I wait, watching the three dots dance and then vanish.
Mickey:Goodnight, Benji.
Two words. No joke, no sarcasm. Just goodnight. I read it three times hoping it’ll say more.
Dante and I go to bed early. Tomorrow will be a war of white linen and last-minute crises, but as I close my eyes, all I can see is Mickey’s face.
The next morning, we’re up at five-thirty. Dante is in the kitchen making strong Cuban coffee—he brought his own supplies because he refuses to drink anything else—and I’m at the table, my laptop glowing in the pre-dawn dark as I finalize the timeline.
By seven, we’re at the beach house. Callie calls, already sounding like she’s underwater.
“Benji, I don’t know if the dress fits. I think it’s tighter in the bodice and the wedding is tomorrow. I can’t breathe.”
“Callie. Listen to me,” I say. “It’s nerves. Your body changes with stress and water retention. The dress fit perfectly at the last fitting. It fits now. Have you eaten?”
“I had a smoothie,” she says.
“Have a piece of toast. Drink water. Do not try that dress on again until your seamstress is there tomorrow. She’ll handle everything. You’re going to be beautiful. Do you hear me?”
“You promise?”
“I promise. Go eat.”
I hang up and Dante hands me a thermos of coffee. I drink it standing in the great room, looking at the Gulf through the terrace doors. The bamboo arch is silhouetted against the water, pale gold against the deep blue. It looks stunning.
At noon, I’m on the terrace with my stopwatch, calculating the “bride’s pace”—forty-two steps, twelve seconds for the music to build, three seconds for the turn.
“Dante, move the bamboo poles two inches to the left,” I call out.
My phone vibrates. I pull it out, expecting a caterer’s crisis. Instead, I see Mickey’s name.
Mickey:Hey. Got some good news. A bed opened up at the rehab place this morning. They’re transporting me this afternoon. Leaving around 3. Heading to Jacksonville.
No, no, no.
My heart starts beating faster. I read it three times. He’s leaving today. In two and a half hours, he’ll be loaded intoa van and driven five hours away. I’m standing here with a stopwatch still running in my hand, and I can’t even get to Tallahassee in time to say goodbye.
“Benji?” Dante is watching me. “What’s wrong?”
“He’s being transferred. Today. Now. They’re taking him to Jacksonville at three.”
“This soon?” Dante asks, stepping toward me. “You said it might be days.”
“I know!” My hands are shaking. I text him back, my thumbs clumsy.
Benji:Today?? Mickey, I can’t get there. The wedding is tomorrow. I’m physically sick over this.
Mickey:I know. It’s okay. This is a good thing. I’m lucky a spot opened up. This is what I’ve been waiting for. Don’t worry about me. Handle the wedding. I’ll text you when I’m settled.
Handle the wedding.
He’s being handed over to strangers in a transport vehicle, and he’s still trying to keep me grounded.
Benji:I didn’t get to say goodbye, Mickey.
Mickey:It’s not goodbye, is it? It’s just a different address. You already looked up the drive time, remember? 5 hours and 40 minutes. Very doable. Your words.
I have to look away because the screen is blurring. He’s using my own optimism against me. He’s leaving, and I didn’t get to put cream on his feet one last time.
