by Julie Olivia
Nia
“Are you nervous? You’re totally nervous.”
Ramona clutches Grace’s cheeks in her palms, staring into her eyes.
“I’ve been in love with Cameron since the day I met him, Ray. Okay, stop it.” She swats Ramona away. “You’re ruining my makeup.”
I sit on the chaise nearby in my peach bridesmaid dress, legs crossed. While it may not fit me as well as Corinne’s does her—she could have just walked off the runway in Paris—I suppose it doesn’t look too bad. It’s loose on the top as I expected, but my fully formed hips and ass make up for my lack of bongos.
A head pokes through the door, peering in The Shining-style. Except instead of a hole, it’s just a crack in the door. Much less menacing, especially since the face belongs not to a crazed Jack Nicholson, but to Grace’s mom, Lynette, who is on the verge of a breakdown.
“Oh god, I’m going to cry,” she says, though it looks like the threat of tears is far from gone. They fell hours ago.
“Mommm,” Grace groans.
Another head pokes in, chin resting on top of Lynette’s. It’s the lady whose been walking around with the chihuahua under her arm. She’s running the show, but honestly, I don’t think anyone granted her the role of coordinator. I think she just stole it, which makes me wonder if she stole that dog too.
“We’re ready for you!” she chimes. “Everyone is at the beach!”
Grace stands from her chair, smoothing out the bunches in her dress. It’s a beautiful mermaid gown, tight along her waist and hips then cascading out behind her in an elegant tulle train. Her illusion neckline gives the appearance of a strapless dress with lace trailing up her chest and disappearing just beneath her shoulders. Her fierce red hair is pulled into a tight ballerina bun with strands loosened to frame her face, and she’d fit right in on the pages of any high fashion bridal feature.
“Good, let’s get this party rolling,” Grace says.
Ramona swings open the cracked door, and both women and dog tumble in.
At the sight of her daughter, Lynette lets out a sound that’s a mix between a moaning whale and a yowling cat, throwing her palm over her eyes and swatting at us to disregard her. Grace raises an eyebrow to us. “Okay, well, um, yeah…let’s just get going. I’ve got a prince to marry.” This only makes her mom howl louder.
“Hell yeah. Let’s do this!” Ramona says, clapping with each word. The other lady mirrors the clapping, shaking the small dog under her arm. It lets out a low growl in irritation. Ramona sticks out her tongue.
“Don’t taunt the dog,” Grace whispers.
“It taunted me first.”
We all crowd out of the room, crossing the resort foyer and trailing down the short wooden pier with Grace’s mom wailing through tears the entire way.
Ahead we see the rows of white resin folding chairs and, just past them, an arch with the officiant, the groom, and the groomsmen. Ian towers half a foot over Cameron. His black hair is thick and curled with one dangling strand resembling a sexy Clark Kent, which I’m sure would annoy him if it were pointed out. Or maybe he would even crack a joke at how he’s just as wonderful as the Man of Steel himself. I bet it would be just funny enough to make me roll my eyes. I relish the thought.
I’m the first to walk down the aisle, and a small iris bouquet is shoved in my hands by the dog lady seconds before my feet step off the wooden pier onto the shifting sand.
I don’t know whose idea it was to have this ceremony far from the shore, but they clearly did not understand how beaches work. We’re in the soft sand and the legs of each chair are slowly sinking. Guests are gripping the sides, trying to right them, but every movement only makes the seats more lopsided. I can’t help but smile, and when I look up, Ian is smiling back at me.
My left foot sinks a bit but I continue on as if I didn’t just semi-trip down the aisle. Ian winks, and for a moment I consider that this could be my future. One day, I might be walking toward Ian not in a peach dress, but in a white one. A guitar might be playing in the background just as the ukulele is now. Maybe there will be violins, and perhaps I’ll be staring into his blue eyes, getting that boyish grin flashed back at me.
The decision to like Ian was made for me years ago; I just needed to let it happen. Just like the sand around me, my desire for him has been getting deeper and deeper minute by minute and year by year. The only thing time will change is just how deep my affection goes.
I take a left at the front, settling at my designated spot near the end as Corinne then Ramona line up beside me. They balance their way through the sand like I did, but when the ukulele changes its tune and Grace starts down the aisle, I notice she had enough sense to take off her heels.
She walks down the aisle arm in arm with her mother, though while Grace looks elegant and demure, her mom is tripping through the sand on wedged sandals with leaking mascara and a trembling bottom lip.
The ceremony commences and I angle myself inward as directed by the self-appointed coordinator and her yapping dog, who is probably the real brains behind the operation. When Cam’s eyes fall on Grace, his wide, dimpled grin could light up the entire beach.
When it’s time for vows, there’s no sign of apprehension or fear. Grace simply provides a quick, decisive, “I do.”
It’s difficult for me to believe our lives are dictated by fate or a series of uncontrollable circumstances. In fact, this very moment—right here standing in what feels like quicksand—is the result of thirty-five years’ worth of carefully thought-out decisions obsessively mulled over in excruciating detail. But what if destiny is the true puppeteer? What if Grace and Cam were destined to meet, no matter what obstacles blocked them, employee-manager relationship be damned? If destiny is the true world power, I can tell it knew exactly what it was doing with those two.
When the officiant announces their full married name for the first time, Cameron and Grace embrace each other and we all clap.
The wedding party files out, trying our best to maintain balance. As I’m the last one, I have no groomsman to escort me, but I don’t mind. I look ahead at the woman in white and her grinning man.
I wonder if destiny brought me here to open my eyes to what life can be like when you let go. Maybe now is finally the time for me to relax, enjoy the world, and for once, not be in control, but instead roll with the waves of the ocean.
You can’t control every aspect of your life. And maybe you don’t need to.
39
Ian
Cameron waits less than five minutes before rushing the food bar and shoveling shrimp onto his plate with the serving spatula.
“God, I thought those photos would take a thousand years,” he moans.
“We took literally ten pictures,” Ramona says. “Which, honestly, is not nearly enough.”
Grace cuts forward, snatching a plate as well. “As long as we have at least two pictures for our fireplace, what do I care?”
Guests are sitting at their assigned round tables under the white tent erected for the reception. Their plates are empty, and I’m honestly unsure if the wedding party was supposed to serve themselves first or wait for everyone else. Looks like we’re going with the former.
“You’re embarrassing yourselves,” Wes says.
“No, we’re not. Nia embarrassed herself enough last night to cover for the rest of us,” Cameron says, grinning.
I look over at Nia, whose eyes are already locked onto mine, a shy smile twisting her mouth.
A line of guests finally file behind us by the time we’ve made it through the buffet. There is a long table reserved for the wedding party near the end of the tent, and Nia and I sit on opposite ends. I wonder if she’s thinking what I am—that only one word will strike a match between us, and the flame will be impossible to snuff out.
Grace and Cameron barely have time to stuff their faces before the DJ calls them out for their first dance. He must not have gotten the memo that food is serious business for these two newlyweds.
“Let’s fire him,” Grace says, patting her mouth with a napkin.
“Well, honey, we’ll have to cut him some slack for now,” Cameron says, grabbing her hand. “We can’t exactly find another DJ this last minute.”
“Only request cliché wedding music,” I suggest. “Really ruin his night.”
Cameron claps a hand on my shoulder. “This is why you’re the best man.”
The party commences faster than expected. Every person walking past our tent is graciously invited in by the bride and groom until our group grows to about two hundred drunken beach bums, resort guests, and families jumping up and down, hands flying in the air to the words of “Shout” over and over. I can sense the shift in the DJ’s demeanor as he plays song after song of wedding classics like “Cha Cha Slide” and “Macarena”. He has a permanent sneer of disgust. Conversely, I don’t think Grace and Cameron have ever had so much fun.
I decide to sit this song out, finding an empty round table to relax at. I throw off my tie, undo the top two buttons of my shirt, and cross my ankle over my knee, stretching my arms out over the back of the chairs next to me. I sweep my eyes across the crowd, looking until I spot the white-blonde hair paired with a tiny peach dress.
Nia is over near the pop-up bar, leaning against the counter and chatting with the bartender mixing drinks. I’ve patiently waited all night for her to speak to me. It’s been maddening to watch her walk around in that bridesmaid dress. The straps rest loose on her delicate shoulders, and the neckline slopes just low enough to give a chaste peek at the start of her chest. Once it hits her waist, it doesn’t leave much to the imagination, and I’ve had to avert my eyes many times to quell a growing hardness in my pants. Now, though, I’m alone and too greedy to look away. My zipper may be strained, but I’m not depriving myself of this sight.
As I soak Nia in, memorizing every bit of her body, her head shoots up and looks around. I know exactly what she’s feeling because I feel it too. It’s that pull—the tug of an invisible wire connecting us, like some impulse to know where the other is. If we lose track of each other, we search, and we always find one another.
Her eyes land on me, and she smiles. I raise my hand in greeting. She wiggles her fingers back in a wave.
She leans in to mouth a few words to the bartender before making her way over to my lonely round table. This will be the closest we’ve been in proximity all night, and I can feel my blood pumping heavy at the thought of it.
I pat the chair next to me and she falls into it.
“Come here often?” I ask.
She scoffs, rolling her eyes with a laugh. “That’s the best you got?” she asks. Her brown eyes are warm, inviting, and scouring over my face and bared chest. I let them wander as they like.
“What do you want me to say?” I ask.
“Something more original.”
“Fine. Then…are you lost? Because heaven is a long way from here.”
She rolls her eyes again—so hard that this time I think they get stuck for a moment.
“Oh, has that been said before?” I say, feigning innocence.
“You’re incorrigible.”
She shakes her head slowly, a smile spread from ear to ear and that beautiful, plump lip pulled taut between her teeth. I want to say something, but I’m finding it hard to form the words needed to express how unreal it is to have Nia next to me, biting her lip, one eyebrow raised and leaning against my arm. Not only is she relaxed, she’s allowing my finger to stroke along her shoulder.
“Do you want a drink?” I ask, jerking my head to the bar.
“I think I’m pretty much done with drinking for a while.” She leans back with her arms crossed. “Two hangovers in one week is about my limit.”
“Two in a week?” I gasp. “Wild child.”
“Shut up,” she says, pushing my side.
“Ooh, that tickles,” I croon. “Do it again.”
“Stoppp,” she says through laughter, elbowing my stomach.
We grow quiet and sit there in silence. My eyes roam over every part of her while she looks out at the dancing crowd.
“So, are you going to forgive me for being such an asshole?” I ask.
She shrugs. “Maybe.”
“I can take maybe.”
“Are you going to forgive me for being such an asshole?” she asks.
“Maybe.” I smile.
Her head swivels toward me and she inhales sharply as if carefully considering her next words.
“I almost kissed you a few years ago,” she says. “Did you know that?”
My breath catches. I laugh awkwardly, trying to conceal my surprise with as much casual ease as I can. “Wait—what?”
“Yeah.” She places a hand on my knee, stroking around it absentmindedly. I stiffen. “After that write-up for Grace and Cam.”
“I’m not recalling…” It’s irritating to think there was a moment I lost. Jesus Christ, I need to know when Nia fucking Smith tried to kiss me.
“Of course you don’t remember,” she scoffs. “You were too distracted by the receptionist.”
And then it hits me—I do remember that night.
“That was Beer Friday, wasn’t it?” I ask.
I remember that fucking night.
“You told me you didn’t date co-workers,” she says.
It all comes rushing back to me: our chat in her office, the termination paperwork for Cameron’s indiscretions looming between us, the way she looked at me. I felt weird at the time, but I assumed it was just my inappropriate lusting after Nia finally crossing some line. I remember her odd expression at the awkward situation, and I never considered that maybe her face was revealing something else. I remember saying whatever I could to make her think I wasn’t coming on to her. The last thing I needed was a harassment lawsuit from my own HR manager, but I had a feeling there was something between us.
I fucking knew it.
But then Saria—the young receptionist many years my junior—stepped in.
“Saria… She tried to… Nothing happened.” I remember Saria gripping my leg, sliding it up my thigh. It was uncomfortable, to say the least, and a disaster waiting to happen. Imagine the uproar of the in-house lawyer sleeping with the young receptionist. Not a chance. Then she was too drunk to drive, and I did what I always did: I drove her home, and that was it. She tried to hit on me when I dropped her off, but that was only right before she lost all her alcohol in the bushes. “I wasn’t lying. I don’t date co-workers.”
“I believe you,” she says. Her tone is to the point and indicates that the topic is closed. No discussion needed. It’s simple and decisive, just like everything Nia does.
I smile. “Plus, come on, I was too in love with you to think about anyone else.”
Nia lets out an uncomfortable laugh then narrows her eyes. “You say that like you really mean it.”
“I am a lovesick, head over groomsman oxfords, mess of a man around you. You’re why I left the company,” I say.
“You left because of me?” Her mouth is slightly open, scanning me for lies.
There are none to be found, Polly.
“I left for you.” I remember when I decided to job hunt. I knew I wouldn’t be happy unless I tried to be with Nia, and she wouldn’t give me the time of day as long as we were co-workers.
A smile creeps up her face, widening ever slightly. I can tell by her twitching cheeks that she’s trying to resist, but she’s losing the battle.
“There’s a smile,” I say. “I like your smile.”
Her hand shifts from my knee up to my thigh. Patience be damned, I want Nia. I need Nia.
“Want to get out of here?” I ask.
“Yes.”
40
Nia
I now wonder why I wasted any time not allowing myself to be being completely enraptured by Ian Chambers. Was it my stubborn nature? My pride? Or was it that misunderstandings truly ruin everything?
It’s irrelevant now as the tw
o of us walk away from the reception tent and farther down the beach, Ian’s hand around my waist and me clutching the hem of my dress. I don’t know where we’re going, and we walk for who knows how long. The music from the party dulls, the light from the tiki torches vanishes, and then we’re alone walking down the shore in pitch-black darkness, just as we did a few nights ago.
At some point, Ian’s hand glides lower from my waist to my hip, where he stops and pulls me into him.
I can’t see where we are yet. My eyes are still adjusting, and the loss of one of my senses makes the touch of his wandering hands seem that much more thrilling and electrifying. They run up my sides, trailing the stitching of my dress, following it to my shoulders, where his fingers curl under my dress straps. When he lowers one, I feel the warmth of his lips brush my shoulder. He repeats the motion, making a path from my shoulder up to my neckline. A shiver runs through me.
“Are you cold?” he whispers. The tone is low, rumbling, and though it has a hint of concern, I sense more than that—I sense longing.
“No,” I say breathlessly.
I can feel the mist from the ocean hit the backs of my calves. The rolling tide rushes beneath my heels, and I’m thankful for the relief of the water. With every small kiss, I’m beginning to lose touch with reality. Am I dreaming? Is this just one of my fantasies? Maybe I fell asleep while reading. But no—the surge of water tickling my feet reminds me that the world is still moving. I am most definitely not dreaming.
I place my hands against his button-down, sliding them up to touch his neck. Every kiss planted on me triggers another tick in his jaw, another sharp inhalation of air, and a hum of happiness reverberating from his throat, vibrating my palm.
He’s barely touched me, and I’m already begging for seconds.
“Is this the fabled ‘next time’?” I whisper, running my fingers through his curly hair, letting each lock bounce its way between them. Full, thick, and mine.
