For all of their similarities, Erin and Shannon were different in every way. Seeing Erin’s skinny jeans andMoby Dickbook cover t-shirt, I immediately wanted to befriend her—was there anything better than aMoby Dickt-shirt on Cape Cod? Seriously, no one would wear that without expecting a few ironic chuckles. I wanted to talk to the girl equipped with that kind of wit.
Shannon, on the other hand, was flawlessly pulled together in khaki shorts, a white tank top, and a breezy sweater that exposed one shoulder. She looked like a page from the Nordstrom catalog. Shannon was starlet waves, Erin was choppy side-swept bangs and shoulder-length layers. Shannon was smartly accessorized and Tory Burch espadrilles, Erin was a tiny, diamond nose ring winking in the darkness and simple leather flip-flops. In spite of it all, there was no mistaking them as sisters, and their resemblance to their mother was jarring.
Following a quick round of goodbyes and a steamy moment between Matt and Lauren—outside the attentive eyes of Will and Wes—we settled on the bed in my room with an exclusive bottle of tequila, a bowl of lime wedges, and two shot glasses. It was a recipe for mayhem if I ever saw one.
“To your last night as a single lady,” I toasted, and we knocked the liquid back.
Tequila: my Mexican medicine man.
Or my chupacabra, depending on whether I survived the night.
“To your obnoxiously skinny waist,” Lauren said as she poured another round.
“And your indecently perfect double D-cups,” I added, and our glasses clinked.
Lauren lined up another round. “To barefoot beach weddings and no white dresses.” She laughed, and our palms slapped together in a high five.
“To growly, bitey boys who love us so much they turn into cavemen,” Lauren said.
I held my drink high but my chin fell to my chest. It all hit me at once, and the dam broke.
Lauren plucked the glass from my fingers, and her arms wrapped around my shoulders in a fierce hug while tears streamed down my face. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“You’re marrying his brother! You’re Team Patrick by default. And it’s over. So over. Nothing to tell.”
“There are no teams, Andy. It’s not over. It seems awful right now, but you’ll get through. You know that, right?” I shrugged miserably and she handed me some tissues. “You will. I need you. Who’s going to help me when the next girl infiltrates these boys? It’s a matter of time until Sam or Nick, or—mother of pearls—Riley finds himself with the girl who’s going to change everything for him. The way you changed Patrick.” She squeezed my knee. “I need you to help me talk them through it and get them to the other side when it all goes to hell because it always does. And I need you to help me rein in Shannon when she needs it. You picked out my wedding dress, Andy, and you’re drinking with me the night before my wedding. You’re my family now, and I’m not letting you get away. I’ll mediate couples’ counseling before I let you cross state lines.”
I sniffled and glanced in her direction. I wasn’t used to having someone fight this hard for me, and I didn’t know how to respond. I blew my nose loudly. “I hated you that day I met you at the farmers’ market. I thought you were engaged to Patrick, and I hated you because I was already a little in love with him.”
“Then don’t let him go.” She wiped the tears from my cheeks and handed me a glass. “Tequila,” Lauren laughed. “Forget your problems, forget your man…hell, forget your name!”
*
I swallowed, andmy throat was lined with sandpaper. The groan that followed did not improve the situation.
“Here.” Lauren nudged a cool plastic bottle into my hand. “Drink.”
I guzzled the water, and shifted to lean against the headboard when I noticed Matt’s arms anchored around her waist and his head on her belly. “How much tequila did we drink?”
Lauren smiled and ran her fingers through Matt’s hair. “He wandered up here around three. He doesn’t know how to sleep by himself, and he was worried that Will and Wes were going to abduct him from our cottage. They have a history of intimidating the guys in my life.”
“Awesome,” I muttered, and groped the nightstand for my phone. Nearly ten o’clock and another night without a single text from Patrick. I didn’t know why I expected him to reach out to me, but I fell off the logic wagon late last week. I turned toward Lauren. “You’re gettin’ married today.”
“That’s my plan. I might finish that bottle before six tonight, though.” She nodded at the tequila. “Are you good with me hiding out in here? I don’t want to talk to anyone about flowers or bacon-wrapped scallops or gift baskets, and if someone tries to curl my hair, I will start throwing knives.”
“Stay. I need to walk the tequila out of my system.” After cleaning up and changing into slim yoga capris, a racerback tank, and a thin black hoodie, I emerged from the bathroom. “If there’re any premarital, uh,” I circled my hand between Matt and Lauren, “activities, put the Do Not Disturb on the door.”
Escaping the long shadow of the inn reduced the odds of running into any Walshes but it forced me to address the questions intruding on the back of my mind. The solitude forced a look in an unforgiving mirror. I sifted through every uncomfortable notion about my work, my relationships, and myself while I walked. It was time to get on with my life.
My calves started burning after four miles at a near-jog, and it was a welcome distraction from my thoughts. My path back to the inn meandered along the beach, and I sat in the sand, watching as the empty tent for Lauren and Matt’s reception transformed into gorgeously dressed tables dripping with seasonal flowers and sea grasses, and bitter memories of my over-before-it-started Pinterest wedding complemented my stinging muscles.
Eventually I stopped moping on the beach and gingerly climbed the stairs to my room, and an envelope waited at my door. I assumed it was my bill. Lauren was gone, more than likely tipsy, and most certainly killing everyone in her path with kindness in the final hour before the ceremony. I kicked off my running shoes and clothes, and started the shower before opening the envelope. A shiver wobbled through my shoulders as I read the precise architect’s lettering.
Andy,
We can make this work.
We’re not the kind of people who do anything half-assed. We never walk away when it gets difficult or we can’t find the right answers. We’re perfectionists and we don’t apologize for it because if there’s anyone who can make something work, it’s us.
