The Shippers(9)

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AT THE ALTAR, I handed my bouquet to my big sister, Ashley. My little brother, Pete, soon to graduate from college, had agreed to be Pearce’s best man. When Pearce had asked him, Pete’s response had been “Don’t you have anybody better to ask?”

I’d elbowed Pete—hard—in the ribs and then answered for him. “That’s a yes. That’s a grateful and enthusiastic yes.”

But now I found myself wondering, too. Why didn’t Pearce have anybody better to ask? Cooper had never liked him the few times they’d met back in college. Was Pearce one of those guys other guys didn’t like?

Pete crossed his eyes at me when I glanced his way.

I ignored him. Stay focused.

Grandma Dodie pulled me down to kiss me on the cheek and then handed me over to Pearce.

The itching was getting worse. Was it inside my throat now? Had I inhaled some fibers or something? My airway definitely felt tight. Wouldn’t it be lucky if my throat closed up and I really fainted—for real?

Problem solved, huh?

Pearce stood next to me like a statue as the reverend, who’d encouraged us to be casual and call him “Rev,” came to stand before us.

But here’s the thing. I guess the rev felt like this was his moment to shine, because next, he launched into an extended-remix TED Talk about the internet, of all things, and how it was tearing us apart like nothing before in history—and how we needed to stop hating other people online and start loving them in the real world. And I didn’t technically disagree. I mean: Yes. Let’s hurry up and get on that. But my itching situation was ramping up by the second, so I really didn’t have time for some big, long pontification from some old dude with yellow teeth.

Let’s just say I lost focus.

My mind drifted.

Before I knew it, I was thinking about Cooper and trying to overlay the boy I remembered so well with the man who had shown up here today. That overgrown beard. That scraggly hair. What a waste of a good-looking man.

Hold on. Did I just classify Cooper as a “good-looking man”?

I’d actually given him a haircut once when we were kids, in our clubhouse, with some pinking shears. What were we—ten? Eleven? I remember very confidently explaining to him that the zigzags on the blades would give his hair “body.” He’d been so trusting, sweet thing—and then he went home looking like he’d been electrocuted. It was so bad, my mom made me walk across the street later with a bottle of chardonnay for his mother as a peace offering.

The next time I saw Cooper, he had a buzz cut.

Which made him look like a Norman Rockwell painting.

Would Cooper wind up coming to the reception tonight? I wondered. Or was that teaser in the vestibule all the time I’d get? Because I had a question I’d been waiting to ask him. And if I’d had some warning he was coming, for god’s sake—if he hadn’t just crashed into this day out of nowhere—I might have had the presence of mind to ask it.

Or maybe not. I might need a bottle of chardonnay myself for that one.

Now the rev was wrapping up. He seemed pretty pleased with himself, like he’d really gotten how love works cleared up for everyone—and solved all of society’s problems as a bonus. Were we supposed to clap or something? I looked around.

And that’s when I saw Cooper, close by in a set of side pews, sitting alone with his elbow resting on his rucksack, watching me like he had X-ray vision into my thoughts. Before I could look away, he lifted his hand and touched the side of his head—and as he did it, I swear, I heard his voice as clearly as if he’d spoken out loud: Stop, drop, and roll.

Dammit, Cooper, I thought. Why do you have to ruin everything?

And then, like there was no other choice …

I took a deep breath.

And I let my knees buckle.

And I dropped to the floor.





Four


WAS I CONVINCING?

I have no idea.

My only plan was to keep my eyes closed—without visibly squeezing.

Trickier than it sounds.

The whole church gasped as I fell, and then it shifted into murmuring. I felt the air thicken and the sounds muffle as, I assume, my family gathered around me. I heard the rev say, “Don’t worry, folks. This happens all the time. She’ll be back on her feet in a jiffy.”

Hell if I would.

Ashley wanted to call 911, but my mother kept insisting it was just nerves. Grandma Dodie kept asking everyone to keep back to give me some air. Pete kept declaring I was turning blue.

Which I wasn’t.

After several minutes, when I still hadn’t revived, the rev leaned in conspiratorially to my mom and said, “Maybe we should take her somewhere more comfortable.” Pete offered to carry me—which got an instant “Not you” from my mom. Pete was protesting with “I dropped her one time” when I felt two arms slide under me like a forklift and hoist me up.

Good. Pearce had been suspiciously silent so far. I’d half wondered if he was checking his investment app. At least now he was doing something. Even if I was in the process of weaseling out of our wedding.

He didn’t know that.

Yet.

And maybe I wouldn’t weasel out after all. Something about being carried like that was just so … romantic. You couldn’t escape it. You’re so out of control and so vulnerable, all limp with your eyes closed, caught in swells of motion—and the arms holding you are so anchoring and safe. I felt like … a damsel or something. And Pearce, for maybe the first time ever, felt like a rescuing knight. Someone I could feel protected by.