I glance over as she listens to my cousin Ariana drone on about some kind of wellness retreat she’d taken in Tucson over the summer, where they did daily chakra readings and guests were expected to participate in meal prep. Sloane nods with interest and asks follow-up questions about the menus and the kinds of treatments available. Her hair is moving gently in the breeze. I find myself wanting to reach out and tuck a strandbehind her ear. But aside from the moment I’d helped her up on the beach, back when she was soaked to the bone in her wedding dress, and when she grabbed my arm on our walk, we haven’t touched. Just the thought sends an unexpected current of desire through my core.
Luckily, or not so luckily, Calista’s mom approaches, with a flute of champagne in hand and the look of a woman filled with pride at the spectacle she likely had a big hand in orchestrating. “Well hello, Ryan!” she exclaims, all equanimity and relief that Calista hadn’t chosen me. She had bigger things in mind for her daughter than a marine biologist. She shifts her gaze to Sloane. “And this is…”
I brace myself. Lois Morris is practiced in the art of the backhanded compliment, the perfectly executed passive aggressive slight.
“Sloane,” Sloane says, grinning widely enough that I can tell she senses an enemy approaching.
“Well, that’s just a stunning dress,” Lois says. “A showstopper!”
Sloane’s smile stays plastered on her face despite the insinuation that she’s working to upstage the bride. In truth, Sloane could be wearing a paper sack and she’d still be the most beautiful woman in the room. At least, to me. “Congratulations,” she says. “This is a big day for your family.”
“For the whole family,” Lois says, turning back to me with a mix of pride and pity in her eyes.
I take a long sip of my drink. I don’t make it a habit to drink too much, especially at events like this, but Lois is a special kind of grating. “Cheers,” I say, and without thinking, I slip my arm around Sloane’s waist, and my mouth lands on the soft skin of her neck, planting a light kiss. She starts, and I pull back quickly, but not enough for Lois to suspect what’s really going on here.
She raises an eyebrow and glances toward the inn. “Well, I’ve got business inside!” she says, practically tripping over herself to leave.
I want to make a joke, or fill Sloane in on the many ways Lois was a total eye roll, but my lips are still tingling with the feeling of her smooth skin, the light scent of my soap on her.
When I look up, Sloane has a funny look on her face. Surprise, yes, but something more. Curiosity. “Okay then,” she says quietly.
“I’m sorry,” I say. But I’m not sorry at all. That lightest of touch, that briefest of kisses has me hungry for more.
So when her hand finds mine and her fingers lace through mine, I know she’s not upset. Her thumb traces a light circle on my palm, sending a series of sparks across my skin. Does she have any idea what she’s doing to me?
“You okay?” she asks, and I realize she’s referencing the awkward run-in, and not the inconvenient and uncontrollable situation I need to hide.
“You okay here for a sec?” I ask, scanning desperately for a washroom. I spot it beside the bar. “Let me get you another drink.”
I retreat to the washroom, and rearrange things to wedding-appropriate, then take a moment in the quiet space to take a deep breath. Sloane coming as my date was meant to make the day easier, not add a thick layer of complication.
***
SLOANE
While Ryan escapes to the washroom, I scan the lawn, where guests are mingling. The collection of wedding attendees is…eclectic, at best. A handful of ranchers in bolo ties, a few techbros in too-tight jackets, a majestic spread of Clancy women in floral prints and statement jewelry, and one man in cargo shorts who absolutely missed the memo. Ryan’s grandfather, the one he pointed out earlier, is unabashedly taking sips from a flask even though the open bar is fully operational. Iconic.
I take in a slow breath, steadying myself, trying to act casual because I know there are more than a few glances coming my way. I don’t want everyone to know that Ryan’s kiss has left me floating. Tingling. Intoxicated.
I’d expected curiosity, given the situation. A few raised eyebrows, maybe a whisperedWho’s she?But this is not curiosity. This is full-on, head-swivelling, patio-crossing fascination. People have been introducing themselves likeI’mthe main attraction, not the bride who still hasn’t emerged from her ocean-view suite. According to the wedding planner’s announcement over the DJ’s microphone, we’ve got fifteen minutes before the big reveal.
I can’t help but think about the moment that was meant to happen only days ago. The classic notes ofCanon in Dwould play as my bridesmaids walked down the aisle with practiced steps, slow enough for the photographer to get the money shots and for guests to admire their dresses, and fast enough to get to the main event. Me.
I’d played the moment over so many times in my mind leading up the wedding. And every time, it was like I was watching a movie where I was the actress, playing someone else. Someone happy. Someone with visions of the perfect life in her mind as she spotted her groom in the distance. Eyes locked. Certain of the choice they were making.
Visualizing is a technique of many a professional athlete. I’d thought that it might help me execute the moment with the expected perfection.
I draw in a long breath and exhale, heaving away a mixture of relief and dread.
When Ryan returns, I’m about to ask if he wants a drink before the ceremony only to see a gray-haired woman in a tailored navy pantsuit making a determined beeline for us.
“Hi, honey,” she says, stretching up in her heels to wrap Ryan in a hug.
“Mom,” Ryan says.
Ah. So this isMom.
She turns to me and does a slow, unapologetic once-over, the kind that somehow manages to assess, approve, and intimidate all at the same time.
