Chapter 12
JASON
“I understand, thanks,” I grumble as I hang up on yet another wedding planner.
Deep breaths, I tell myself. Jossie cut me off after two espressos this morning so I’m left nursing a pitiful, decaf latte.
This ranks top of the list of “shittiest ways to spend my morning.” I’m scrambling for a new wedding planner. I asked Jossie for help, but she has too much real work to entertain my personal affairs. If she wasn’t such a savior, I’d be firing her sassy ass right about now.
Charlie’s friend is charging us double because we canceled on her yesterday. The ones I’ve called either laugh in my face or ask me for more money than the entire wedding budget combined. Maybe, I should just go ahead and pay them.
I really just want out of this fucking mess. Weddings are my kryptonite, and no one seems concerned about my well-being. My last resource is my younger brother, Alex. He might take pity on me and take over this mess.
“What can I do for you?” he says cheerfully after the first ring.
Have I mentioned how much I hate morning people?
“Why am I the one dealing with a fucking wedding?” I ask instead of greeting him. “Shouldn’t it be June, Jeannette, or you?”
“Sure, throw your kid brother under the bus,” he says.
“Better you than me.”
“You skipped Jackson,” he complains. “And Emmeline is the queen of organization. This would be right up her alley.”
I sigh as I go back to googling “cheap wedding planners near me.” I have another tab open with the search results for “how to bail out of a wedding you agreed to pay for,” a third one with “how to not fall into the web of sweet, cute, sister-of-the-bride” and “how to make yourself repulsive to someone else.”
“She offered to help me with a few things,” I tell him. “But they’re both out of the country for the next week. If not, I would’ve added them to the mix. Or better yet, shoved this off to them.”
“Just stop enabling Marek,” he says. “I never saw you do that for me when I had my accident.”
Last year, he was in a car accident. At some point, the doctors mention that he wouldn’t walk again. His x-game career ended that day. He walks with a limp, and I swear that I tried to be there for him. But he really didn’t need me as much.
“You had Mom and the girls fussing all over you,” I remind him. Our sisters mothered him to death while he was recovering. “The point is, I can’t do this. Everyone knows it and no one fucking cares.”
“We care, but you should be over it,” he says. And then the fucker asks, “Do I really have to be there for the big day? We know how this is going to turn out, don’t we?”
“And they say I’m the cynic of this family,” I respond, resigned that this asshole isn’t going to help me.
This isn’t worth my time. Marek won’t even appreciate it. It’s just going to be yet another disaster wedding I’ve lived through. And an unhappy marriage I have to witness. Until he asks for money to pay for a divorce lawyer.
“What do you need help with?” he asks in a resigned tone.
“Just about everything,” I answer. “Fuck. I’m sick of all it. Bridezilla is so fucking incompetent. Marek isn’t any better. And don’t get me started on this fucking chick—”
“There’s a chick involved?” he asks, amusement in his voice.
“Yeah,” I say. “Sister of the Bride.”
“So, she’s hot?”
I think about it for a second. Sure, Eileen’s pretty. Her voice is sweet but confident. She’s fucking smart as shit and has a mouth to match. She’s cool but not in an obnoxious know-it-all kinda way. She’s hilarious and charismatic.
Sometimes I catch myself holding my breath when she watches me. She gets this look on her face sometimes like she’s waiting for me to spill my guts. I feel as if she can read my mind and even touch my soul with her sweet gaze.
I had to stop myself a couple of times yesterday from telling her my walrus joke. Last night, I wanted to hear her voice before I fell asleep. And I almost called her this morning to say maybe I should bail on planning this wedding. Hoping she’ll convince me otherwise.
I never call women. Well, except for Jossie—but she doesn’t count.
“Uh, you know,” I say casually. “I don’t think so... haven’t really had time to get a good look at—”
“Wow, you’ve got it bad,” Alex declares as if he knows better than I do.
There’s a knock at the door. I check the monitor. The first thing I spot is that bright smile and those crinkly green eyes. She makes me smile against my better judgment as I open the door.
“Uh, I gotta go,” I tell Alex.
“Let me guess, it’s her,” he says flatly.
“Yeah, sounds great,” I say as I hang up on him.
“It's you,” I say, as I usher her in. “How did you know where I live?”
“Marek told me,” she explains walking into my house and looking around. “I thought it was easier to come over than go to my parents’ house to make a call.”
I stare at her dumbfounded. This is the last place I expected to see her. In my house. How can I avoid her if she just saunters into my domain looking all hot with those skinny jeans and the loose white blouse?
“Do you know there are really no payphones anymore?” she asks.
Payphones?
What is she talking about? I blink twice rewinding the conversation. What did I miss?
Was she going to call me?
“How did you get my number?” I question. “And more importantly, where the fuck is your phone?”
“Charlie and Marek paid me an early visit,” she clarifies.
I check the time, nine in the morning—what the fuck is wrong with people? It’s too early for a Sunday morning.
“I can't find my phone,” she continues. “The last time I saw it was when we went to dinner. It might be in your car, honestly.”
“How about the restaurant?”
She shakes her head. “I already went there.”
“You know there’s an app for that,” I joke.
She nods. I barely catch the smirk she gives me. “Can we check your car just to make sure I didn't leave it there? I think it’s dead. It keeps going to voicemail.”
“You’re wrong but, sure,” I say as I grab my keys and put on my shoes. “You hungry? I was thinking about grabbing something.”
“My fridge is empty,” I lie.
She scrunches her nose and says, “I could use a coffee.”
Then, as we walk to the elevator, she tells me, “Charlie forced me to make decaf this morning so she wouldn’t ‘smell caffeine’ in case it’s bad for her kid or whatever. It was gross and sad; let’s leave it at that.”
“A woman after my own heart,” I declare.
She nudges me with her elbow, laughing. She laughs even harder when we find her phone in the center console of my car.
“Told you so,” she says triumphantly.
“Guess I owe you a real coffee,” I offer.
“You already owed me that,” she reminds me with an unamused face. “Never play with my caffeine.”
“Fine,” I concede, “Name your price.”
She hums looking at me thoughtfully as I turn on the car. Why does she keep doing that? Do I have something on my face?
“I’ll come up with something,” she says finally.