Diary of a Single Wedding Planner (Tales Behind the Veils Book 1) (16 page)

Monday, November 25th

It was so hard getting up and going in today. I just wanted to sleep. I actually considered just calling in sick and going back to bed, but I’m already losing an office day Thursday for Thanksgiving. Then I have a big wedding on Friday in addition to helping Lillian with hers on Saturday. Calling in was not an option.

I blame Cabe for my exhaustion. He came over last night after my wedding. We went to the store and spent way too much time debating what to cook and which wine to drink, so we got a late start with our meal. Then the DVD kept screwing up and skipping, so we ended up driving back to the store to return it and get a different one. We both fell asleep long before the credits rolled. I woke up when the music began looping for the DVD menu. Cabe was laid out on my couch, one arm hanging over the side and one leg thrown over the back. I didn’t even bother waking him. I brushed my teeth and took a swipe at my makeup before climbing into bed. I pretty much forgot he was there until I flipped on the kitchen light this morning and heard him groan.

“Bright. Bright light.” He put one of the couch pillows over his face and turned in toward the back of the couch.

“Oh, sorry, buddy. If you want, you can go climb into my bed.” I opened the coffee jar and inhaled its intoxicating scent, hoping it would help awaken my brain.

“Oh, hell yeah, baby! I’ve been waiting for that invitation for years!” Cabe said sarcastically, giving a fist pump without even looking up from the couch.

“Yeah, right. Go curl up and sleep. Some of us have real jobs that require showing up to get paid. We don’t all work in the computer world where everything is remote.”

“Oh, please. You could do everything you’re gonna do at the office from right here with a laptop and a phone. You don’t have to go anywhere. But since you are, I’m going to take you up on that delicious offer and catch a few Z’s. That stupid sofa bed at Mom’s has been killing my back. This couch is definitely not an improvement.”

He stood and stretched but then sat back down. “Coffee smells good,” he said.

“You want some? Not too late to make you a cup,” I offered.

“Nope. I’m going back to sleep. I intend to enjoy every single minute sleeping in a real bed.” He stood again and headed to my room.

“When are you going to move out of your mom’s pool house? Isn’t there like some time frame where you officially become a slacker or a moocher?”

“Hey, I’m paying rent. It’s not like I’m sleeping in her living room or something. It’s a separate building,” he said from my room.

“Well, we both know your mother loves having you there. She won’t want you to leave no matter how long you stay. Maybe just buy a bed and put it in the pool house?”

“I thought you told me to go to sleep. How can I sleep if you keep talking to me and filling the air with the smell of coffee?” His voice was muffled in my pillows.

“Sorry, dude. I’ll be out of here in a few. I gotta spread some peanut butter on a bagel and pour my coffee in a to-go cup. Sleep tight. Lock the bottom lock when you leave and set the alarm. We should probably get you another key.” Cabe had held the extra key to my apartment until he left for Seattle and we decided a more local friend would be a better option.

I got no response, so I assumed he went back to sleep. I envied him and wished I could curl up beside him. I mean, not in a sexual way. Or a couples way. I mean just to sleep. Just to be able to sleep late. You know, not to have to go to work. I mean, in a friend way. Okay, now I am actually spending time explaining myself to myself in my journal. Whatever.

He was gone when I got home this afternoon, but he made the bed and left a note on my pillow.

“This bed is so freakin’ heavenly. If I had a truck, I might steal it. I don’t think it would fit in the pool house, though, so I’m thinking maybe you could move in there and I’ll move in here. J/K. Hope you had a great day. C”

It really is a comfortable bed.

Wednesday, November 27th

My cell phone rang as I unlocked the door to my apartment tonight.

“Well, hello beautiful,” said Mr. Bad-Knees-Bad-Breath-Technically-Married-Hotel-Man. “Where’ve you been all my life?”

Ugh. Just ugh.

“Somewhere else, I guess. What’s up?” I asked, cursing myself for not recognizing his number. They invented voice mail to avoid calls like that one.

“Deb and I were wondering if you wanted to come over for Thanksgiving tomorrow.”

“Um, no. I really do not want to come over and have Thanksgiving dinner with you and your
wife
.”

“Well, she’s bringing her boyfriend, and her dad will be there. I thought maybe it might be nice if you were there with me.”

What delusional planet does this man live on? Did he think we were a couple?

“I don’t think so,” I said. I wondered if I was required by the conventions of politeness to thank him for inviting me when I wasn’t at all thankful he asked.

“Alright. I know it’s short notice. You probably have plans. But, hey! I’m getting paid this weekend, so you let me know when you’re available. It’s on me this time. Remember I couldn’t pay the night of the festival?”

“Oh, I remember. You know what? Let’s just call it even. Don’t worry about it.”

“No, no, no. I fully intend to take you out and pay for it this time. You let me know where you want to go. We’ll make it happen.”

Even if I did want to go out with him again, and I most certainly did not, I wouldn’t know how to pick a restaurant that wouldn’t require him to walk and wouldn’t leave him with dire fits of gas and diarrhea. I thought it best to be as upfront and honest as possible.

“Look, I appreciate you offering, but I’m not interested.”

“Well, I think you need to give it another chance,” he said. “That was a bad pick, you know, with all the walking and the food and all. I don’t think you really got to know me. We could pick a quiet place to sit and talk.”

It’s much easier to be honest about not liking people when they’re complete jerks, but he wasn’t a jerk. I really don’t think he has any idea how disgusting he comes across. He’s just doing his best to navigate his return to the dating world. Trying to put himself out there. I see that. I can appreciate it. It doesn’t mean I want to go out with him again, though.

“Thank you, but no. I’m not interested. Sorry it didn’t work out. Have a happy Thanksgiving.”

I ended the call before he could say anything else. I have a bad habit of being polite to a fault and dragging things out far beyond where I want them to go. I need to change that, so I’m proud of myself for being honest. Even though I do feel sorry for him.

Cabe called tonight to ask what I was doing for Thanksgiving. He hasn’t even mentioned it before now. I’d much rather be spending the day with him, but I already told Melanie and Paul I’d be there since he hadn’t brought it up and I didn’t want to invite myself.

Before we hung up he asked about this journal, though.

“What’s up with the book on your nightstand?”

“What?” I asked, panicking a little when I remembered he was alone in my apartment Monday. In my room. With my journal. Just because he’s my best friend doesn’t mean I want him reading my thoughts. Especially ones about him.

“The diary or whatever it is on your nightstand.”

“Did you read it?” I asked, horrified.

“No. What kind of dweeb picks up someone else’s diary and reads it? Dang, Ty. Thanks for giving me some credit there.”

I exhaled a sigh of relief. “No, it doesn’t matter,” I lied. “It’s more of a work journal, actually. Laura gave us all one at the beginning of October. Everybody is always saying we should write a book because we encounter so many unique people with such interesting stories. So Laura told us to try and write a little about each wedding after it happened so we’d remember the details.”

“Oh, so it’s only about work stuff?” He sounded disappointed.

“Yeah, pretty much.” I lied again. Well, not exactly a
lie
. It is about work stuff. Mostly. Partly. Some.

“Well, that’s disappointing. I thought maybe you’d written about your hot, desirable best friend and how you’re secretly crushing on him and wanting to take him down in the throes of passion.”

“Yep. Busted. That’s what I’ve been writing. In between you snoring and drooling on my couch and making my sheets smell like sweat. You caught me.”

“I don’t smell like sweat,” he argued.

I wondered if he had read anything. If I was in his room and a journal was laying there, I would be reading that bad boy cover to cover. No way could I leave it uncracked. I wondered if he was really that much stronger or more honorable than me. I mean, it’s not like there’s anything incriminating in it. I haven’t done anything to be incriminated for, but still. It’s kind of private, and I hope he didn’t read it.

“Alright, Buttercup,” he said. “I gotta go roll out pie crusts. If you don’t have anything to do after you leave Melanie and Paul’s, swing by or give me a call. Tell Mel hey for me. And happy Thanksgiving, Ty.”

“You too, Cabe.”

There are many things in my life I am thankful for. He is definitely one of them.

Friday, November 29th

Oh boy. Oh Lord. Oh no. Oh dear. Oh God.

What do I do? What do I do? What do I do?

Cabe texted during my wedding to tell me he would be at my place with dinner and a movie when I got home.

He’d already finished a few drinks by the time I arrived, and he acted a little more buzzed than I’m used to seeing him. Especially since he was drinking alone.

“How was your wedding this evening, Ms. Wedding Planner?” he asked as he put a glass of wine in my hand.

“Good. Down the aisle, two ‘I Dos’, and they danced the night away. Another happy couple sent into wedded bliss,” I said.

He toasted my glass and swigged deeply from his gin and tonic. I didn’t even bother taking a sip from mine because I knew I needed to eat something first.

“Wow, chicken marsala,” I said as I sat at the table. “You remembered my favorite. Aren’t you sweet?” I was a bit surprised he made the dish since it’s not something he likes.

“Hopefully it’s as good as you remember.” He poured himself another drink. The bottle of gin on the counter looked nearly empty.

“Dude, are you planning on being conscious for the movie? How many have you had?”

“We are celebrating, my dear. I haven’t counted how many, and I’m not finished.” He put his plate on the table and took a long swallow from his glass before sitting.

“Oh? Okay. What are we celebrating?” I felt more than a little concerned. We’ve celebrated many things over the years, but this was not his usual celebratory mood.

“As of today, I am no longer a married man. I signed the papers and Fed Ex’d them to the attorney. Everything is now finalized. They’ve been waiting for me. I’ve been waiting . . . on God only knows what. So a toast—” he raised his glass and motioned for me to raise mine—“to the end of my ill-fated marriage.”

“Cabe, I’m sorry. I didn’t know.” I wasn’t sure whether I was supposed to toast or not. This didn’t seem like a good celebration.

“How could you, Ty? I didn’t tell you. I didn’t tell anyone. When you get engaged, you let the whole world know. But when she leaves you for another woman and your divorce gets finalized, you’re not quite so keen on getting the word out.” He drained his glass and shuddered.

I didn’t know what to say or do. I could only imagine how horrible he must feel. I didn’t know how to make it better. Saying “I’m sorry” is so inadequate sometimes.

“Well, maybe now you can move on,” I said, and immediately ruled that inadequate as well.

He laughed, a sinister sort of chuckle that held no humor at all. “Right. Now I can move on! Now I am free to find the next woman who will trample my heart into a million pieces. I can start the whole dating nightmare again. I’m back on the market for all the bullshit that entails. Only now, I’m a marked man. I have a title. I am now Cabe Shaw comma divorced. And that ‘comma, divorced’ title automatically screams that I’m a failure at relationships.” He got up and poured more gin than tonic in his glass.

“Cabe, divorce is so common these days. It doesn’t brand you as a failure. It just means something didn’t work out, that’s all. You were open to love. You tried to make it work, and it didn’t. Monica couldn’t be completely vested in it. She had other stuff going on. That’s not on you.”

I stood and walked over to him, suddenly no longer hungry at all.

“Tyler, you’ve been out on dates. Be honest. If you find out a man is divorced, what is the first thing you think? Hmm? I waited until I was twenty-eight years old to get married. I didn’t want to be divorced. I wanted to know when I said those vows, it was for keeps. Now I feel like I have this strike against me. Like I’m tainted.” He essentially spit the words as he waved his glass in the air.

“I think anyone worth going out with will be willing to find out the truth. To get to know you and understand you. If not, they’re not someone you should be dating. You’re an incredible guy, Cabe. You truly are. I’m sorry this didn’t work out. You put your heart out there, and it got broken. But it doesn’t change who you are. It’s not your label. Your title. It’s just something that happened in your life.”

“Easy for you to say, my dear. You’re still single. You still get to check off the single box. I have to check off divorced from here on out,” he said. He walked back to the table, stumbling as he went.

There was nothing I could say. The best I could do was try to get his mind off this. I hoped getting some food in his stomach would at least help prevent a further drunken stupor. I thought maybe if I could get him safely to sleep for the night, he’d be better in the morning. Hungover, yes, but better. Things always look better in the morning, right?

We ate in silence. I’m sure it was delicious, but I didn’t taste it. I kept watching Cabe.

I loaded the dishes in the dishwasher as he poured another drink, emptying the bottle. I wondered if he started with a full bottle when he got here. Cabe had never been a heavy drinker. If he drank a whole bottle of gin, it did not forebode well for the night ahead or the morning after.

“What movie did you get?” I asked.

“The Notebook.”

“What? Are you freakin’ insane? We’re not watching The Notebook,” I said.

He laughed, genuinely this time, though a bit more raucous than normal.

“I didn’t get The Notebook. It’s some Bruce Willis action thing. Blood and guts and shoot ’em up,” he said.

“Good. I think you need some blood and guts right about now. I’m hoping you don’t throw up your guts all over my sofa.” I came and sat beside him, curling my legs underneath me. He rested his arm across my knee.

“No ma’am,” he said. “I may not be able to hold onto my woman, but I’m still man enough to hold my liquor.”

“Being a man has absolutely nothing to do with holding liquor, Cable Tucker Shaw. And your divorce has nothing to do with your manhood. You know that.”

“Do I?” he asked. “Hmmph.” He swirled the last of his drink around the ice cubes, staring into the liquid whirlpool.

I started the movie, knowing we probably wouldn’t finish it. Not like either one of us really cared anyway. I’d never seen Cabe so messed up. I didn’t know how to react. I felt sorry for him, angry that life dealt him these cards.

He slumped against my shoulder snoring not even halfway through the movie. My bottom leg fell asleep from being tucked under me so long, but I couldn’t move without waking him because his arm was wrapped around my top knee. My leg slipped past numbness and into serious, aching pain. Plus, the glass of wine had gone right through me, and I seriously needed the restroom.

I tried to slide my leg out from under his arm, but pins and needles shot through me, and I jerked from the pain.

Cabe sat up and ran his hand through his hair, looking dazed and confused. He leaned back against the couch and closed his eyes again as I tried to stand without feeling my right leg. I hobbled down the hallway to the bathroom, limping on needles as the blood flow crept back through the muscles.

When I came back, he was lying on his side on the couch with his arm curled under his head. He opened his eyes, so I sat on the floor beside the couch and smiled at him.

“How you doin’?” I asked in my best impersonation of Joey from Friends.

“Great.” He patted the couch beside him. “Come lay beside me.”

“There’s not room,” I said. “These hips don’t fit in that amount of space, dude.”

“Come ’ere,” he said.

He scooted as far as he could into the back of the couch as I sat beside him. “Lay down, Ty.”

We’ve laid on the couch a million times, sprawled all over each other with feet, arms, and legs propped wherever was most comfortable. Something seemed different about this time, though. I hesitated and stayed put.

“Just hold me, Ty. I just want to be held.” He lifted his left arm, and I shifted to lay facing him. He wrapped both arms around me and buried his face in my hair. He smelled of alcohol, cologne, and Cabe—a strangely intoxicating scent.

I tilted my head up to look at him, and before I even knew what was happening, we were kissing. His mouth closed over mine, his tongue sliding between my lips as though it was the most natural thing ever. I didn’t resist. I don’t know why. I know I should have. I should have been shocked. Indignant. Appalled. But a tiny little part of me had always wondered what it would be like to kiss Cabe. To be kissed by Cabe. I mean, we’re just friends, and I’m perfectly fine with that. But can you ever really be friends with someone for so long, be around them so much, be so close, and not at least wonder what it would be like? I’m not saying I’ve been crushing on him or anything, but I’d be lying if I said I’d never thought about kissing him.

Can I just say, it was heavenly? For that brief moment before I came to my senses and ended it, it was this incredibly tender, passionate, seeking-needing-wanting-getting, kind of kiss. Nothing sloppy or all over my face. I’ve been kissed by a drunk guy or two in my day. There was nothing impaired going on here. He was playful and tentative as he explored with his tongue. I rolled mine against his, pushing my chest against him. Leaning into him. His hands stroked up and down my back, then into my hair to cup my head, pulling me closer still. His tongue retreated as his lips left mine to plant small kisses on my cheeks, my eyes, my forehead, and the tip of my nose. His mouth covered mine again, hungrier this time, more urgent.

It’s been a long time since I’ve really been kissed. Really wanted to be kissed. Or even enjoyed kissing. But somewhere deep within my brain, an alarm sounded. This was Cabe. My best friend. We were crossing a line that couldn’t be crossed. I pulled back from his mouth and placed my hand against his chest. He moved to kiss me again, but I pulled way back, scared if his lips touched mine again, I’d lose my resolve.

“Whoa, buddy. I think someone’s had a bit too much to drink.” I focused on mentally recited all the reasons I couldn’t let him kiss me.

He was drunk, for one, which was enough reason on its own. He wasn’t thinking clearly. Plus, I knew he’d been through an emotional wringer today. He needed to feel confident and desired. He was probably reaching out to get that without considering the consequences. This wasn’t what he wanted. I mean, I’m sure in that moment it was what he wanted, but I knew in the grand scheme of life, it wasn’t. I wasn’t what he wanted. He needed affection and affirmation. He leaned forward and kissed the top of my head softly, still stroking my hair with his hand. I tried desperately to think of other reasons to say no.

We’d been friends through thick and thin, and we’d never gone anywhere near here. We couldn’t go here now. It would change everything. Make everything awkward. It would introduce a whole other element into our relationship, but for all the wrong reasons. For Cabe, he was drunk and needed to feel like a man. For me, I hadn’t had a decent date in over a year, and Cabe happened to be a damned good kisser.

So I pushed myself into a seated position and looked down at my best friend in the whole, wide world. He stared up at me with those intensely blue eyes, sad and bleary, searching my face as I searched his. His lips were swollen, and he looked so incredibly handsome I wavered a bit, almost willing to throw my sanity and reason to the wind for one night. Consequences be damned.

But it didn’t feel right. Hell, I’d be basically be taking advantage of him since he wasn’t in his right mind. I had to be the one to keep us on track. I tried to stand to walk away, but he caught my shoulder and pulled me down to meet him as he sat up. He kissed me again, not at all tentative this time. I tried hard to remember my own name, much less why I should not be allowing this man to continue doing something that felt so damned good. He shifted on the couch to pull me closer. Somehow, I resisted. From somewhere deep within my conscience, or perhaps from deep within my fears, I’m not sure which.

He opened his eyes and stared into mine, our faces still pressed close together. Close enough to feel his breath on my lips when he said, “Will you sleep with me?” His face clouded. His eyes grew dark. I saw desire there, but I also saw fear, rejection, and pain. “Ty? Will you sleep with me? Please?”

This was definitely not right. I turned away from him, but my legs felt shaky and I couldn’t make myself stand. Waves of heat radiated from him, heat generated by our bodies so close together, and I scooted to the edge of the couch to try and get some distance between us. He reached to tuck a stray curl back behind my ear, and the caress of his fingers across my cheek sent a chill up my spine where the heat had been scorching me seconds before. I felt goosebumps explode across my skin, and I swallowed deeply before I turned to look at him, the words heavy in my throat.

“No, Cabe, I won’t. Not because you’re not man enough, or because you’re not handsome enough, or desirable enough, or whatever else your screwed-up little brain is thinking right now. You are all those things and then some. It’s not even because I don’t want to. Because unfortunately, I would very much like to right now. But when we wake up in the morning, we’d look at each with regret. I don’t want any regrets between us.”

He slumped back down to the couch, but his eyes never left mine. His hand lingered lightly on my arm, his fingers tracing a circle across my skin as I struggled to continue, my voice cracking slightly when I spoke. “It’d be a line we couldn’t uncross. It’d change everything, Cabe. Change us. I’m not willing to lose what we have just because you’re drunk and I haven’t had sex in a really long time. We mean so much more than that to me. And to you, too. Only you can’t see that right now in your current state.” I shot an exaggerated glance at his crotch and raised my eyebrows. “Mental and otherwise.” I smiled as I looked up, hoping my joke made it more lighthearted.