“As the dead.” I know she sees my expression because she quickly adds, “Sorry.”
“It’s okay.” It’s just one of those expressions—just part of life.
With the envelope in hand, I pull the letter out and open it. “Show me where he proposed marriage.”
“Sure.” She flips to the last page and jabs a finger right on the part where he talks about pizza.
“He didn’t mean to put it like that.”
“How the hell would you know? Did you call him to ask him to clarify?”
“No, but he signs off with the statement about how tired he is. Maybe he’s one of those guys who gets all wacky if he’s tired.”
“Mattie, don’t be obtuse.” Kimmy sighs. “You have to assume he wrote what he wrote because he wants to marry you at the JP, and have the rehearsal dinner at Giordano’s and the reception at Olive Garden, which is genius, by the way.” She winks. Kimmy loves The O.G. even more than I do. “Wish I could do that, but you know my mom’s going to make me have a huge thing.”
I nod solemnly. Her mom’s something else. Whenever I have to show up at one of Kimmy’s family things (we call them show days), I’m not allowed to wear my Chuck’s to any of her “affairs,” as she likes to call them. It’s a real shame. Chucks go with everything.
Don’t get me wrong, I really love how she thinks—she’s sort of got a 50s Hollywood attitude—but she’s a little snooty for my taste. Andveryhigh-maintenance.
“Okay, well, this was a bust,” I proclaim.
“You know damn well you thought the same thing.”
I did.
“And I’m sure you noticed he referred to you as ‘honey’ again.”
“Yes.” My heart started to beat double time when I read that part. Triple beats started when I read the last part. The pizza part. “Honestly, I was hoping you’d read this and tell me I shouldn’t read too much into it, literally.”
“Can’t do that.” She sips her drink. “God, this rum and Coke is awful.” She takes another gulp. “The pop is flat.”
“There is absolutely no way he meant what we think he did. A guy like Alec Marchesani doesn’t go for the Matildas of the world.”
“Why the hell not?” Kimmy practically spits. “You’re funny, talented, caring, and you’re gorgeous with that red, curly hair like your mom’s. You’ve got a pear-shaped body—”
I interrupt, “Nobody likes pear-shaped bodies.”
“What are you talking about? Look at all the celebrities with curves like yours. You’ve got a tiny waist that curves down to a very nice booty.”
“Gee, thanks, Kimmy. Except I’m no celebrity.”
She slaps her hand on the table. “Enough.”
I shut up. She looks angry, like for real.
“I’m sick and tired of you thinking you’re not good enough. You’re more than good enough. Alec Marchesani would be the luckiest man on the planet if he could win your heart.”
I look left, then right. “Is this a Hallmark movie or something? Is Lacey Chabert going to walk in and punk me?”
“Didn’t you say, and I quote, ‘Alec and I had a great time rehearsing the dances, just the two of us.’”
“We did have fun.” The three times we snuck off to one of the party rooms at the hotel to practice, Alec was funny and kind. We laughed a bunch, both of us. Sure, he’d get cranky at times when he was frustrated, but that was never directed at me.
“And you also told me that he made a point to talk to you at the reception.”
Another truth. A couple of times throughout the evening, before I snuck away, Alec found me hiding in the corner. One time, he brought me a glass of champagne and sat next to me. That time, we people-watched. There’s nothing funnier than drunk wedding guests, am I right? The second time, I was out on the huge patio staring out at the golf course. He pulled up next to me and looked out in the same direction as me.
“Not having any fun?” he’d asked.
