How to Ruin a Wedding(21)

His first love’s wedding.

Oh shit. I hadn’t thought of that detail in particular. Is he happy with me? Angry that I wrecked the special moment between two people he still weirdly cares about? Confused by me? All of the above?

His answering chuckle, even muffled by a phone speaker, sends a quick zing of awareness down my spine. “How are you? When I tried looking for you after the almost-wedding, I heard you already left.”

How are you? This was not the first question I thought he’d ask me—not that I thought he’d ask me anything. I never thought we’d have another interaction in my life.

I’ve already trauma dumped on him once and don’t think it’s why he’s calling me now, so I go with, “I’m fine.”

“You live in New York, right? That’s what you told me,” he says, and he means You may or may not have given me the wrong name, and you wrecked a wedding, and you have a track record of being a complete weirdo, so I’m not sure if you were telling the truth about your place of residence.

But I don’t feel like admitting that I now live with my little sister, so I tell him, “Yes.”

“Perfect. I’m in the city for work this week, our offices are based here, and I was hoping we could grab coffee.”

“Why?”

I don’t mean to sound so short, but I’m too confused about him reaching out and on the tail end of misery from speaking with Mathew to think of anything other than single-word responses.

He only chuckles again. “I’d like to see you. Talk. And, honestly, I have something to ask.”

“You can ask me now,” I point out, trying not to sound like I was screaming into the couch cushion only moments ago.

“I’d rather do it in person.”

Curiosity tickles my spine straight. Though I only remember bits and pieces of our night together, the small bundles of memories among the black spots are all pleasant. He was charming and never creepy, comforting but not too soft.

And, of course, whenever our hands brushed or our shoulders knocked into each other as we stumbled around the hotel in search of snacks, an arrow of heat shot between my legs.

My fingers dance along my lap. I could say no, but there’s no real reason to, just like there’s no reason to say yes. But an excuse to get out of the house seems more appealing than flinching at the creak of every footstep I hear whenever Mathew walks along the kitchen floor above.

It’ll take me another two hours to get back into the city, but at least the drive will help me clear my head. Or, if I want to drink, I can take the train.

“Make it dinner tonight, and I’ll say yes.”

“Dinner,” he repeats without hesitation, “tonight, so say yes.”

“Yes.”





6.


Anders sent over the restaurant and time without being asked, so I didn’t have to wonder if my linen pants and sleeveless top were appropriate attire for the dimly lit bistro stuffed between high-rise buildings downtown.

He sits at a table in a far corner, overlooking the other diners clinking glasses and laughing while a slightly too loud indie-folk playlist surrounds us.

I walk over and plant myself in front of him with a polite smile. “Anders.”

“Lucinda,” he greets warmly, and heat spreads at the tips of my ears.

“You can call me Lucy,” I offer as I hang my tote on the chair.

“I like Lucinda.”

I tilt my head and gaze at him. His hair is perfectly tousled, his light-brown button-up somehow makes the flecks of gold in his eyes glow a little brighter at the center of their pools of green, and he’s missing the slight five o’clock shadow that was present when we first met.

When I don’t say anything, he adds, “You look beautiful. Your hair is nice too. Different.”

“Ah.” I twirl one of the bouncy curls reflectively. I didn’t have enough time after my shower to straighten it. “I usually wear it flat.”

“Both styles look good on you.”

Wow. Three compliments back-to-back in the span of thirty seconds. Is he making good on his future endeavor promise? Or is he sweet-talking me into whatever favor he needs? I have no idea what I could possibly do for him.

The waitress arrives for our drink order, and Anders asks for a flight of their best wines for us to try.

“Okay,” I say when she leaves, “I am so incredibly confused by you reaching out that I’m not sure what I’m supposed to say right now. If you can get straight to the point so I don’t have to keep scrambling to try and figure that out, I’d appreciate it.”

His dimples appear. When he opens his mouth, I hold up my finger. “Actually, if this is going to be a stressful and/or confrontational conversation, do I still get dinner out of this? I’m starving.”

His small smile becomes a full-blown one. “I guarantee you can have dinner, no matter where the conversation leads. Dessert included.”

“Phenomenal.”

The waitress leaves two flights of mini wineglasses and asks for our order. Anders asks for a steak and then points to the menu laid out in front of me. “The vegan burger is supposedly very good.”

My eyebrows quirk. “Did I tell you I was vegetarian?”

“Do you not remember?”

I sigh and order the burger. When the waitress leaves, I grab one of the glasses and down the dry wine like a shot. “I don’t remember much of that night,” I confess, grabbing the next glass over. “I’m not sure of everything I rambled about to you. I only remember the beginning of the evening, not the end.”