Chapter 20 #4
“It’s more or less what I thought would happen,” I admit. “But it was just frustrating. She dismissed every single one of my ideas. She didn’t care what I wanted at all—I might as well have stayed home.”
Reed nods pensively. For a few moments, it’s quiet in the kitchen as I finish up my second s’more, scraping the gooey marshmallow onto one of the ginger cookies.
Then he says, “What would you have wanted?”
I pause, the s’more halfway to my mouth. “What?”
“What would you have wanted?” he asks. “For the wedding.”
I’m so taken aback by the question that I don’t respond right away. I set my s’more—which is an oozing mess—back down on the napkin. “What do you mean? There is no wedding.”
“If it were real,” he says, shrugging. “Just a thought exercise. What would you want it to look like?”
I’d barely even considered the question. It didn’t feel like something I could ask myself, even when the wedding planner wanted to hear my opinions—even while I was making my Pinterest board in the car.
I’ve never really thought much about a wedding before this, either. I didn’t see myself getting married anytime soon. I definitely didn’t see myself at the center of a huge, blowout wedding, either.
The few times I’ve given it any thought, it’s always been small, cozy, and intimate. An elopement, even. It’s the kind of wedding I’ve always been drawn to in movies—something simple, but beautiful.
Reed is still staring at me, expectant. I shrug uncertainly and say, “I don’t know. I mean… the wedding planner told me to make a Pinterest board, so I did. In the car, on the way back from Long Island.”
“Can I see it?”
I suppose there’s no harm in showing him some pictures. I pull out my phone, leaning across the counter to show him the board I made.
He scrolls slowly through the photos. There are a lot of pictures of libraries—old, lovely places with towering stacks of books.
The dresses featured are classic but simple, and the suits are all plain tuxes.
No frills, and nothing huge. The venues I’ve pinned are all just big enough for the few people who matter most to me.
Reed studies the Pinterest board for a long time. His face gives away nothing, and there’s a sense of anxiety that makes my heart race.
What if he thinks this is stupid? What if he hates all my ideas just as much as his mother did? He might say they’re cheap. Shabby. Overly sentimental.
I’m starting to feel light-headed with nerves by the time he looks up at me.
But he’s grinning from ear to ear. “I love it.”
“Wait—” I stare at him, disbelieving. “You do? Seriously?”
“Yeah. It’s perfect,” he says. He turns the phone around, showing me one of my favorite pictures on the entire board: one with an archway set up in front of shelves of antique books, adorned with string lights.
There are a few neat rows of wooden folding chairs on either side of the aisle, and simple bouquets of white flowers.
“You’d be okay with this?”
“Are you kidding? This is a great idea.” He slides my phone back over to me. “Where’s that photo from?”
“I think it’s one of the university libraries in Manhattan. Inside one of their rare book collections.” I can’t keep the smile off of my face now that Reed is on board with my idea. It makes me feel seen—finally, an acknowledgement that my ideas aren’t total shit.
If Reed is on my side, then maybe this process won’t be so painful after all. I feel like I finally have an advocate, someone who’s going to take my side throughout all of this. It’s soothing.
I reach for the bag of marshmallows, suddenly a little self-conscious about the fact that he walked in on me stuffing my face with s’mores.
“You want one?” I ask.
“A s’more?” He smirks. “Aren’t you supposed to make those outside?”
“Traditionally. But I’m an innovator.”
He chuckles at that, then nods. “Sure, why not. But you have to show me how to do it.”
“Come on over.”
He gets up from the stool and stands behind me as I demonstrate the correct technique for making stovetop s’mores. I fire up the gas burner and spear him a marshmallow.
“You gotta hold it above the flame,” I explain. “You want it to get that perfect, golden-brown crust.”
“How do I know when it’s ready?”
“Here—” I hand him the stick. “Start cooking it, and I’ll show you.”
He holds the marshmallow over the fire. “Is there a secret trick, or—”
“Just watch the color. You want it to be nice and crispy on the outside, but gooey in the middle.”
Reed frowns at his marshmallow. “It’s not cooking.”
“It is,” I assure him. “It just takes a little time.”
“But wouldn’t it cook faster if I—” he lowers the stick, letting the marshmallow touch the blue-edged gas flame. Immediately, it catches on fire.
Reed yelps, backing away from the stove with his flaming marshmallow held aloft. He looks so comical that I can’t help but laugh at him.
“Olivia! What should I do?”
“Don’t worry,” I chuckle. “It happens. Here, let me—”
I gently lay my hand on his wrist, standing on my toes so that I can reach the burning marshmallow. I inhale, then blow out the fire. Reed is left holding a charred mess of a marshmallow, which he stares at forlornly.
“So… looks like I messed that up.”
“You can still eat it,” I say. “The inside should be just fine. It’ll be nice and squishy.”
He gives me a dubious look, but presses the marshmallow between two cookies nonetheless. While he’s busy assembling his s’more, I neatly toast another perfect marshmallow for myself.
As we enjoy our s’mores together, talking and laughing, my tension from this morning—and the coldness that settled between us last night—feels like a distant memory.