I linger in the doorway. “What are you working on?” I ask her.
“I’m embroidering Cara’s initials to the hem. Like we did with Meema’s veil. Plus, it’ll give her a ‘something blue’!”
“Oh, right.” I remember her offering to do that, the night when Anna Carol asked Cara about her “face wig.”
I see the joyful concentration playing across my mother’s face, and I can’t help zooming backward in time to all the years of her doing this exact same thing—lovingly, painstakingly, sewing my pageant clothes. Not just tailoring them to perfection so that they fit me like a glove, but adding in little personal touches,justbecause. My initials, or a little embroidered lily or rose or dahlia. One of her favorite flowers. A little message from her to me. BecauseIwas her little flower. Her little “belle.”
“That’s…” I swallow. “That’s really nice, Mom.”
Mom lifts a perfectly manicured hand to her mouth, eyes glistening. For a moment, I think she’s going to bring up the past too. But I’m surprised when she says instead, “I just keep thinking about her mother. How she’s not here to see her little girl walk down the aisle…”
“Yeah…” My heart catches in my throat. As much as my mother’s fawning over me could sometimes feel claustrophobic and pressuring, I can’t imagine what it must’ve been like for Cara, to watch her mother succumb to sickness, and then to have to go through her teen and adult years without a mom at all.
Suddenly, a nagging feeling of guilt rises up my throat. “Mom?”
She threads another pale blue loop without looking up. “Yes?”
“I love you.” I slip out of the room, gently closing the door behind me.
Screw hair mousse. Nate’s seen me in my wildest and weirdest—clothes stained with car oil, hair soaked with lake water, day-old-makeup-smeared face. Maybe I don’t need to worry about looking perfect for this conversation. After all, it’s not like there are any cameras on me.
And maybe not having to look perfect for Nate is part of what makes Nate perfect for me.
IRACE DOWN TOthe kitchen, expecting to find Nate sprawled at the table eating bacon or refilling a cup of coffee, but the kitchen’s empty. Through the window, I spot him—working on the gazebo once again.
Where Cara and Cooper plan to have their ceremony in two days.
And it hits me square in the chest—this is really happening. I can choose to keep resisting, or I can just embrace it. Maybe my feelings for Nate have gone to my head, but somehow, embracing it doesn’t sound that terrible.
I go to the sink to fill my water bottle—and conveniently, to stand at the window with a direct view of the yard where he’s working. He’s got on another one of those stained, slightly torn work T-shirts, his tanned arms on display, a slight streak of sweat showing along the middle of his back, between strong shoulder blades.
The humidity must be killing him.
I watch him for a moment in silence, struck anew by this Nate before me, who is not just the hot, flirty goofball I once thought he was. Now I see something else in him. The older brother who had to be there for his family after his mom passed away. The rock. The one who puts on a friendly smile and cracks a joke to keep things light, to make everyone comfortable, even when there must be a lot of unresolved pain beneath the surface.
He works with a surety and a competence that would have surprised me a mere week ago, but which I now recognize as just part of his unique Nate-ness. Easygoing about most things; laser-focused when it matters. He measures, marks, and cuts the wood with practiced ease. There’s a confidence in his movements.
It’s the same way he kissed me on that first night. The way he touched me last night, as if he was hungry for me but also wanted to take his time.
Sure. Focused. Not willing to cut any corners.
It’s strange how he can be so cynical about relationships, so guarded by humor, and yet so intentional, so thoughtful when it counts.
For years, I put so much pressure on myself to find Mr. Right. Even after Aaron, I thought if I just put in enough reps, or worked hard enough, I’d get the love promised to me by every fairy tale I’ve read. But the last few years on the LA dating scene pretty much cured me of that idea. I’ve had to accept that the perfect Mr. Right from my Reasons lists doesn’t exist. But maybe Mr. Rightfor Me—who has just turned his ball cap backward, andwhyis that so attractive?—does.
The heat must be getting to him, because next, Nate pulls his shirt over his head. And now my own cheeks feel warm as I allow myself to drink him in. This man who, just last night, was all mine.
He bends over to grab a piece of lumber, and I get a full view of his muscled back. The divots and ridges along his shoulders that taper down to a lean waist.
I swallow a sip of water down the wrong tube and start coughing. I need to get ahold of myself.Tell him, tell him.The urgency is pressing in on me.
Nate pauses in his work, and for a second, I’m convinced he knows I’m watching him. But when he turns, it’s not to look back toward the kitchen but instead at someone approaching him across the yard.
I follow his line of sight.
It’s Cara. She approaches, and even from here, I can see there’sa look of distress on her face. Nate seems to pause, then react with a gesture that makes it seem like he’s dismissing her concerns. But it doesn’t end there. I watch as their banter turns more animated… almost like they’re arguing about something.
No, they’redefinitelyarguing.
