Chapter 3
Chapter three
The flower arch leaned to the left like a guest who’d hit the open bar too early.
Not dramatically. Just enough to bug the bride six months from now when she’d be looking at her photos and notice the asymmetry. Three years in this business had taught me one thing for sure: brides always caught the asymmetry.
“Marco!” I waved across the rooftop. “It’s leaning left. Forty-three minutes.”
Marco was one of my favorite vendors and one of the few ones who could read me at this distance. He nodded and jogged over with his assistant, a kid I didn’t recognize who was carrying the level the wrong way. I let them handle it.
The venue was doing its job. Converted warehouse, the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the bridge, string lights, Edison bulbs throwing the warm amber glow that every bride wanted in her photos, and most of them couldn’t have named.
White linens. Gold chargers. The peonies and eucalyptus I’d personally re-ordered yesterday after the florist sent over a first batch that looked like it had survived a war.
Everything held.
“Jett!” The bride’s sister rushed over in her dusty rose dress. She was the maid of honor. I committed her name to memory because bridesmaids could either be your best ally or your worst nightmare. “The DJ says he can’t find the outlet for his equipment.”
Outlets. Everywhere. I’d labeled them myself during setup. “I’ll handle it. You go check on Emma, make sure she’s not having a meltdown.”
“She’s actually weirdly calm.”
“Then go ruin that by reminding her she’s getting married in less than an hour.” I winked, and she laughed, hurrying back inside.
I found the DJ exactly where I expected, standing five feet from a clearly labeled outlet, looking lost. Some people needed their hands held through everything.
I pointed to the outlet. “Right here, and once you’re set up, I need a sound check. Ceremony starts at four-thirty sharp.”
“Got it, boss.”
Boss. Not bad. I’d worked for that word.
Built the client list. Wore down the vendors who didn’t want to work with someone my age until they did.
Figured out how to handle bridezillas and demanding mothers-in-law without losing my charm or my spine, which had taken longer than I wanted to admit.
Twenty-four was young for this industry. I was good at it, anyway.
The work suited me. Creating moments, curating beauty, holding the whole thing together while everything threatened to fall apart behind the curtain.
My phone buzzed. A text from the caterer: Running 10 min late. Traffic on Brooklyn Bridge.
Of course. There was always something.
I fired back a response, No problem, just hustle when you get here, and made a mental note to stall the cocktail hour by five minutes if needed. Guests would be too busy drinking and taking selfies with the skyline to notice.
By the time the ceremony started, everything held.
Arch centered. DJ levels right. The bride walked down the aisle to a string quartet doing the acoustic version of some pop song I should’ve recognized and didn’t.
She looked the way brides look when the day is finally happening; even my cynical ass had to give her that.
Love. People kept believing in it. Enough to drop thirty grand. Enough to cry in front of a hundred and fifty people. Enough to promise forever to someone they’d met on Hinge three years ago.
I stood at the back of the venue and took it all in. A job running smooth. Nothing more than that.
When the couple kissed and everyone applauded, I was already three beats into the reception timeline. Cocktail hour, first dance, toasts, dinner, cake. Mapped to the minute.
The trick was making moments for other people and staying outside of them.
It was almost midnight when I got home. The wedding had gone well. No drama, no disasters, a happy couple, drunk guests dancing to “September” for the third time. The bride hugged me at the end with tears in her eyes and told me I’d made her dream come true.
I’d smiled, accepted it, and started running the math on what I could charge for my next wedding off another glowing review.
Black slacks. White button-down. The tie I’d loosened around nine. I peeled all of it off in the bathroom and stood in front of the mirror under the spillover of warm light from the living room.
Two hundred and five pounds of deliberate construction. Broad shoulders. The arms. Abs earned across more hours at Foundation Fitness than I could honestly count. Silver hoops in both ears. The tattoo on my ribs barely showing in the half-light.
I looked good, and I knew it.
Eight years ago, I would have killed to look like this. The body, the confidence, the whole life.
Something itched at me, fast and uncomfortable, and I shoved it down before it could settle into anything. Tired. Long day, successful event. Time for sleep.
I brushed my teeth, set my alarm for 7 A.M., and climbed into bed.
Alone.
Exactly how I wanted it.
Sunday morning at Foundation Fitness was my favorite time to work out.
The gym was quieter than on weeknight evenings. Mostly serious lifters and early risers, none of the post-work crowd hogged equipment while they scrolled. I liked the quiet. The way my body already knew what to do.
Six years I’d been coming here. Started at eighteen, scrawny and stubborn about never feeling small again.
The first few months had been bad in ways I didn’t have words for then.
My form was wrong on everything. I could barely bench the bar without my arms shaking.
The guy who worked the desk had asked me, gently, after my second week if I needed a session with a trainer, and I’d said no because I couldn’t afford one.
Even when I wanted to quit, I kept showing up. Especially then.
Now this place felt like mine. I knew the equipment, the weekend regulars by sight if not by name, exactly what I could push.
Bench press first, the way I always started. Two forty-fives on each side. The metal cool against my palms. Off the rack, down to my chest, press. One. Two. Three. The burn arriving on the fifth rep.
Grounding was the word. Real. Something I controlled.
By the fourth set, my chest and arms were pumped, blood doing what blood does. I sat up, grabbed my water bottle. That was when I saw him.
Really tall. Maybe six-four with dark brown hair, the build of a guy who lifted regularly but hadn’t made a religion of it.
White, late twenties, maybe. Gray t-shirt showing off a sleeve tattoo down his left arm.
Black gym shorts. He was over by the cable machines doing lat pulldowns with decent form, the kind of guy I would’ve clocked.
I’d never seen him before. I would’ve remembered.
He finished his set, stood up, and for a second his eyes swept across the gym. They landed on me.
Or maybe they didn’t. Maybe he was looking in this general direction. But for a moment, our eyes met, and something happened.
I looked away. Grabbed my phone, pretended to check a text that didn’t exist.
When I glanced back, he was adjusting the weight on the machine, focused on his workout. Not looking at me at all.
Okay. So I’d imagined it.
I moved to the squat rack, loaded up the bar, and tried to focus on my form instead of the urge to look over at the cable machine. Which was stupid. I saw attractive guys at the gym constantly. This was Brooklyn. Half the population qualified as attractive.
But there was something about this one.
No. Nope. Not going there.
First squat. Thighs burning. I made myself count. One, two, three, focus on the movement, focus on the weight, focus on anything that wasn’t the guy across the gym who may or may not have been looking at me.
By the time I finished and headed to the locker room, he was gone. I told myself I wasn’t disappointed. I told myself a lot of things on the walk home that might’ve even been true.