Chapter 23 Now
Now
The hotel’s check-in starts at four o’clock, and it’s an hour drive south, which leaves me just two hours to freak out between the time I invite Sebastian to the wedding and when he’s due to pick me up. (I’d been planning to drive, but he insisted.) It’s not nearly long enough.
I distract myself with my pre-wedding guest-slash-reporter primping routine.
(The routine has nothing to do with Sebastian, I remind myself.) I start by taking what Gen Z calls “an everything shower,” during which all of my products get some love: shampoo, conditioner, body scrub, body wash, razor.
Back in the day—before TikTok decided you should only wash your hair once a week and maybe not shave at all—this was just called a shower, but I digress.
Once out, I twist my hair up into a microfiber towel and apply more makeup than I normally would.
I even incorporate a long-forgotten eyeliner.
(Which, okay, may have something to do with Sebastian.) Then I blow-dry my hair, curl it and brush the curls into loose waves.
A spritz of the perfume Maren sent me from London last Christmas is the final step.
I put on my comfiest gray shorts and a quarter zip. The ceremony isn’t until five, so I’ll have time to change once we get there. This seemed like a great plan when I thought I’d be traveling with David, but now I’m imagining changing in the same hotel room as Sebastian and I’m starting to sweat.
The truth is, I’m spiraling. This will be the first time I’ve seen him in person since the night we kissed at my apartment.
We still text daily, but neither of us has acknowledged what happened, and the more days that pass the more unbearably awkward it feels like it would be to do so.
In fact, I’ve begun to wonder if I imagined the whole intimate encounter, like it was some sort of pent-up fever dream.
I’m perceptive enough to acknowledge that Sebastian clearly doesn’t mind spending time with me—after all, he agreed to be my work-slash-wedding date with just hours’ notice—but I also don’t want to wrongly assume that his motivations are romantic.
Sebastian is going through a lot right now, and something about me must comfort him.
Which is why I’ve decided to keep my guard up this weekend. If Sebastian wants to initiate another steamy make-out, I won’t necessarily protest. But I also won’t let myself think of it as something deeper than it is. No assumptions. No getting carried away.
My phone buzzes next to the bathroom sink. It’s Sebastian, letting me know he’s outside.
He’s leaning against the passenger door of his Jeep when I come out.
I’ve spent the last two hours mentally preparing myself for Sebastian in a suit, but apparently I should have been preparing for Sebastian in road-trip casual athleisure.
Because, damn. He’s wearing a thick navy T-shirt, gray waffle shorts, white crew socks and Vans.
His curls have been gelled into submission, and he’s got a pair of brown Wayfarers on that make my stomach do a somersault.
I suddenly wish I were the one driving so I’d be forced to keep my eyes on the road.
“Hi,” he says.
“Hi!” I chirp. He pushes off the car and takes the paisley Vera Bradley duffel bag I’ve been using since fifth grade from my shoulder and the dress out of my hand.
“Oh—thanks!” I can’t seem to stop chirping.
I get settled in the passenger seat while he hangs my dress next to his suit in the back seat, then puts my bag in the trunk.
I smile when I notice the two coffee cups in the console. He’d texted me for my Rook order a few minutes ago. I grab my New Orleans–style cold brew, thankful to have something to do with my hands for a while.
“Thanks for this.” I indicate my cup as he slides into his seat. “And for coming with me.”
“That’s not all.” He reaches into the pocket of his door and produces a movie theater–size box of peanut M&Ms and a package of Twizzlers.
“Wow. I feel like a passenger princess.” Either he has great taste in candy or he remembers Twizzlers are my favorite. The second possibility makes my skin heat up. I grip my cold brew a little tighter.
“You’re taking me to a swanky beach wedding. And you have to work while I get to enjoy the open bar. The least I could do is fuel you with caffeine and sugar.” He hands me the aux cord and starts driving.
“How’s your mom?” I ask. “Good day?”
“Seems like one. She was getting ready to go to the restaurant when I left.”
“I’m so glad.” I queue up a few songs, then settle back into the seat.
It’s a gorgeous day for a drive—and an outdoor wedding ceremony.
The brides, Bonnie and Amelia, must be breathing sighs of relief.
We had a phone call this week during which Bonnie went over the forecast and various weather-related contingency plans in painstaking detail.
She sounded like an amateur meteorologist.
I only last about two songs before I’m breaking into the Twizzlers. Sebastian gestures to the M&Ms. I open the box and pour him a handful.
He pops a few in his mouth, then asks, “Want to play a game?”
“Like ‘I Spy’?” I don’t say this with enthusiasm.
“Don’t hate on ‘I Spy.’ But no, different one. You think of a number from one to ten. I’ll come up with a category, and you have to pick something in that category that you think reflects your number. After five categories, I try to guess what number it is.”
“So the number is a rating, essentially? And I’m picking things that go with that rating.”
“Right. So let’s say your number is ten, and I choose ice cream flavor as the first category.”
“I’d obviously say honey fudge.”
He smiles. “Exactly. You get it.”
“All right,” I say. “I’ve got my number.”
“Okay, let me think of some good categories.” He runs a finger over his lips while he does so. It’s alarming how distracting this is. I grab another Twizzler. “We’ll start simple. Sports.”
“Like, to watch or to play?”
He shrugs. “Open to interpretation.”
“Volleyball?”
“I’m sensing uncertainty. So probably not a particularly high number or low number.”
I keep my poker face. “Just give me the next category.”
“Tasks at the restaurant.”
I smirk. “Snack bar register.”
“Okaaaay,” he says, stroking his jaw now.
The light stubble he’s had the last few times I’ve seen him is gone.
He must have shaved for the wedding. “Not gross like bathrooms or mopping,” he muses.
“But on the other hand you’re in front of customers the whole time, so ‘no goofing around.’” He says this in the voice he’s always used to imitate his mother.
“I’m thinking we’re in the four to six range. Bagel order?”
I purse my lips. This is harder than I thought. “Egg and cheese on a plain bagel.”
“What kind of cheese?” he wants to know.
“American.”
“Is it toasted?”
“Sure.”
He nods, like he expected this. “That helps. But no bacon, no pork roll. Not even some avocado. This is very mid. I think we’re at a five. It’s a five, isn’t it?”
“I get two more categories!”
“I’m locking in early, because I’m that confident. New rule.”
I throw my hands up in mock frustration. “Fine! It’s a five.”
“I knew it!” He smacks the steering wheel, victorious.
“Yeah, yeah.” I’m getting competitive now. “Think of your number.”
“Okay, got it.”
“Days of the week?”
“Good one. Tuesday.”
“Holidays?” I ask, twirling a Twizzler.
He thinks for a moment, then says, “New Year’s Eve.”
“This is a low number,” I say. His poker face isn’t as good as mine, so I know I’m right. “Pizza topping?”
“Pineapple,” he says, without hesitation.
“One. I’m locking in early.”
“Damn, you’re good. I thought I threw you off by not picking Monday.”
“Nah, I get your thinking there. Mondays are rough but at least there’s the motivation of starting a fresh week. Tuesdays are just … sort of irredeemable.”
“Someone was on the right track with Taco Tuesdays. But still.”
I nod in agreement. We play a few more rounds, and we both do pretty well, even with just three guesses.
I feel a rush of validation when I pick Twizzlers for candy, cheeseburger for sandwich (“I respect that,” he said) and New York for U.S.
city and he correctly guesses a ten. It feels good to know that, even after all these years, we still know each other pretty well.
“Do you think you’ll ever work there again?”
It takes me a moment to register that he means New York. “I think about it sometimes, but I don’t know. Probably not in the cards.”
“You loved it, though.” I look over just as he’s repositioning his hand to the very top of the steering wheel, at twelve o’clock, the tendons in his forearm flexing in the process. I force my gaze back to the road. “I mean, it’s your ten. That’s a big deal.”
I let out a breath. It’s been a while since I’ve talked about my time in New York. “I did love it. I dreamed of saving up enough to move there, even if it meant having three roommates to be able to afford it.” I laugh humorlessly. “I had a taste of this life I’d always imagined, and I wanted more.”
“But…?”
We glance at each other at the same time, then both turn our eyes back to the road.
And something about that brief look makes me feel comfortable enough to be honest. “But then I had it completely ripped out from under me. I got laid off. Spent a couple of months searching for a new job when no one was hiring. Got rejected over and over. Felt like a failure. Like everyone and everything around me was moving forward and I was getting left behind. It was a pretty dark time for me, mentally. Then I started at Shore Life, and that was that. New York was finished with me. Sometimes I feel like I imagined the year I worked there. It feels like another life.”
Sebastian nods, processing this. “That’s definitely shitty,” he muses. “But you’ve gained a lot of experience since then. You have more to offer. I bet if you applied for jobs in the city now, you’d get completely different results.”