by Julie Olivia
Okay, first things first: work emails.
I pat the space next to me, hoping to feel the comfort of a glass screen. Instead, there’s just blank space. I twist my head to look and—yep, no phone.
I sit up again, a little less graceful this time, and clutch my head. Pain radiates from my shut eyes outward to my temples, resting there like a carpenter bee drilling into the side of my head. I creep my eyes open once more and spot a bag of rice tossed on the desk in the corner.
Right. I almost forgot I used Ian’s “phone in rice” trick. This better work or he’s going to get a tongue-lashing from yours truly. Heck, maybe I’ll do it anyway just to prove a point. My muscles tense. Maybe it’s best not to think of Ian and “tongue-lashing” in the same sentence right now…
I slip off the bed and pad over to the table, stripping open the plastic bag to dig out my phone.
Dry as a bone. Well, would you look at that.
I turn it over in my palm and press my finger down on the side button to turn on the power. Just as the screen lights up, I hear a knock at my door.
I jerk my head toward it and my ears ring. I didn’t think I was on edge before now, but the sound of the knock indicates one of five possible wedding party guests who could be at my door—unless I’m lucky and it’s just hotel staff. The possibility that one of those visitors could be Ian is unsettling, and I am less than prepared to be dealing with him this early in the morning. Wait—is it early? I pull my wrist up to see the time.
“A little after one o’clock?!” I shout in disbelief, and from the other side of the door, I hear a small shot of laughter followed by a raspy feminine voice.
“So, you are alive!” Grace calls. I run my fingers through my hair, trying to finger-comb any craziness out before rushing to the door and whipping it open. I blink several times to adjust to the outside light. Yes, this is what hell feels like.
Grace stands there in a semi-sheer black t-shirt dress, hands on her hips, hair knotted in a low-hanging ponytail, and mouth scrunched to the side as if she’s caught me doing something I’m not supposed to.
“Shirt,” she says.
“What?”
“Shirt.”
It takes me a second to feel the cool coastal breeze glide over my chest and realize that god no! I left my shirt off. I slap my hands to my boobs and hold them like some makeshift human bra while I turn around and steal the closest t-shirt lying on the desk nearest the door.
After I put it on, Grace busts out into laughter and points at it. “What in the world is that?”
I look down at my chest and recognize the airbrushed stick figure versions of both myself and Ian. The text reads Big Beach Bash 2019 with my full name written in looping cursive along the top. The I is dotted with a heart.
I exhale and nod. “Ian and me in bikinis.” As if this is an everyday occurrence.
After a beat and a few blinks to process both the shirt and the words coming out of my mouth, she simply responds with, “Sure, okay.” I’m waiting on her to say more, but she takes a couple more moments of admiring the design with a smirk before continuing. “So, how are you feeling?” she asks.
“I’m feeling like I need an aspirin,” I groan.
“Good, then I have a surprise for you.” She holds out her hand and gestures for me to do the same. I extend it with my palm open, and tablets drop into it from her fist.
“Thanks,” I say with a sigh, popping the pills into the back of my throat and dry-swallowing them as she sidesteps me into the room, shutting the door behind her.
“I figured you probably packed your own pills,” she says, “but oh well.”
My mind is always so clouded with work, deadlines, and emails, it’s easy to forget how seamlessly Grace and I have formed this friendship over the past few years—and how well she knows me.
Our relationship is best described as “work friends,” but with the amount of time we both dedicate to our jobs, she might as well be a roommate. After one too many run-ins in the breakroom following normal working hours, we eventually started meeting in the more spacious boardrooms with comfy couches and projection screens so as to take advantage of each other’s company. She would work on her projects and I would clickity-clack emails and run payroll, occasionally giving her my candid uncreative thoughts on the designs she was producing. She’s never taken my suggestions. Let’s just say I’m more suited for HR.
“I haven’t seen much of you around,” Grace says, aimlessly walking through the room then stopping at the DVD case. She holds it up to me. “Oh, but now I see why.” She raises and lowers her eyebrows with a sly, Grinch-like smile.
I cringe and make a low noise resembling that of a bruised whale, or maybe even a deflating balloon.
“Ian.” I exhale before throwing my hands in the air in a What the hell else is there to say? gesture.
Grace gingerly places the movie back down like it’s some precious commodity. “Don’t worry, I won’t hurt your prized possession.”
I’m sure my embarrassment is a real treat.
“Sorry I made you guys hang out,” she says, though her apology is punctuated by a couple ill-suppressed hearty laughs. “But, good lord, that fighting!” Now she’s the one throwing her hands in the air in a similar What do I even do? motion. That seems to be a common gesture when referring to anything regarding Ian Chambers.
“No, I’m the one who should be apologizing.” I sit down on the bed and lie back. She mirrors the motion and turns her head to me so we’re lying side by side. “It’s your wedding week and I’m over here not letting old habits die. I’m just so used to constantly fighting with him that I don’t think I know anything else.”
As soon as the words leave my mouth, I realize how true they are. I never stop fighting with Ian, and even if we’re not outwardly arguing, I’m internally carrying on this itch of a grudge. It’s insatiable. Maybe I just have an obsession with hating him.
“He can be crazy, but he’s really one of the nicest people I know,” she says.
I want to tell her I know that. I want to say how we almost but not really kissed last night, how he wouldn’t because I was too drunk, but that would open a can of worms type conversation that would easily squirm out of control through my fingers.
“We both know he likes to get under your skin. The problem is that you let him.” She pokes my face, and the tip of her finger sinks into my cheek as I smile.
“Let’s stop talking about Ian, please,” I say. “What have I missed with you?”
She grows silent, lolling her head side to side and exhaling.
“What?” I ask.
“I want to tell you something, but you can’t tell anyone.” She twists the fabric of her dress near her stomach, and instantly my sensors go off. “Seriously. Not a soul.” Her belly shows zero signs of bloating or life of any kind, but her mannerisms all point to the possibility. “I’m pregnant,” she says, her eyebrows scrunching toward the center. “But, don’t tell anyone!” Her hand lands on my wrist, which is attached to the hand now covering my mouth. She looks panicked, and I wonder if this is the first time she’s admitted it out loud.
“When did you find out?” I ask.
“Yesterday. I wanted to tell you. I wish I hadn’t sent you away…”
I laugh. “You didn’t send me away. Sure, I was with Satan himself, but it’s not like you banished me.” This makes her laugh, and before I know it, she’s rolling on the bed. Whether it’s a mix of admiring any actual humor I may have, or if she’s just letting out her nerves, I don’t know. I let her have her moment.
“Who all knows?” I ask, knocking her out of her giggle fit and causing her to wipe her eyes with a smile.
“Just you,” she says.
“Why me?” I ask, lifting an eyebrow as she lies on her back and gives me a simple shrug.
“You’re the most rational person I know,” she says. “I needed to tell someone, and I figured you would be the only one to not freak out or start plann
ing baby showers.”
“Then you’ve made a wise decision.” I smile. “Does this mean I’m the godmother? Finders keepers on information?”
“Ha!” Grace barks out a laugh and then widens her eyes as if coming to a realization. “Yeah, actually you probably are the most responsible of the bunch. Maybe Corinne is too, but she’s young. I mean, we’re like sort of the same age,” Grace continues, still in thought, “but she’s six months younger or something. I’m not sure.”
I zone out, eyes wide, staring at the ceiling and thinking of Corinne.
She is young, young enough to entice older men like Ian. What is their age difference? Ten years, possibly? I want to feel something akin to hate or anger, but it’s difficult to muster up any true disdain for her when she was such a genuine friend last night. Still, I see the way she and Ian look at each other, like old friends with history, and history commonly repeats itself.
The thought of Ian with another woman after I pictured him with me so vividly last night almost feels like infidelity, but I have no claim over him, and I don’t even want one. So why am I overthinking this?
“Something wrong?” Grace asks, squinting her eyes.
No, Grace, I definitely wasn’t brooding at the thought of tall, handsome Ian skipping hand in hand down the beach with model Corinne.
I shake my head with a smile. “No, not at all! I’m just happy to be your baby’s secret godmother.”
“Tentatively,” she corrects. “I’ll tell Cameron tomorrow. He’s got the bachelor party tonight and he doesn’t need any more stress.”
I almost forgot the bachelor party was tonight. Then it hits me that there will most likely be strippers. I feel sick.
“Seriously, what’s wrong with you?” Grace asks, scrunching up her nose.
I let out a nervous laugh. “Nothing!” I protest, batting at her. “I’m just wondering how much trouble those boys are going to get in.”
She narrows her eyes at me, a small smirk tugging at her lips. “You’re worried about Ian.”
“No, I’m not,” I lie, but I am a terrible liar. I can hover around the truth for days, avoid questions and give diplomatic answers, but straight-out lying? My cat could probably pick up on that.
Grace gasps loudly, sitting up from the bed with a jerk and rearing back to punch my arm.
“Ouch!” I yell, trying to be calm, but damn! That girl doesn’t know how much strength she has!
“You like him,” she says, a grin spreading across her face. She looks giddy, as if I’ve just presented her with a new puppy, or hell, as if I was the one who just told her I’m pregnant. “You have a thing for Ian.”
“No, I don’t,” I say with a nervous laugh, which I did not expect to come from my mouth. What the hell was that?
“You’re a crappy liar,” she accuses, and I give her a smug half-smile.
“I don’t have any feelings for Ian.”
“He’s loved you for years,” she says breathlessly. “This would be fantastic. You should totally go for it.”
I stop. The world stops. Bees stop buzzing. Flowers wilt. Is the apocalypse here?
Wait, he’s loved me?
This man doesn’t love me. He doesn’t even know me. No, Ian messes around with other women—not me. Not Nia Smith. But then why the hell did that sentence come out of her mouth…?
“He doesn’t love me,” I insist. “You’re getting too excited about something that is not—will never happen.”
She leans her weight to the side and rests her palm on the bed. Her head rolls against her shoulder as she examines me. “What’s holding you back?”
“Do I need an excuse to not want to date someone?”
Admittedly, I have a few. Ian is cocky and proud. Plus, I can never tell when he’s making fun of me, which may or may not stem from my lingering awkward middle schooler complex, but I’m no psychologist.
And, what about the future? What happens with men like Ian? They end up like my brother Grant: lying on his parents’ couch, most likely going through a divorce because he neglected to be faithful to his wife and couldn’t be rational about his vices.
At my silence, Grace slowly nods. “Fine, I’ll leave it alone,” she says, hopping off the bed and waltzing toward the door. There’s no tone of offense to it, so I’m comfortable flashing her an innocent smile as she turns to face me again. “You up for the beach today?” she asks. “I think Ramona is wanting to hash out some last-minute bachelorette party details.”
“Well I did buy your coveted penis lollipops,” I say, pointing to the black bag resting on the desk next to the TV. The dirty DVD’s presence still mocks me.
She follows my gaze over to it then peers out of the corner of her eye with a knowing smile.
I exhale. “Not my idea, I swear.”
She holds up her hands in surrender. “Hey, what you do in your free time is none of my business, Miss Smith.”
I stand up, grab the movie off of the table, and immediately toss it in the garbage with as much disdain as I can muster. “See?” I say, gesturing to the newly trashed DVD. “No emotional attachment.” Only the emotional scars from the knowledge of having watched it.
“Hang on, wait a sec,” Grace says, tiptoeing toward the trash can and picking it out. “Bachelor party present.” She winks, waving it toward me.
“I’m sure Cam will love that,” I say, but she continues waving it at me with insistence. “What?”
“You—you should give it to Ian.” Grace grins, waving it faster until it looks like a small blur in the air.
“Absolutely not.” I balk, trying to appear nonchalant about it, but my heart starts pounding. How am I supposed to hand this stupid movie over to Ian after I told him I disposed of it? And what could I possibly say to make it not weird? Enjoy the bachelor party with this fun movie? I hope you and the strippers can watch it together? The thought makes me shudder.
“Well if you don’t gift it to him, I will, and I’ll say it’s from you with love.” She holds the DVD close to her chest. The facial expressions of the actors on the back cover make me uncomfortable; they look much too happy being in such close proximity to Grace’s boobs. No person should be hugging that movie.
“Give me that,” I say, snatching it from her in both a sense of responsibility to protect this pure, younger woman and also because I wouldn’t put it past her to actually gift it to Ian with my name attached. “I’ll do it. Whatever.”
“Future baby is rooting for you,” she says, cupping her stomach. Her hand resting there suddenly makes it feel so real.
“You’ll be a good mother,” I say, giving her a lopsided smile.
“And you would be good for Ian.”
The sentiment is cute, but I’m not buying it.
17
Ian
Cameron is pacing the length of an empty conference room we found in a corner of the resort, mumbling to both himself and maybe us. I honestly can’t tell. This room is the only place we could find to talk bachelor party specifics that also accommodated his anxiety.
Wes’s sandaled feet are propped up on the long boardroom table as he leans back on two legs of a flimsy wooden chair. I notice the twisted edges getting strained. It’s clear that even though this resort has invested money in a lot of the amenities, the secret boardroom was apparently not on their list of priorities.
“That’s gonna break,” I comment, glancing down at the legs then back up to him.
Wes shrugs nonchalantly followed by a small, “Nah.”
“It’s just nice to know Grace and I will have each other’s backs,” says Cam. “Just in case things get crazy.” He’s only talking to himself at this point; I’m not even sure he cares whether we’re paying attention or not.
With the bachelor party being tonight, Grace and Cam planned to have the bachelorette party the following night, the day before the rehearsal dinner. It’s back-to-back celebrations of some sort until the wedding day, and I commend him on at least attempting to be res
ponsible about the schedule.
And, if I’m being honest with myself, I like that I can be available should something happen to Nia at the bachelorette party. She may not be my wife or fiancée like Ramona and Grace are to Wes and Cam, but there’s some weird sense of responsibility I feel like I have with her.
I can’t tell if that thought sounds obsessive or caring.
“Not that I don’t support this—because I do—but what crazy thing could possibly happen with strippers?” Wes asks, lifting an eyebrow.
“Well, I’ll be sober,” I offer, “so at least I can drive. That will tone down the potential for crazy.”
“Yes, but you’re a wild card,” Cam throws back at me pointedly. “You pick up strays.”
“Hey, I resent that. I try to keep things fairly reasonable, and that goat man from the other night was nice enough,” I say.
“He was on drugs.” Wes laughs.
“Actually,” I correct with my index finger pointing in the air, “he was just super drunk.”
“The point is,” Cam says, exhaling heavily, “I would like backup just in case, and the girls have agreed to be available.”
“I guess it’s probably for the best,” Wes says, leaning farther back with his hands behind his head. The chair creaks. “The other Chambers kid is a wild card too.”
“You people and not trusting the Chambers family.” I shake my head as if in disbelief. “I am, quite frankly, appalled.”
“Do you remember that time Ramona just disappeared? We all walked up and down the interstate looking for her.”
“Sure,” I muse, “but she made it home just fine.”
“She hitchhiked, Ian, and somehow had a stuffed bear when we found her?”
“The origin of that bear is still a mystery.”
“Still not as bad as you,” Cam says. “Didn’t you streak in a park?”
I bark out a laugh. “Hey, I made sure nobody was there, but yeah. That was a good time, thanks very much.”
“Necessary precautions, my friend,” Wes says, slapping my back.
“Okay,” I say, “so it looks like the night’s events are as follows.” I look down at my phone, where I’ve been attempting to take notes. “Strip club, bar, bar, pier?”
