I smile at the bottle, then glance at Serene and Beau, the Raymonds, as they stroll from table to table, greeting their guests.
“It really is the sweetest idea,” I answer.
“Marie said the owner is a complete romantic and does it for every wedding here. I mean, I’m sure the wine is the same as what they sell, but still, the custom labels are adorable.”
“That’s incredible,” I agree, smiling fondly at the atmosphere my sister created for her daughter’s special day.
“Serene ordered two cases to keep for anniversaries,” Jenn adds, taking a bite of her salmon.
I raise my eyebrows and hum, stalling my following sentence by sipping my rosé. Two cases of wine are twenty-four bottles. I hope they make it there. I hope they surpass it. I hope they aren’t like John and me, ten years in and regretting the last four.
John squeezes my knee. It’s an apology. Regardless of how terrible we were to each other in recent years, we never stopped knowing each other. It’s a direct correlation from living with someone for over a decade. I glance at him and shrug.
He holds my gaze for a few moments. It’s like he wants to kiss me. He looks like he wants to correct his wrongs or forgive my trespasses. Or maybe we already have, and we’re sitting here in purgatory at our niece’s wedding because the timing is terrible to tell our families we’re getting a divorce.
I can practically hear them asking why, with tears in their eyes and desperation etched on their foreheads. “But you two are so good together,” they’ll say. “Why would you give up now?”
Because we didn’t love each other enough, and we don’t want to.
ten
THEN
“YOU LOOK GOOD,” I SAID, making a beeline straight for him at the bar.
“You look better,” he responded, holding my hand out and making me twirl.
The bridesmaid dress my sister chose wasn’t awful, but the light shade of blue wasn’t my first choice. The hourglass cut of the gown made up for the lackluster color, along with the plunging back and scooped neckline. As I spun, my curled hair draped over my bare shoulder.
“Thank you,” I said, smiling. He took me by the waist, brushing my hair over my shoulder. As he did this, his knuckles brushed against the scar on my shoulder.
“You have a scar,” he said.
“Oh, yeah. Curling iron when I was fifteen. Jenn did it by accident.” I waved my hand with a laugh.
He didn’t respond right away. He ran his thumb over the scar twice, bent down, and kissed it gently. “Those evil sisters of yours,” he muttered. “Let’s make them crazy tonight.”
I grinned. “Can’t wait.”
“Now,” he said, sipping his red wine and scanning the reception room. “What do I need to know? Do you have touchy relatives? A weird great aunt that will hit on me?”
I drew back as I giggled into my champagne. “You wish.”
His gaze swept over me, not in a grossly obvious way, but in a way that made me feel like he was holding back. Not from hitting on me like a typical dirtbag I met in a bar, but it was as if there was a question in his gaze. A wondering. A daydream I was starring in.
I tried not to let it get the best of me, disguised my desire to return the gaze with information.
“Oh, yes. The rundown,” I began, glancing around the hotel ballroom. “See that lady with the floral pantsuit?” He nodded. “She’ll ask your political affiliation within twenty seconds of the meeting. And her husband will sneak in ways to ask you to donate to his campaign.” He tsked out a laugh.
“Aren’t politics taboo to talk about at a wedding?”
“Aren’t they taboo to talk about at any gathering involving blood relatives?” I countered, and he smirked.
“Okay, who else?”
“Oh! That’s my cousin, Millie. She works in HR, though, I’m pretty sure she moonlights as a celebrity gossip social media account. She will know your deepest, darkest status from 2014 within fifteen minutes of getting your full name.”
He throws his head back and laughs. “Well, that sounds useful.”
