Under the Same Stars(21)
Marco glanced up at me after a few moments. “You alright, Mads?”
I flopped back against the couch cushions. “Marco, I never wanted to be one of Katie’s bridesmaids.”
“Ah, so you are telling.” He closed his computer and folded his arms across his chest; I had his full and undivided attention. “Am I allowed to ask now?”
I waved my hand. Be my guest!
He smirked. “Did someone set up you and Davis?”
“Yes,” I said, and then let the whole saga spill out. Everything from my parents and me being excluded from Austin’s Parisian proposal to Katie asking me to be a bridesmaid, to the engagement party, to the bridesmaid slumber party (and with plenty of tangents along the journey). By the time I finished, we’d left Crescent Moon behind and were crossing St. Paul’s parking lot. My lungs wouldn’t stop fluttering. It had been such a relief to tell someone that I hadn’t been able to get the words out fast enough. “What do you think?” I asked when Marco didn’t offer an opinion. “Am I nuts?”
Marco took off his glasses. “No, I wouldn’t say so,” he said, using his T-shirt’s hemline to methodically wipe their lenses. He didn’t speak again until they were clean. “It more sounds like you want to connect with Katie, and you’re willing to go a very long—and slightly silly—way to do so. I admire that; I can tell how important family is to you.”
“Family is everything to me,” I said with a delayed and dazed nod. Because, excuse me? I’d just told him that I was trying to make the world’s most famous reality dating show a genuine reality, by being set up on who-knew-how-many dates. I was expecting Marco’s reaction to be something more along the lines of an amused, Wow, you’re that desperate for a wedding plus-one?
But no, he’d seen right through the plan; he’d discerned my motivation as if it were tattooed on my forehead. “I would…” I started but kept the rest to myself.
I would like a boyfriend, though. I don’t think a boyfriend would be so bad.
Maybe a boyfriend would be a bonus of bonding with Katie.
Instead, I asked where Marco was parked. The only other car in the lot was a Mom-mobile minivan, and bless me, I hadn’t been served with a ticket! “Back home in Pennsylvania,” he answered. “Students aren’t allowed to keep cars on campus.”
“Oh,” I said. “Would you, um, like me to drive you back to your dorm?”
Marco shook his head. “Thanks, but I’m meeting friends for a late dinner at Winberie’s.”
My eyebrows knitted together. “Didn’t we pass Winberie’s on the walk back here?”
“Yes,” he said. “But I wanted to make sure you got back to your car okay.”
“You didn’t have to,” I replied. “I know my way around. Plus, I have pepper spray. You know, in case it ever comes to that.”
Marco opened the driver’s-side door. “I know you know your way around.” He gestured for me to get inside, really committing to this bit we were doing. “And I would be shocked if Mads Fisher-Michaels didn’t own pepper spray.” He winked. “But that doesn’t mean she should use it. Princeton might never recover.”
“Correct,” I said, hopping into the Defender. “My aim is impeccable.”
Once I’d closed the door with a sweet and satisfying slam, I expected Marco to take off across the lot to meet his friends, but he barely moved. He only took two steps backward to wait under a lamppost. I felt almost awkward buckling my seat belt before queuing up Waze (I knew my way home, but assistance from my Australian-accented guide never hurt). Marco waved when the Defender rumbled to life, and I did my best Queen-of-England wave back.
He didn’t leave his post until I’d flicked my left-hand blinker to leave the church; in my rearview mirror, I watched him start across the lot to take some shortcut I didn’t know about. It must’ve been a Princeton thing.
Eight
Connor almost choked on his root beer when he heard the news. “What do you mean you’re going to the Hun School’s junior prom?” he asked from the couch, leg casually draped over the arm. He’d made himself at home here years ago. “Since when do you even know anyone from Hun?”
“Since yesterday,” Dad answered before I could, failing miserably at masking a small smile. “She went on a coffee date.”
I groaned. “It wasn’t a date!”
“Then what was it?”
“I don’t know, Dad,” I said. “I guess whatever you call coffee dates with your clients.”
“A war room meeting?”
Connor chuckled, but it was all too quickly drowned out by the NHL game on TV. The New York Rangers versus their cross-river rival, the New Jersey Devils. “AND HE SCORES!” the commentator exclaimed. “NICK CARMICHAEL ON A POWER PLAY GOAL!”
Across the room in his designated armchair—we were a tad superstitious and all had “lucky spots” for Rangers games—Da pumped a fist in the air before unlocking his phone and furiously texting Austin. Professional hockey had always been their thing. Katie apparently loved it too, but she was a Devils fan. “Only Rangers fans are welcome around here!” Da had joked when Katie first told us, but you could tell from her flushed face that she hadn’t taken it as one.