Chapter 8 Willow
eight
Willow
Phish! I can’t believe Noah got us tickets to Phish! It feels kind of surreal. I’ve only seen them live once. Now, if anyone tells you you haven’t experienced Phish unless you saw them live—there is some truth to that. But I’m not letting that negate my own experience.
Having their music in my earbuds carried me through some stuff. No one gets to tell me that wasn’t real. It’s my life, and it’s real to me.
Just like this wedding. Sure, I know there are a lot of things about it that aren’t real. It has an end date. It’s not founded on romantic love. We won’t be intimate with each other. We won’t be starting a family.
But as I stare at myself in the mirror, hair now done in an artful updo courtesy of YouTube, discreet makeup on point, I feel proud of myself.
I’m living my life, doing what I believe is right, and in exchange the Universe is gifting me with tickets to Phish, a wedding dress from Goodwill that looks freaking awesome on me, and if I may say so, a promising friendship with Noah.
I always knew the man had a heart of gold. Now I get to experience it firsthand. And no, I’m not letting that go to my head. Or to my heart. We’re past that now.
I don’t know how to properly thank him for how well he’s treating me.
Not only did he give me a credit card (which I’ve yet to use), but he put me up in the most luxurious place I’ve ever seen.
Marble bathroom with jets in the shower.
A jacuzzi bath in an alcove off the bedroom, overlooking the scenery of desert and high peaks and glitz right beneath us—not least of which is the Sphere with its constantly changing colorful display.
I get that he’s benefiting from the wedding, but come on. All I can say is, the man has class.
Which—I always knew that.
My heartbeat picks up when I notice the time. Fifteen minutes left. There’s more traffic here at the elevators than I’ve ever seen in Emerald Creek, so I’d better get going.
I freeze as I enter the small chapel where Noah is chatting with the officiant.
Suddenly the wedding gown, the bouquet of button roses matching his boutonniere, all this seems superfluous and…
unnecessary. I feel self-conscious, silly even for putting so much effort into a fake wedding.
Would I have been a bridezilla in real life?
Christ.
But Noah straightens, and his gaze on me instantly puts me at ease. “There she is,” he says with a big smile right as some canned music blares from hidden speakers.
I’m not sure how to walk down the small aisle between rows of empty seats.
The Bitch Brigade isn’t here to ground me, guide me.
To tell me I’m beautiful, and powerful, and he’s lucky to have me.
Of course they’re not; I haven’t told them a thing.
I keep telling myself it’s because Kiara’s on her honeymoon, and Alex is too pregnant, and Chloe, Grace, and the others are dealing with an influx of tourists in each of their businesses.
But the reality is, I’m alone in this one. I have to be.
And it sucks.
So I just get up there as quickly as I can, my knuckles white around the small bouquet.
Noah must be sensing my nervousness, because he winks at me. “Nice touch,” he says, pointing to the flowers. “She would have liked that,” he adds, his voice catching a bit.
I gaze down at the bouquet, and the need for being back in Emerald Creek intensifies as the officiant goes through this shortcut of a wedding. But a smile tugs at my lips as I realize that all of this is perfection. This was meant to be.
Because just as Emerald Creek saved me, I’m here to save Emerald Creek.
“I do,” I answer the ritual question right after Noah.
Noah takes my hand and slips a ring on my finger. “Does it fit?” he whispers. “I took a guess when I had it sized.”
I glance down at the vintage ring, instantly recognizing the emerald and gold ring as a Callaway family heirloom. My eyes blur, my heart clenches. This part of it isn’t fake.
“You may kiss the bride,” the officiant says.
Noah lifts my hand and kisses it, winking at me again. “We did it,” he whispers.
My left hand is burning with the feeling of the ring and his kiss, while my right is clenching my dress. “Pictures! We need pictures,” I say, needing something to do.
“Plenty of those already,” Noah says, pointing to a photographer I hadn’t noticed. “You alright?” he asks me as he takes me under one arm and turns us for a posed picture.
“Look at each other!” the photographer instructs.
Noah gives my shoulder a squeeze. “We did it,” he repeats as our gazes lock, and I exhale, joining him in a freeing laugh.
We did it.
I honestly don’t know how Noah managed to get us seats just a few hours ago—and really good ones too.
The Sphere is packed but the atmosphere is chill and electric at the same time.
The three-sixty screens are beyond awesome, and I’m gaping during the whole opening act.
But when Phish comes on scene and the haptics go into overdrive, we jump to our feet.
“Ohmygod it’s so cool!” I can’t help but yell in Noah’s ear.
He smiles at me then tilts his head back, eyes half closed, and I too get lost in the music and visual of the dome above our heads and all around us, going from a night sky as starry as Vermont’s, to psychedelic flowers, animals, landscapes and abstract shapes designing intertwining paths in rhythm with the music.
All while the vocals, drums, and guitars reverberate deeply into my core.
I am one with the music, letting it cradle me, jumping—and singing along when I can.
When they perform “Character Zero,” Noah and I belt it out together, looking at each other, wagging our fingers. Noah lifts his shoulders in a “whatever” gesture and laughs. His glasses are long gone, his gaze vulnerable and free. It’s the happiest I’ve ever seen him.
It’s the happiest I’ve been in a long time too.
After that piece, our section starts swaying together, and we’re pushed together.
I trip, and Noah takes me under his arm to stabilize me.
He keeps his arm around my shoulders as we sway together.
“Ohmygod it’s your song!” I shriek when Phish starts on “Bathtub Gin.” I’m a little drunk on the music—and the margaritas we’ve gotten from the bar in memorabilia containers.
And yes, I kinda like that Noah keeps me under his arm for just a little longer.
To, you know, keep me from tripping over people.