Chapter 1 Now #2
That’s when I notice a sparkling diamond on her left ring finger, and I realize that I know who this woman is, too: She’s Sebastian’s fiancée, Claire.
I mean, I don’t know her know her, but I still follow Sebastian on social media, and I’m embarrassed to admit that I recognize her.
He isn’t very active on any platform, but on the rare occasions he has posted over the years, I’ve certainly taken notice.
A tagged Facebook album of ever-so-slightly blurry photos of him with friends at a college party his freshman year at the University of California in Santa Barbara.
A sepia-filtered Instagram feed post of a new surfboard in the sand, the Pacific in the background.
A “Throwback Thursday” at Bubba’s with his mom for her sixtieth birthday.
And, yes, an engagement announcement, reposted to his Instagram Stories from a user named @ClaireC717.
I’d seen the photo right before bed one night this past fall, my traitorous Instagram algorithm serving it front and center the second I opened the app.
It was taken on the beach, somewhere in Santa Barbara, I assumed—he’d stayed there after college, working in restaurant supply chain strategy, according to LinkedIn.
I remember thinking it was a stunning photo that appeared to be taken from the vantage point of a drone.
Something an influencer would post and the social lead at Shore Life or Ever After would DM for permission to share.
There was Sebastian, down on one knee, looking as devastatingly handsome as ever.
His mouth slightly open as if he’d just let out a joyful laugh.
His teeth a flash of bright white. The collar of his linen button-down blowing in the breeze.
Claire was facing him, doubled over with her hands covering her mouth, shock playing on her blue eyes.
(Does something about being proposed to render women physically incapable of resisting this pose?
If I wrote for a less earnest outlet, I’d pitch an investigative report.) The caption read, EASIEST YES!
I CAN’T WAIT TO BE YOUR WIFE, @SEBASTIAN_SURFS.
I’d tapped her profile, but it was private. A dead end. All I could see was a smiling profile photo of her and a bio that read UCSB CLASS OF 2016, followed by the Greek letters of a sorority.
“Shelly?” Sebastian says now, turning back to the woman behind the counter while Claire taps out a message on her phone. “What if you signed it for us—would that work?”
Shelly sighs, as if she’s about to recite something she’s told other people a thousand times. “Like it says on the site: No witness, no license. I’m already the notary.” She taps her pen against a section of the papers between them for emphasis. “Can’t do both.”
Sebastian drags a hand down his face and rubs his chin, but then he nods, accepting this. He turns back to Claire.
“Who could we call?” Claire asks, looking up from her phone.
Sebastian raps his knuckles lightly on the counter. “Not my mom. She’s closing the restaurant tonight, and she’s really short-staffed since the high school kids aren’t out of school for the summer yet.”
“What about Andre? Or Theo?”
I clock the names of Sebastian’s best friends from high school.
“Both working. And even if one of them could cut out early I doubt they’d get here by five.” I glance at the time on my laptop: 4:47. “We’ll just have to come back another time. I’ll figure it out.”
I can’t see Claire’s face very well now, but I imagine she does not look happy. She nods, quick and curt.
“Bring a friend or family member next time,” Shelly says. “Someone who really knows you—they’re attesting to your intention to get married to each other.” She hands the unfinished paperwork to Sebastian, smiling. “And unless you want to come back to see me a third time, make sure they bring ID.”
I’m head down, rummaging through my bag for a pretend object to avoid being seen by Sebastian and Claire on their way out, when Linda’s traitorous voice travels from the depths of the filing cabinets.
“Ha! There you are.” She emerges, waving a manila folder in my direction.
“I’m so sorry, Angelina. Our intern must have refiled it this morning by mistake. His system is all madness, no method.”
I offer Linda a tight smile and wait, like a hunted animal that knows it’s been discovered and has nowhere to run.
“Lina Mariano.” Heat burns my cheeks at the sound of my name coming out of his mouth: a fact, not a question.
I’m still sitting, frozen in place. I force myself to meet his eyes across the room. “Sebastian Nikolaou,” I manage to croak out. His name is an incantation I’ve been afraid to utter for years, worried of the dark powers it might wield. “Hi.”
He crosses the room, reaching me in a few long strides.
I slide my bag and laptop onto the chair next to mine and stand, awkwardly.
He’s standing right in front of me, curved slightly, like a question mark, to address our height difference (I’m only five feet tall, and the Converse I keep under my desk and changed into for the ride here aren’t helping me out).
I tip my head back until I make contact with his eyes (they’ve always reminded me of green sea glass), an action that proves a lot more intimidating than it was a minute ago when he was all the way on the other side of the room.
Just as I’m wondering what will happen next, he bends down and hugs me.
I squeeze my eyes shut and hold my breath. Acts of self-preservation: My senses simply cannot take any more of him. I need to restrict access.
I pull away first and push my shoulders back, determined to look totally unfazed by this run-in.
I quickly imagine what he’s seeing right now.
I blew out my hair this morning, so that’s a plus, though I’m sure I could use a comb after biking here.
I’m wearing a white blouse with a tie at the waist, my favorite Abercrombie jeans and the aforementioned Converse.
I wish I’d taken the time to put on more makeup than tinted moisturizer and a few swipes of mascara, but overall, not bad.
“I can’t believe I ran into you,” he says, and the genuine smile that follows has my ego doing somersaults. “My mom will be so jealous when I tell her.”
Now I’m the one smiling. I’ve run into Barbara “Bubba” Nikolaou, restaurant owner and beloved Brantley Beach community member, every now and then over the years, and she’s always over the moon to see me (a mutual feeling).
She still says I’m one of her favorite employees of all time. “How’s Bubba doing?”
“Good, good. She’s retiring, believe it or not. After this season.”
He’s right: I can’t believe it. “Really? Wow—I mean, good for her, though! She certainly deserves it.”
Just as I’m about to ask what will happen to the restaurant, Claire appears. Because I’m a tragic woman, I’d briefly forgotten about her.
“Lina, this is my fiancée, Claire Cunningham.”
“Nice to meet you!” she says brightly, wrapping one manicured hand around Sebastian’s bicep and extending the other to shake mine.
“Lina Mariano,” I say as we shake.
“Lina Mariano…” she repeats, with some familiarity. Her big blue eyes shift as she tries to place me—identify my significance. I indulge myself for a second: Maybe Sebastian has told her all about me when he’s feeling nostalgic.
But then she snaps her fingers. “Shore Life, right? I love your column! It’s how I found all our wedding vendors.
I know nothing about New Jersey, so you really saved me.
” She says “New Jersey” in that sort of mocking way people who have spent very little time in New Jersey but hate on it anyway always do.
“Don’t think it will win me a Pulitzer, but it’s fun,” I say.
I can practically hear my best friend, Maren, on my shoulder: Would it kill you to cut the whole self-deprecation thing for, like, two seconds?
While I’m always flattered to meet a reader in the wild, I’m also a little embarrassed.
Sebastian probably had no idea that I cover the local wedding scene for a living—when I’d told him I wanted to be a writer all those years ago, this isn’t exactly what I’d had in mind. “I’m glad you found it helpful,” I add.
“You’re always so modest, Lina,” Sebastian says. “My mom told me every business up and down the Shore with a remotely wedding-related service would kill for you to feature them. And the ones you do cover can barely keep up with all the calls they get after.”
See? Give yourself more credit, says shoulder-Maren, smugly. I relax a little.
“So how do you know Seb?” Claire asks.
I internally cringe at this nickname, which I’ve never heard before. Then I look to Sebastian for help, curious how he’ll concisely sum up our relationship to one another.
Those green eyes consider me for a moment before he answers. “Lina and I worked at the restaurant together in high school. She’s one of my mom’s favorites.”
The truth, if quite an oversimplified version of it.
“That’s perfect!” Claire exclaims. When I knit my brows, confused, she adds: “You can be our witness!”
I catch the briefest flash of concern on Sebastian’s face before he nods. “Do you mind, Lina? It should only take a minute.”
I look from Sebastian to Claire and back again, wondering how I got into this situation.
Sebastian Nikolaou is getting married to someone who isn’t me. And, apparently, I’m going to help him do it.
“Of course,” I say, feeling my fragile little teenage heart break all over again. “I’d be happy to.”