“I just want you to know,” Nate says solemnly, “that no matter what happens between us, I will always be there to support little Gertrude Zelda Lancolm-Bennet.”
“Oh lord.” I roll my eyes.
“Or Bennet-Lancolm! Whichever you prefer.”
I start to drag him by the front of his T-shirt toward the rows of zinnias, realizing maybe he’s right. Maybe I need to chill out just a little, worry a tiny bit less what everyone else is thinking. “Come on,Dad. Let’s go.”
The flowers are bright and full, unsinged by the sun, which is still blazing hot above us and probably won’t go down for hours. It’s a delight to be out here, surrounded by lush blooms. July in Georgia can be beastly, but it’s also beautiful.
Nate and I decide to divide and conquer. As I wander the rows of dahlias and black-eyed Susans, I find myself thinking about what I’d want for my own wedding bouquet.
As I kid, I was obsessed with weddings. I’d watch my parents’ VHS wedding tape over and over, thinking my mom looked like a princess in her ballgown dress, complete with poufy Princess Diana sleeves. Meema laughing and dancing in a gown almost as glamorous as Mom’s, ever the life of the party. She and my motherwere close in their own way. A relationship I know my mom always wanted to replicate with me.
I remember I started a collection box of ideas for my own dream wedding, too—glossy cutouts from magazines and low-res pics printed off the internet with our old Inkjet. I’d add to it bit by bit.
I was sixteen when Linney got married. Hers was the opposite of Pete’s elopement. It was a big to-do in Atlanta with fifteen bridesmaids and custom napkins. She and my mom spent nearly a year planning it. The event was far bigger than anything I’d want for myself, but the father-daughter dance to a ukulele rendition of “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” was heartbreakingly perfect. There wasn’t a dry eye on that dance floor—including mine.
Father daughter ukulele song—into the box it went.
The more I think about it, the more I realize the wedding I always dreamed of is a lot like the wedding Cara and Cooper are planning right now. A homemade cake made by my mom. A dance floor lit by Christmas lights. A chance to wear Meema’s handmade veil.
I lose myself in thought. I’m not sure how much time has passed, but I’ve managed to get a small bouquet pulled together. Nate’s a little ways down, bent over some flowers near the fence line. I wave him down, and we meet in the middle of a row of sunflowers.
“Okay, I know we’re supposed to be getting stuff for Cara and Cooper, but I couldn’t leave without first putting a little something together for the mother of my imaginary child.” Nate hands me a bouquet. “I think I nailed matching, but not matchy, don’t you?”
It’s honestly pretty decent. Cloudlike blue hydrangeas interspersed with several sprays of pale cosmos in light violet, white, and soft pink. It’s a bit more chaotic than what I would’ve chosen, but the blend of pastels remind me of the colors of the sky over the lake. I’m shocked that the guy whose work filing system is “piles” has managed to pull it together.
“It’s not bad actually.” I’m surprised by the breathiness of my voice.
I look up from the bouquet to find Nate’s eyes on me. There’s a small smile on his lips, and he’s staring at mine. I swallow hard, a hot, buzzing sensation zinging through my body. When he looks at me like this, mouth slightly parted, our bodies only inches apart, I can’t help but lean in closer. I can’t help but think…
Suddenly, there’s a loud yip, and the bouquet flies from my hands.
Nate has jumped away, knocking my arm in the process.
“What?” I ask, right as he says, “Bee!”
He’s pulled the back of his shirt up and over his head, and he’s holding tight to it with one hand. I can barely see his eyes through the small opening. His other hand is karate chopping back and forth trying to ward off the bee.
“Oh my god, are you allergic?” He must be. Why else would he be flailing around like this? “Do you have an EpiPen in the truck? I’ll run and grab it.”
I start to run back toward the car but stop as Nate calls me back. Bent over, he’s gulping air with his hands on his thighs. “I’m not.” He sucks in another breath. “I’m not allergic. I just…” He takes another breath. “I just don’t like bees.”
Realizing that Nate is not, in fact, in danger of anaphylaxis, my heart rate returns to normal and my lips curl into a smile.
“You’re scared of bees?”
“Scaredis a strong word.” He straightens and readjusts his shirt, removing his hood.
I snort out a laugh. “I’m going to say it’s not strongenoughafter what I just saw.”
He waves me off, crouching down to collect the flowers, shaking free the dirt. “If I got stung, though, you’d suck the venom out, right?” he asks as he stands.
“I don’t think that’s how bee stings work.”
He looks a little wounded as he hands me back the bouquet. “I’d do it for you.”
“Thanks,” I say softly, taking the flowers. Why does the idea of him sucking venom out of me feel like such a turn-on? “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”
