by DL White
I hate it when he's right, but he is right. “And they do all of the setup and help with the event. Less work for us."
Preston nods. “But still nice. No cheap grass skirts and a pig with a—how did you put it?”
“A fucking apple in its mouth,” I finish, laughing.
“Right. So, we decided on a destination and a month?" Grudgingly, I nod. Preston pumps a fist in the air. "We made our first decision without killing each other! Aren't you proud?"
"One down, one thousand to go." I sip my coffee, in less celebratory mood than Preston.
"You're so negative, Evangeline. When did you get so anti-everything?"
My eyes slide closed. “If you are a nice guy, you will stop calling me Evangeline.”
"You used to love for me to call you that," he says quietly.
After we broke up, the thing I missed the most was the way he said my name. Truthfully, whenever he calls me Evangeline, it reminds me of that time when we were young and in love.
“I’m not seventeen anymore. I no longer love for you to call me that. Please stop. And I'm not anti-everything. I don't like you. I don't trust you. I’m doing this for Morgan, otherwise, I’d have already quit.”
Preston opens his mouth, and I brace for something surly and hateful. He surprises me, though, by saying, "It’s a habit. Forgive me if I slip."
I gulp, shocked at his resignation. He is full of unexpected twists and turns.
We chat a little more about the wedding and agree to get on a conference call with the resort early the next week. First, we had to break the news to Nate and Morgan about when and where they were getting married so that they could have Save the Date cards printed.
"Have you thought about Nate's Bachelor party?"
"A little. You? About Morgan's?"
I shake my head with a sad, slow wag. “I would be best friends with a woman that hates male strippers. She'd be happy with a Bachelorette Tea."
"That sounds boring."
"I know."
"We could combine them. We plan one party; we kill two birds."
I shake my head. "I know what kind of parties you throw." I recall a story about Keith's Bachelor party involving a naked guy, a mechanical bull, and a Taser. I shudder. "And I don't want to look at half naked women stripping for Nate."
“We’ll have some half naked men, too. For the ladies."
"Preston..." I laugh.
"What? It's a good idea."
“Save that for when Troy gets married,” I say, still giggling. "Let's keep thinking about it. We have some time."
“Whatever,” he says, picking up his sandwich and taking an oversized bite. The running joke was that Preston could eat a sandwich in three bites. Food disappears around him quickly.
I eat my pancakes, savoring every delicious morsel. I don't even think there's syrup left on the plate when I push it away.
"Thank you for breakfast," I say when I've wiped crumbs from my mouth and finished my coffee. "I haven't been here in years.”
He picks at crumbs of a sesame seed bun on his plate and pushes it away. “I come here a lot. Lots of memories in this place, coming here with my family. And with you.”
“Preston…”
I sit up, leaning forward. My conversation with Troy has been rolling through my mind since the day before, and before I can stop to think why it wouldn’t be a good idea to ask the question, I ask it.
“Didn’t you ever want to leave Orlando? Wayne could have made sure you got a job anywhere. Doing pretty much anything. I would have left, if I were you."
His expression morphs from playful and easy to dark and terse. "Would you, if you were me?”
“You could do so much better than Perry, and we both know it.”
I watch his Adam's apple bob as he reaches for his water and sucks down a mouthful. He seems to ponder the question, his expression growing more severe by the second.
“I have everything I need right here," he finally says. "Friends, family, great weather, a good job. No reason I should leave, go where I have nothing, because Angie doesn’t like me.”
Preston crumples his napkin and drops it onto his empty plate before grabbing the leather folio containing the check. He leans to one side to pull his wallet from a pocket, then pulls out a charge card. He slides it into the pocket, dropping the folder on the edge of the table. The waitress returns his card; he signs the receipt, and slides the card back into his wallet.
I feel… weird. It shouldn’t matter to me that I've upset him, but I’m sad and a little ashamed.
We took Preston’s car to the restaurant, so we climb back into his coupe. When I graduated from high school, my parents got me a Honda to tool around in because it was dependable and got good gas mileage. When I finished law school and passed the bar, they bought me the Audi. It was brand new when I got it ten years ago. It’s become something of a security blanket. I could drive it in my sleep, I know it so well.
Preston pulls in next to my Audi A3. I expect the usual jab at the layer of dust and chipped exterior paint, but he doesn't say a word. My feet barely touch the pavement before he guns the engine and takes off, his tires squealing on the blacktop.
And now I feel dumb for wasting emotion on that asshole.
7
After a run into the store to get the snacks I intended to buy before my impromptu lunch, I point my car home. My phone chimes inside the pouch I'd tossed onto the passenger seat.
I frown at the display. A call from Morgan in the middle of the afternoon on a Saturday is unusual. Summer months are tourist-heavy, meaning multiple shows a day. The show she casts seems to have constant turnover.
"Morgan? Hey! Rough day?” I tuck the phone between my ear and shoulder, grab my bags, and head upstairs to my apartment.
Morgan sniffs. I freeze.
Morgan in tears is the worst sound on the planet. It takes a lot to make her cry. I want to claw someone's eyes out the moment that I hear tears in her voice.
I unlock my door and dump the bags on the kitchen counter, head to the living room, and drop to the couch.
“Honey, why are you crying?"
Sniffle. "My wedding. is going. to be ruined!"
"What? Who's ruining your wedding?"
"We asked you and Preston to do this one, simple thing–"
Confused, I sputter, trying to come up with a rebuttal. "Okay, it’s—it’s a little more than one simple thing, Morgan.”
"And you can't even do that!"
"What in hell are you talking about?"
I hear the muffled sounds of her blowing her nose, and then she comes back on the line. "Preston called Nate to tell him that he didn't want to help plan the wedding."
"Is this a joke? Are you pranking me?”
“We saw him last night. He said he planned to call you today about details. Today, he's out. What did you say to him?"
"Me? Why would you think I said something to him?"
"Because he was fine last night! Did you talk to him?”
“We had breakfast. We talked about the wedding, and locations and dates. We had plans to get on a call this week to hammer out some more details and book the venue. We got along fine. I don't know what climbed up his ass all of—”
Our conversation, the one where he ended up acting an ass and dumped me at the store, comes to memory. "Shit,” I hiss into the phone.
"What did you do, Angie?”
"I asked why he never moved away. He could have gone anywhere—New York with his uncle, or even Miami. He’d love the women there."
Morgan laughs, but it isn't a cheerful laugh. More of a ‘you motherfucker’ laugh. "You did not ask him that."
"What? Is that a forbidden question?"
She groans. "Evangeline Nicole Blake!"
I laugh at the use of my full name. I usually only hear that from my mother. "What?"
"You know why he's still here. Why he never left."
“I do? I’m psychic?”
She exhales, dee
p and loud and makes sure I hear her. “Preston made sure Wayne got hm a good job, but it had to be in Orlando. He didn’t want to go anywhere else because you’re here.”
"When did you join the church of Troy Reid? He's been preaching that Preston is in love with you sermon for years."
"Nate and I founded that church. Preston has loved you since junior high."
"And when we were in high school, we broke up. It took him all of a month to get over me and into some other girl. The end.”
"Not for him. You pretend not to see it."
My eye roll is so violent, I swear I can see yesterday. This is my life, an endless cycle of denial where Preston is concerned.
“I don’t pretend not to see shit. I look at what’s right in front of me. Don't you see how he treats me? You don't hear the shit he says to me?"
"In response to how you treat him and the shit you say to him. If you were nicer to him–"
“I don't want to be nice to Preston Reid! And I don’t have to be. I have no reason to be. And it's fine if he doesn't want to plan this wedding. You know he's making lists of the liquor he wants to buy and counting how many women he can fuck in seven days.”
Morgan is so quiet; I wonder if she's hung up on me. Then I hear a soft sigh, and she says, "That’s not going to work, Angie.”
“What do you mean, not going to work?”
“Nate and I don’t need a wedding. We’ll go to city hall and get it over with.”
“You can’t!” I screech. “Not after that three-hour conversation about your dream wedding, and I joined Tying the Knot, despite being nowhere near marriage, and I’ve had to spend time with Preston for your benefit. Fuck that. You cannot just go to city hall!”
“Watch me, Angie. I’m tired of this bullshit between you two. You can’t even do this one thing together and…” She sputters. “I—I don’t think I want you to be involved in the wedding anymore. I’ll pick a new Maid of Honor. Maybe Brandess has time to take over. Nate will probably ask one of his brothers to be Best Man since Preston is out.”
I almost drop the phone at this sudden declaration. I’m so shocked I jump up. “Excuse me, what? If we don’t plan the wedding, we can’t be involved at all?”
After a brief but thick-with-tension pause, Morgan brings down the hammer.
“Do you get it now, Angie? I don’t want you cutting eyes at Preston in my wedding photos. I don’t want bitching between you two at my rehearsal dinner. I don’t want to have to explain to a wedding planner that the Best Man and the Maid of Honor have been in a moronic eighteen-year fight, and that’s why they can’t sit next to each other at the reception.”
Morgan is ruthless.
I am speechless. Frustrated. Annoyed. I’m not the one that can’t seem to control themselves in these situations.
“What do you want me to do, Morgan? I’m not the one throwing a pissy fit.”
“I want you to fix it. Find out what’s up his ass and, I don’t know, apologize or something.”
“Apologize? For what? What am I supposed to say to him?”
“I don’t give a fuck what you have to say to him. Fix it.”
I speed past the sign for Preston’s posh subdivision on the calm waters of Lake Conway, a place that holds bittersweet memories for me.
Preston lives in a two-bedroom, two and a half bath townhome in a fully managed community that includes a pool complex, social center and state of the art gym. He wows the easily impressionable with his finely appointed home full of moderately priced finishes, fixtures, and furniture. What he doesn’t tell most people is that his uncle owns the place and while he pays rent, his rate is a steep discount.
I pull into the driveway and park next to a red CRV. At the front door and press the button for the doorbell. I hear the chimes, but don't hear footsteps shuffling down the tile in the front hall. Preston has company, so I know he’s home, but the house is shut up tight, blinds drawn to keep out the sun.
"Back here!"
I walk to the edge of the porch and poke my head around the corner. Preston is standing at the rear gate, his hand on the lock. His face registers surprise to see me, but it is quickly replaced by apathy.
"Come join the party," he says, flipping the latch and swinging the door open.
The back patio leads to a view of the lake and the forest on the other side. One corner houses the fire pit and comfortable seating around it. A stainless gas grill occupies another corner. Lounge chairs and glass-topped tables with brightly colored sun-blocking umbrellas are lined up and ready for a relaxing day. Inside a cabinet, a stereo system pipes music to in-ground speakers placed strategically around the patio.
I turn to see the perky waitress from Prime step out of the house, dressed in a bikini top and short jean cutoffs. If I had that body, I’d wear that too. Her hair is twisted in shoulder-length strands that frame her face much better.
"Oh. Hey." Her smile is not warm. "You're Preston's friend from the bar, right? Nice to see you again."
I am still in a tank top and yoga pants. I didn't care what I was wearing when I was at lunch with Preston, nor when I showed up and thought he was alone, but suddenly I feel frumpy.
“Angie is an old friend," Preston says, waving me further onto the patio. "This is uh..." His brow furrows for a second, while he tries to remember his guest's name.
"I need to talk to you,” I tell him. “It won't take long."
Preston takes a seat at one of the patio tables. The girl sits next to him and crosses her legs but angles herself toward him. I recognize this nonverbal cue. It's possessive. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up.
"Alone," I add, and head toward the sliding glass door that leads into the house.
I hear a sigh and, "I'll be right back. Make yourself at home."
I haven't been to Preston's house in a while, but it always looks the same—a formal living room with soft cream microfiber couches and light carpet, dark wood coffee tables, end tables and China cabinet; a den with supple butterscotch leather couches and chairs, and a flat-screen TV mounted above a glass stereo cabinet that holds all manner of electronics and several game consoles.
The kitchen fills with natural light during the day, made brighter by white granite countertops and stainless steel appliances. It’s clean except for a blender, a bottle of tequila, and a drink mix sitting out on the counter.
I stop in the kitchen and turn to Preston. He leans over the counter, taking a swallow of the bottle he has brought with him from the patio.
"What's up? I'm busy."
“Busy?” I chuckle, leaning a hip against the opposite counter. “With good old whats-her-name?”
He thinks for a moment, then perks up. "Jade. Her name is Jade."
"Of course, it is. Jade looks like a stripper."
“Just finished her master’s in Social Work. And she’s a damn good waitress. Not that it's any of your business."
"It sure isn't, thank God. She looks young."
Preston snickers. "Jealous?"
"Disgusted. She sees your fancy clothes and fancy house and wants some of your fancy money."
"Again, I ask... jealous?"
“Watch yourself, alright? You're not very discriminating."
"Obviously," he throws back. And I deserve that, walked right into it. "And you wouldn't know anything about how much I date if you weren't watching me so closely."
He swigs another swallow of beer and rambles. "I'm a young, virile, good looking Black man. I don't ever have to be alone if I don't want to be. And I don’t. The money's an extra benny. Besides…”
He pauses to rake his eyes up and down my body, then grin at me. “I didn't take a vow of celibacy, like some people.”
“I have done no such thing. Not that it's any of your business."
“Troy says you work day and night. When's the last time you went on a date?"
"Troy doesn’t—” I stomp a foot and inhale a deep breath, reviving my chant from weeks ago. I plant my hands on m
y hips in utter indignance. “I date! Maybe I don't tell your brother everything that goes on in my life."
“Angie,” he says, shaking his head with a derisive chuckle. "Chips and not cheese sauce and a session with your vibrator isn't a date. Or do you have one of those big, black, rubber Mandingo-”
"Shut the fuck up, Preston."
“Did I hit a nerve?"
"I didn't come here to talk about my sex life.”
"Or lack thereof.” He laughs, then has the decency to pretend to be contrite. “Alright, alright. I couldn’t resist. I was having a little fun. Why did you come here? You don’t come out to Lake Conway often.”
I brace my hands on the countertop and plant myself directly across from him. Face to face. No bullshitting. “You told Nate that you don't want to plan the wedding with me."
He nods. "Yep. I did.”
"Why?"
He presses his lips together, possibly holding in the answer he wants to say, but won’t let himself. “Because I don’t,” he finally says.
“We agreed that we would do this, Preston. We had a good conversation today, and we already decided where and when. And then you dropped out. Why?”
"What difference does it make? Why can't you and Morgan do this together? Why do I even give a shit about their wedding?"
"Morgan called me. Crying. Says we're ruining her wedding."
"And?"
"And that if we can't pull this off, they don't want us involved at all. We might not even get an invite. And we're kicked out of the wedding party."
Preston lifts and lowers his shoulders. “And? They've been together since they were six years old. We're supposed to move heaven and earth so that they can say some vows in fancy clothes? All this pomp and circumstance for two people that live together, share the same bank account, have each other’s names on their life insurance? They’re more married than my parents are.”
He huffs a breath in frustration. “They should go to the courthouse and get it done."
"She talked about doing that."
"Okay!” Preston spreads his long arms wide, still clutching a bottle in one palm. “Why can't we let them do that?"
