LoveLines (27 page)

I nodded.

“I’ll never abuse that. Do you believe me?”

I nodded again.

“I’ll always be faithful to you. Just you. The things we do here? These secret things between us? They’re special to us. They’re expressions of our love for one another. I don’t ever want you to think they’re wrong or dirty.”

I blushed.

“Because they’re not.” He paused and scratched his cheek. “I just wanna study you like a specimen under a microscope.”

I giggled.

“I know that’s freakin’ weird. But it’s the truth. I can’t get enough of your body, and I’m sorry if that scares you.”

I sat up slowly and crossed my legs.

“It doesn’t. I like it.”

He smiled.

“I like letting go. I like that you help me let go.”

“Bailey?”

“Hmm?”

“I’ll always be faithful to you.”

“You already said that.”

“I know,” he replied. “But I need you to really hear it and understand it.”

“I do.”

“This right here? What just happened? I don’t
want you thinking I’ve done this with lots of other girls or something. I’ve never done it with anyone but you. I’m not a crazy sex freak in general. I’m just a crazy sex freak with you.”

I smiled.
“I understand.”

All that time I thought I was the one on display—open and vulnerable to my boyfriend. In reality, he was baring himself just as honestly to me, hoping I would accept the love he was
so desperate to give.

And I did.

I should have known this day would come. I couldn’t very well coast along indefinitely, ignoring my rituals, relinquishing control of my schedule, laughing in the face of my anxiety. Please. Reece was good, but he wasn’t
that
good, and I should have prepared myself better for the big day. Not my big day. Her big day. Her wedding.
The
wedding. The wedding of the century.

He discovered me at the kitchen table, cardstock scorer in one hand and a shot of vodka in the other. I was a frazzled mess: hair sticking out in all directions (I stopped counting the number of times I tugged on it), eyes wild with fear, sweat-stained shirt
.

“Bailey?”
Reece said carefully, placing his gym bag and basketball in the corner of the living room.

“I should have paid attention
. I should have checked this weeks ago.”

“What is it
, honey?” Reece sat down in a chair across from me.

“I made a mistake.” I lifted my face to his, eyes swimming with panic tears. I hate panic tears. They sting worse than regular tears.

“Impossible,” he replied.

“
Look at these place cards!” I screamed.

I waved one in the air, then threw it at him. He picked it up and looked at it. And then I watched his eyes move from side to side, looking for an answer to the right, and then an answer to the left.
Side to side until he realized there was no answer. He didn’t know what was wrong.

“Please don’t yell at me, okay?” he began. “But I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“The crease, Reece!” I spat out impatiently.

He suppressed the urge to laugh.

“Oh, it’s funny?”

“Bailey, you rhymed. Come on
.”

I huffed and watched him study the crease of the card.

“Bailey?”

“What?”

“I’m not seeing it, honey.”

“The cracks! The cracks in
the crease because those dipshit bridesmaids didn’t use a scorer!”

“Huh?”

“Oh my God. Look it:
You have to score cardstock, Reece. It has to be scored to fold pretty. To fold crisp.” I held up a brand new card I recently scored beside the botched one in Reece’s hand. “See?”

“Oh yeah,” he said. “Yours looks way better.”

My stomach flipped. “Oh my God. Oh my God! My sister is gonna freak out, okay? Freak the fuck out!” I cried.

“But she’s not the perfectionist,” Reece pointed out. “You are.”

“Exactly! And that’s why I’ve gotta redo all these. All 150 of them!” I gulped. “I’ll be up all night cutting and scoring and printing and tying and . . .” I took the shot that was still in my hand.

“I’ll help,” Reece offered. I watched him glance at the clock in the kitchen: 8:44 P.M. “We have plenty of time.”

I halfway listened as I tapped the pointed end of the scorer against the table.

“Bailey, stop.”

I kept tapping.

“Honey, think about all the progress you’ve made,” Reece said.

“She’s getting married tomorrow!” I wailed. “I should have been a better maid of honor!” I threw the scorer like a dagger across the room. It barely missed Reece’s eye as it whizzed past him. He had a right to yell at me, but he didn’t. Because he’s Reece. And he’s very nearly perfect.

“Breathe,” he said gently.

I inhaled.

“Now out.”

I exhaled.

“Keep doing that while I get your scorer,” he said, standing up. “And don’t count.”

How’d he know I was counting? God, you’ve no idea the urges crawling everywhere inside my veins. I wanted to “tic” all over the fucking house. I wanted to turn the knobs on my stove top so many times they’d fall off. I wanted to stand at my front door and twist the lock for hours. Just stand there, twisting. Like a maniac! I wanted to count my steps to every room, divide the number by two, and hope it came out evenly.

“I have the creepy crawlies,” I admitted to Reece when he returned to the table.

“Bailey, Restless Leg Syndrome isn’t a real thing,” he replied.

“My urges,” I said desperately.

“It’s okay. That’s why I’m here. We’re gonna get all this done, and we’re not gonna freak out, and you’ll have plenty of time to get your beauty rest,” he replied. “And you’re gonna be the prettiest girl on that beach tomorrow.”

I didn’t deserve him. I knew it when he handed over the scorer with all the trust in the world that I wouldn’t fling it across the room again.

“Show me how to set up the printer for the names,” Reece said. “And I’ll work on that. You cut. And score.”

We worked into the
night, past the midnight point and into the early morning hours. He forced me to go to bed at 2 A.M. and promised he’d take care of the rest.

“Give up control,” he urged, pushing me into the bedroom.

“But Reece . . .”

“Have a little faith in me, okay? I watched you do it. I’ve got this. Go to bed.”

I acquiesced, thinking I wouldn’t be able to fall asleep. Not unless I knew the place cards were completely finished and perfect. Surely the uncertainty would keep me awake. But as soon as my face hit the pillow, I passed out. I don’t remember when Reece came to bed. I don’t recall him whispering in my ear, “Perfectly straight lines.”

***

You wanna talk about a beautiful bride? My sister was a beautiful bride. Almost too beautiful. She’s the only woman I know who looks airbrushed in real life. I stared at her more than I wanted. I couldn’t help it. She glowed and beamed and all the other stuff brides do on their wedding days. I suppressed the mild jealousy; I didn’t want to entertain any negative feelings on such a beautiful day. Light ocean breeze. Full sun. Everyone and everything sparkled. It was the fairytale she wanted.

And I was happy for her.

I saw little of Reece all day. He understood my absence and took up my father’s invitation to go fishing that morning. I thought Mom would kill them both—“They ought to be helping in some way!”—but honestly, what should men be doing on a wedding day? All the finer details were left to the women because, let’s face it, women were better at them.

Nicki bossed me relentlessly
. She really only eased up during the actual ceremony. She and Brad wrote their own vows. Something about dolphins and sunsets. And forevers. I stood beside her listening, holding her bouquet, wondering how a girl who was so trendy and fashionable could say words that belonged on a cheesy airbrushed T-shirt from Myrtle Beach. I did tear up when Brad cried, though. I’m a sucker for man tears.

At the reception, I made sure Nicki had a plate filled with all the food my father paid for before slipping away. I’d check up on her later. She was busy receiving compliments and wouldn’t need me for a while anyway. I searched for Reece. He wasn’t at his table (yeah, we were assigned to different tables). He wasn’t on the dance floor. He wasn’t at the bar. I found my father instead.

“Hey, Puddin’ Pop,” Dad said, putting his arm around my shoulders. He pressed a beer-spiked kiss to my cheek.

“Dad, you know
Mom’ll get mad,” I said, kissing him back.

“Your mother has agreed to leave me t
he hell alone for the day,” Dad replied. He took another swig of beer.

“It was nice of her to refrain from yelling at you and Reece about the fishing,” I noted.
“She just bitched to me about it.”

He
grunted.

“How was it?” I asked.

Dad thought for a moment. And then the smile crept stealthily across his lips.

“Just fine,” he said.

“Just fine?”

“Just fine.”

“Dad, I’m a girl. I need details.”

He chuckled. “I like your boyfriend, Bailey. Better than any of the others.”

“Me too,” I agreed.

“He’s a good man,” Dad went on.

“I know.”

“I trust him.”

I crinkled my brow. “That’s a weird thing to say.”

“Why? It’s weird that I trust him with my daughter?”

I paused. “Okay, maybe it’s not so weird.”

I ordered a cranberry vodka.

“So, how are you holding up?” Dad asked, pushing his empty beer bottle toward the bartender.

“Eh.”

“Just ‘eh?’”

“I can’t find Reece.”

“He’ll be around.”

“I’m exhausted.”

“Anyone working for Nicki would be exhausted right about now.”

“I stayed up all night fixing the place cards.”

“They’re beautiful,” Dad said.

I grinned. He didn’t take any notice of them. Men don’t do that.

“So how are you really doing, Puddin’ Pop?” Dad asked gently.

I stared into the crimson red of my drink and shrugged. Dad plucked it from my hand and led me to the dance floor at the exact moment the
soft, strings-laden sound of a Tony Bennett song started.

My father may be a smelly, gruff fisherman by day, but he’s a dancing superstar by night. Well, nights that include weddings, that is. He pulled me close and moved to a throwback
- style of cigars, fedoras, and old, hand-written love letters.

“Daddy?” I whispered.

“Hmm?”

“Shouldn’t you be dancing with Mom to this?”

“The Very Thought of You”—I’d heard this song a trillion times floating out of the back bedroom Dad used as his little workshop. He’d work on his model boat to Tony’s voice—no one else’s—and spend hours trapped in the past where love hadn’t yet turned to color but was still black and white. Where love hadn’t turned to TV but was still radio. Where love hadn’t turned loud and transparent but was still private, sacred, and quiet.

I couldn
’t help but think how much we’d messed it all up.

“I wanted to dance with you,” Dad replied.

I was crying. I really didn’t want to. I didn’t want to feel sorry for myself that this wasn’t my wedding, that it wasn’t me who Daddy walked down the aisle today. I wanted to share that intimacy with my father—him giving me away to another man. I was jealous that Nicki experienced it first.

“Stop,” Dad said softly.

“I’m thirty-one, Dad,” I cried.

“And? You’re young. You have a great man. And you’ll have all this, too. Be patient.”

I snorted. “Haven’t I been?”

“Yes. So why change now?” he asked. “You’ve nothing to feel sad about today.”

I wanted to tell him he was wrong, but that wouldn’t be right. I didn’t have anything to feel sad about today. I had a wonderful man who loved me to pieces. I had a full life with friends who celebrated my successes and loved me unconditionally. I had parents who would do anything for me—yes, even Mom, as cold as she was. I was blessed.

I felt a light tapping on my shoulder an
d turned to see Reece smiling down at me.

“You mind if I steal your daughter away, Sam?” Reece asked.

“I do mind,” Dad replied. “But I’ll let you do it anyway.” He kissed my forehead and turned me to my date, then strolled back to the bar.

“Hi there, gorgeous,” Reece said, taking me in his arms.

“I missed you today,” I replied.

We swayed to another Bennett song, and I realized Dad must have struck a deal with Nicki over the reception music.

“Me too,” Reece said.

“Where have you been?” I asked. It came out a little accusatory.

“Where have
you
been?” Reece replied.

I smiled up at him.

“Running around like a crazy woman,” I said.

“Would you happen to be finished for the evening?”

I nodded. I watched him gaze at me—that tender look men very rarely get, but dear God, when they get it . . . well, it makes you feel like you’re the most important person on the planet. The prettiest. The smartest. The cleverest. The funniest. That look. It was love-making. Not sex. It was paying homage to my body, not using it. It was a deep kiss with no expectations, not foreplay.