At every stop throughout the night, she’d tasked one of us with some kind of dare but up until Gin and Bear It, they’d been juvenile challenges. The bridal party had been subjected to dumb things leftover from childhood sleepovers, such as ordering a round of drinks in a British accent. Text an ex-boyfriend out of the blue. Karaoke that song fromHamilton. Nothing that involved getting into a stranger’s personal space.
Under normal circumstances, I would’ve told her absolutely not. But she’d dared me to kiss the hottest guy we saw during the night, and my so-called rigidity made me follow her rules. I’d zeroed in on him the moment we walked into the bar. She’d noticed me watching him and promised if I went through with the dare, I wouldn’t have to gift her a wedding present.
Considering everything I’d already done for her as Matron of Honor, along with taking a whole week off of work to tend to her every need, I hadn’t realized that she was expecting something from her registry. In the moment, doing a dare felt like a major win.
Joke’s on me because here I am, a week later, still thinking about it.
A throat clearing pushes me back into the present, and I turn to find the best man, hands shoved into his pockets, looking sheepishly at me.
“Hi, Trent.”
“Hey, Nola. You looked like you were deep in thought, but they announced the wedding party’s dance and they’re kind of waiting on you and me to join in before they start.” He nods his head toward the tent where sure enough, I’m the reasonfor the pause in merriment-having and Belle is giving me get-over-here-now eyes.
Heat creeps into my cheeks as I hustle over to the dance floor, grabbing Trent’s outstretched hand on the way. Taking our place, the DJ puts on “I Gotta Feeling.” The Black Eyed Peas wouldn’t have been my first choice for any kind of wedding song, but Belle insists it is a huge trend on social media and lovingly reminds me I’m six years older and lame (which translates to I’m a mom and that subsequently puts me out of the cool loop) so I wouldn’t know.
Kicking my sandals off to the side, the long, mellow intro lends itself to small talk.
Trent’s tall frame leans down closer so I can hear him. “Ethan was telling me you’re an artist in hotels? What’s that exactly?”
The half-correct job title conjures up images of painting murals on hotel lobby walls or sitting idly in the breakfast room doing caricatures for guests on their way out the door. “I’m actually commissioned as a freelance artist by hotels,” I clarify.
He releases an unsure chuckle. “I’m still not following.”
The music picks up, and the group starts jumping to the beat in sync like a flash mob. “That’s a fancy way of saying I’m hired by hotels to provide art for their whole building. Usually it’s a singular location, but there are accounts where I do a nationwide campaign for a hotel chain doing a remodel.”
“That’s cool,” he nods.
“What do you do?” I ask. My new brother-in-law is a CPA and yet most of the guys who have come to the wedding are not exactly stereotypical number crunchers. That’s the polite way of saying Belle’s husband is the only one who is a bit of a geek. Nothing wrong with that but he’s surrounded by agroup of lifelong friends who appear to be the complete opposite of him and it’s been fascinating to watch this dynamic unfold all week.
Trent’s tall and built, a little scruffy in a bad boy way. Nothing screams tax preparer or financial analyst when I look at him. “I own a bike shop. Mostly it’s focused on mountain bikes, but with e-bikes becoming such a huge market, I’ve?—”
“Moooom,” Emma comes up to us and drags my name out. Her eyelids are heavy and she looks green.
“Oh, monkey.” I grimace at Trent, who appears all too eager to retreat toward his friends, while I take Emma to the nearest table. “Think you’ll make it to our room?”
“Yeah.” She sounds miserable. “I feel sick. I don’t think I’ve had enough protein, sleep, or water.”
A smile hitches in the corner of my mouth, and I lean down to gather my sandals. “I agree. Let’s get you in the shower and then it’s right to bed, okay?”
“Will you tell me a story?” she asks weakly and my heart leaps.
For years she asked me every night to tell her a story. Her room is full of books, but her request was always for me to make up a tale and lull her to sleep. As a solo parent, craving a minute to myself more nights than I care to admit, I silently wished the phase would end and for her to fall asleep on her own or pick a book off the shelf, allowing me to be not quite as present. Then, one night in third grade, it all stopped, and she started putting herself to bed. I wasn’t ready for the change and cried, upset at myself for not soaking in every moment while I’d had it so good.
Now, Emma asking me to do this tonight has become the perfect ending to our pretty perfect trip. “Absolutely.” I try not to sound too excited as we cross the large lawn and head forthe elevator, but I think she can see right through me even with how bad she’s feeling. “Any requests?”
“Mmm. . . there definitely has to be a handsome man and at least one kiss.”
“Deal,” I tell her, immediately picturing the stranger from the bar who continues to live rent-free in my brain.
4
NOLA
It may be true that only two people live in this house, but there’s a mountain of laundry in front of me that tells a different story. To make our little life successful, I’ve created systems that keep the house running smoothly. Emma tackles her bathroom and is in charge of the dishwasher and sweeping. I have a chart reminding me of the one or two things that must happen every day.
Unfortunately, laundry is a designated Saturday task and we left for the wedding on a Friday. Now I’m greeted by two weeks’ worth of clothes waiting to be sorted, washed, dried, folded, and put away. After a good long stare down with the pile, I close the laundry room door and make that situation a future Nola problem.
We got home two days ago, but the time change is still dragging us down a bit, and getting back into life mode is not going well this morning for either of us. “Emma!” I call down the hall from the bar in the kitchen where I’m pulling up emails on my laptop. “If you want breakfast, you need to get out here. We’re leaving in twenty minutes.”
