of us cares.
We are too busy ripping into suitcases, bumping into each other, trying to brush our teeth and share the sink and shave and do hair and all the things so we don’t look like we, well, just crawled out of bed.
But what’s funny is even in the midst of the chaos of it all, neither of us says a word about last night.
We weren’t drunk; that’s the interesting part.
Not on alcohol anyways. I wouldn’t have slept with Quinn if she had been.
I meant it when I said I wouldn’t take advantage of her.
But I also meant it when I said if she instigated anything, I’d follow, no questions asked.
Honestly, considering the circumstances, I am a bit relieved that it’s a morning wedding. Instead of spending the day dancing around the elephant in the room, we can shift our attention to Ryan and Krissi as they say no less than twenty minutes worth of vows with the waves crashing behind them.
If I were into any of this junk, I’d say it’s pretty romantic.
Quinn, who obviously does believe in it, is sniffling softly next to me, and I pull a handkerchief from my pocket and hand it to her.
“Thanks,” she says as she wipes her pink-tinged nose and her flushed skin. This girl is even beautiful with tears streaming down her blotchy cheeks.
“I still don’t get it,” I whisper.
“What is there to get?” she asks. “They’re in love.”
“Okay, but why are you crying?” I ask and she looks at me.
“Because it’s beautiful,” she answers like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “They’re committing themselves to that love in front of all the world. And we get to witness it. It’s a gift.”
“A gift?” I ask.
“Yes. Witnessing something that pure and beautiful is a gift,” she answers, and while I am still lost and could ask a dozen more questions, I let it go.
For one, a woman with a gray bob cut and way too much lipstick is glaring at me.
But also, it makes me think. Quinn’s answers about love are so simple and yet so foreign to me.
And yet…for the first time in many, many years, I find myself intrigued by it.
When the ceremony is finally over, we all follow the bride and groom back to the hotel patio, where brunch is set up in the garden.
Arches of flowers close us in, creating a private cove while still showing off the view of the beach.
It’s a warm morning, but not too warm. Sunny with a hint of a cool breeze.
Honestly, if we have to be here, dressed semi-formally while drinking pitchers of mimosa, it’s a pretty nice day for it. Logistically speaking.
But it isn’t just the view. It’s the set-up, the orange juice diluted Dom Perignon, and the lobster avocado toastinis that make this wedding almost enjoyable.
It’s Quinn.
Despite the lack of sleep (for reasons we shall not mention) and not knowing anyone at the table we are seated at, she is charming and sweet, and everyone is drawn to her.
“Seriously, August. I need to know where you found this one,” my friend Jordan says. “She is an absolute delight.”
“No can do,” I say, sipping my mimosa and kind of wishing I’d brought a whiskey flask.
“Oh come on, baby,” Quinn says, leaning into me all while resting a hand on my thigh. I nearly choke on my drink and blame it on the bubbles. “I think we can share our story.”
I smile and tip my glass in a go-ahead gesture, and Quinn goes on.
“It was a wedding, of all things,” she says.
“Of all things,” one of the wives echos.
“Of all things,” I say, because why not.
“I was a bridesmaid,” she smiles before looking over at me. “And he was a groomsman…”
The table gushes and I refill my glass, this time with straight champagne, sans OJ.
“That is so darling,” the woman says.
“So, was it love at first sight?” another one asks.
“Oh heck no,” she says, and I nearly choke again. But this time, I am laughing. “He was awful.”
“Wow,” I nod, but she just laughs, and honestly, I am smiling too.
“Why does that not surprise me?” Jordan asks, and I shoot him a look. “Listen, Quinn. This man is a great lawyer. If I ever had to go to court for anything, I’d want him repping me. No one else,”
“Thanks, asshole,” Colin says, and we all laugh.
“But that said…he’s never been much of a romantic. So hearing he had a date for the wedding was one thing. Seeing him with a woman like you…well. How much are you paying her?”
This time it’s Quinn that almost chokes. But I am quick to the rescue.
“Not enough,” I say, and everyone laughs.
Under the table, I grab her hand, a reassuring gesture that our cover isn’t blown.
But despite the fact that we came into this wedding with very boldly drawn lines and rules in place, I think it’s safe to say that last night might have blurred some of those lines.
And when I don’t let go of her hand and she doesn’t pull away from me, they blur just a little bit more.
The rest of the day goes by slowly and easily.
The wedding day itself is more relaxing than a party, and honestly, I don’t hate it.
After the brunch and the cake, and the speeches, everyone goes back to their rooms for a small break before heading back down to the beach and pool for relaxing and socializing.
When we walk into our room, it’s clear that housekeeping has been there. Things are picked up, towels refreshed, glasses clean, new champagne, and of course, the bed is made. It’s no secret that both our eyes land there, and it’s almost like it never happened.
Except that it did, and the fuzzy tension in the room reminds us both of that.
Strangely enough, it’s not awkward. Not that it happened.
Not that we woke up embracing each other.
Not even that neither of us has said a word about it.
And trust me, I was fully expecting her to bring it up.
I assumed she’d say it was a mistake, that it was my fault because of the room with one bed.
I was ready for the accusations and denials.
But it never happened. In fact, she’s been nothing but content and warm, and at ease all day. Other than the abrupt wake-up, that is.
“How is your lip?” I ask her as she comes out of the bathroom in a yellow bathing suit, a crocheted cover that is more of an accessory than anything, and a floppy hat.
“It’s okay,” she says with a smile as she walks over to the table with a beach bag and pulls out a bottle of sunscreen.
“Is it?” I ask, walking over to her. I’m in black swim shorts and a black, short-sleeved button-down, buttons still open.
I’m not much of a recreational swimmer. But it’s a million degrees out there now, and the bar doesn’t have any seating with land access, so swim shorts it is.
Also, I know full well that Quinn will be headed there the moment we get down to the pool, and I’m not about to let her sit alone wearing that.
“It’s sore, but it’s fine,” she insists, but I take a look for myself.
“It’s swollen,” I tell her with a frown. “It looks bad.”
“If anyone asks, I bit my lip at brunch,” she says, not too bothered by it. And while I want to kiss her, I’m a little concerned that I might hurt her. I’m also not entirely sure that if I kissed her, I’d be able to stop. So I don’t.
We spend the rest of the day meandering between the pool, the bar and the beach.
By dinner time, we are tired, sun-kissed and so relaxed that I’m not sure how to feel about it.
That night, we fall asleep fast and heavy and honestly; it is just as amazing to lay in this bed in this hotel with this girl and not do anything.
The next day as we say our goodbyes, literally everyone makes comments about how they hope to see her again.
“Seriously, brother,” Jordan says. “Don’t fuck this one up. She’s a keeper.”
“I wasn’t planning on it,” I say, and Quinn looks up at me with a smile, though there’s a spark of something else in her eyes. Surprised maybe? Honestly, my words shocked me a little, too.
“Wait,” one of the wives says. “So, are you telling us that New York’s most notorious divorce lawyer might be on his way to tying the knot?” She asks, and we both look at each other.
I literally don’t have words.
It’s like anything intelligent is gone and I am left standing there with my mouth open.
“We are taking it slow,” Quinn jumps in with a smile. Meanwhile, she has one arm looping loosely around my waist and the other hand planted on my chest in a gesture that could only be described as adoring. “Seeing where things go. I’d hate to rush it, you know?”
“That’s lovely,” one of the other wives says. “There is nothing wrong with being sure.”
We are finally able to pull away and head off to the car.
I replay the conversation in my head, my stomach feeling acidic and my chest tight.
I don’t know about any of it…knot tying and all that.
Marriage isn’t on my Bingo Card at all. And yet, as I watch Quinn walking in front of me, taking in the view of the ocean and the hotel and everything else the beachfront resort has to offer, almost as if she is taking a mental photograph to tuck away for later, I find myself sure about one thing…
I don’t intend on letting her go.