Chapter 37 – Eden
EDEN
The pile of folded clothes on my bed has gotten dangerously tall. When I add a folded white T-shirt to the top, it looks ready to topple over.
I tend to be an overpacker at the best of times.
I anticipate everything that could possibly necessitate a change of clothing—cold snap, sudden rain storm, unexpected fancy dinner, surprise pool party—and pack accordingly.
I've broken the zippers on two different suitcases trying to fit everything in.
In this case, though, I don't think it's possible to overpack. I'll be in Sundre for the five weeks before the wedding, and there aren’t a lot of stores within driving distance to pick up whatever I might forget.
With Beau’s status as a public figure, Brinley's wedding will bring a lot of PR for Flair Events. When I told my boss I planned to leave for the wedding so early so I could do the on-site work, she practically shoved me out the door. I'll work on all my other projects remotely.
Of course, it doesn't escape me that Brinley's wedding will be great for my portfolio, if I ever decide to strike out on my own.
That's far down the road, though. I don't have time to contemplate my long-term career plans with the mountain of work I have to do.
My flight takes off early tomorrow morning.
Once I land, I'll be right in the thick of it, finalizing vendor contracts, arranging a site visit with the caterer, figuring out the tent rental that I've been pricing out for three weeks.
I typed up a checklist, but I don't really need it.
I'm able to keep all this stuff in my head.
I'm deciding whether I really need to pack three pairs of sneakers when my phone buzzes.
I smile when I see that girl group chat notification.
We've all been texting each other more than ever, mostly to coo over the adorable baby photos of Sylvie and Hazel.
The newest text is a picture of Hazel with her chubby little fist clutching a paintbrush.
Maura
Working on her masterpiece.
Pippa
Wow, so young and yet so talented.
Brinley
She obviously inherited Mom's talent. She'll have her finger paintings hanging at the Whitmer by the time she's five.
Pippa
Is it too early to commission one for my apartment?
Brinley
It's too late, actually. The waitlist is already way too long. You’ll be waiting years.
Pippa
Fine, I’ll wait. What else do I have to do?
Cat
Not to brag, but Sylvie has started showing some talent, too. Only a week old, and she's already an expert at spitting up on Dad’s suits.
Brinley
Nate is seriously wearing suits around a newborn? It's official. That man needs an intervention. I'm donating his office and filling his closet with tropical shirts and Crocs.
Cat
But I think the suits are hot
Brinley
Sorry, Cat. It’s for his own good.
I can’t help but smile at Brinley’s jokes. It’s a stark contrast from the private texts between her and me.
Eden
The florist put together her mock-ups for the flower arch for the ceremony. I emailed them to you.
Brinley
Thanks. I’ll review soon.
Option 2 looks great.
Eden
Did you get a chance to review the linen samples? I like the dark blue tablecloths.
Brinley
Sounds good. Let’s go with those.
Her texts to me are polite. Cooperative.
Short. Nothing wrong with any of it, except that a year ago Brinley would have sent me fourteen texts in a row, plus three voice notes.
Then, if I didn’t respond fast enough, she would have called me back within the hour to talk through every detail of her messages until I was doubled over with laughter.
I sigh and put down my phone. I’ve got too much to do to waste my afternoon wallowing.
After narrowing down my shirt pile, I move on to jeans and skirts. In Toronto, I can wear my jeans a few times between washes. Back home, they always seem to end up covered in dirt at the end of the day. I’ll probably need to pack all of them if I don’t want to be doing laundry the whole time.
I head to the closet to look through my skirts and find myself staring at my dark red dress. It’s the same one I wore to the Christmas party where Brinley got engaged.
We spent the weeks after that party excitedly texting about wedding plans, until one day, she sent it.
Brinley
As my maid of honor, you're going to need to talk me out of peonies.
I laughed and took a screenshot of it, because of course Brinley never asked me to be her maid of honor. She didn't ask because it wasn't a question. It's how we both knew it would be. If I ever got married, she would be my maid of honor, too.
That night, a massive bouquet of peonies appeared at my door with a bottle of my favorite red wine.
There wasn’t a card because Brinley didn’t need to send me one.
We have the almost-psychic ability to skip parts of conversations, because we know what the other one is thinking. We’ve been doing it since we were ten.
I miss how uncomplicated our relationship used to be. I hate that we went from “As my maid of honor” to “Thanks. I’ll review soon.”
The worst part is that I did the math—I always do the math—and it doesn’t balance. Whatever Luke and I are becoming, I paid for it with fourteen texts and three voice notes and a laugh across a kitchen counter. Nobody warns you that falling in love can send the bill to your best friend.
It's my own fault because I kept things from her, even when she asked me for honesty. I built the barrier between us all by myself.
I move the dark red dress to the back of my closet, where I don't have to look at it.
It takes me three hours to whittle down my clothes into a reasonable amount to fit in two suitcases. By the time I’ve zipped them shut and filled my carry-on, it’s almost midnight.
I check my phone one more time before I go to bed. There are no new messages from Brinley, and no new messages from Luke. I can't decide which hurts more.
“You know, at some point, we're going to need to eat on the table,” Wade grumbles behind me.
I ignore him and keep on flipping through fabric swatches. I stop on a light gold color and show it to Mom. “What do you think? For the ribbons on bouquets along the aisle?”
Mom wrinkles her nose. “A little too shiny for my taste.”
“What if I can find the same color in matte?”
“I liked the ivory you were looking at earlier.”
I bite my lower lip and flip back through the samples until I find the ivory. I hold it up next to the gold for Mom’s opinion. “Do you still like the ivory better?”
“Well, now I don't know. Have we thought about a pale yellow?”
“Jasper is almost finished making his sandwich,” Wade says. “I imagine he'd like a place at the table to eat it.”
I glare at him. “I’m sure Jasper can eat at the counter.”
“Jasper was actually going to take his sandwich out on the porch,” says Jasper, making me give him an approving smile.
“The point still stands,” Wade insists. “This is the family dining table. That means it's for the family to dine at. Which means that you have to clean all this shit up at some point.”
I gesture at the piles of binders, folders, and linen samples spread over the table. “It's not like I have another place to work. Reed stole my old desk for his room.”
“Then he'll give it back.” Wade’s firm voice makes it clear he doesn’t care what Reed has to say about that.
“How about everyone eats lunch at the counter, but Eden promises to have the table cleared for dinner?” Mom says.
I whirl on her. “Mom! Where am I supposed to put it all?”
“I'm sure you'll figure something out. Wade’s right. We should have dinner at the table.”
Wade sticks his tongue out at me, victorious, and I groan. I’ve only been home for three days, and we’ve already regressed back to childhood.
Even though my brothers all have their own houses and their own kitchens, there’s an unspoken agreement that if they’re not busy at dinnertime, they’ll come to the main house. Mom loves to feed them, and she can use the help for cleanup. When I’m home, they make an extra effort to show up.
My phone buzzes and I reach for it so fast, I almost knock over my cup of coffee. I eagerly swipe up and read the message and my face falls.
“Who’s that?” Wade asks.
I glare. “Nosy much?”
“Evasive much?” he shoots back.
“If you must know, it’s my boss. She was asking about some paperwork I owe her today.”
I put my phone face down carefully, just to make Wade think I’m hiding something. That’ll drive him crazy for the rest of the day.
The sad truth is, I wasn't lying. The two people I most wanted to hear from are radio silent. Brinley’s not texting because she’s mad at me. As for Luke…well, I suspect he’s not texting me for the same reason I’m not texting him.
There’s no reason to torture ourselves when we know in a month, we’re over.