You May Kiss the Bridesmaid

by Camilla Isley

  The rumble of the bike underneath my thighs shakes me away from any wishful thinking, grounding me to the present. The second he twists the accelerator, I gladly take the excuse to wrap my arms around his waist and hold on as tightly as I can. His back is broad and hard and warm, and I want to keep hugging him like a baby koala for the rest of my life.

  We exit the resort at walking speed, but once we’re on the open road, Archie opens the gas, and the engine roars in response, tires skidding on the concrete. The bike’s rumble is powerful; maybe too loud, too in your face, just like its owner, and I love it. I love the vibrations crawling up from my legs to my upper body. I love the speed. The sensation of flying. And I’m afraid I might be a tiny bit in love with the driver as well.

  A steep turn in the road makes my stomach drop and my focus shift as Archie bends the bike closer to the ground, then straightens it up again in a split second. I close my eyes, tightening my embrace, and hope this ride will never end.

  Archie works the clutches, making the bike gather even more speed, again giving me the perfect excuse to tighten my grip on his waist. In response, one of Archie’s hands moves onto mine and gives a gentle squeeze before he has to get it back on the handle. A small gesture, but one that makes my chest swell with opposite sensations: warmth and sadness. Wonder, at how attentive this man can be. How sweet. While also being hot and manly and a bad biker boy. And hopelessness, at the waste of him refusing any long-term attachment. Archie would be an amazing partner. If only he gave it a chance… And, oh my gosh, here I go again, trying to turn him into something he’s not. Wanting to mold him to my expectations, when he’s a free agent and has never claimed any different.

  Summer, I give myself another pep talk, you gotta live in the moment, girl. ’Cause that’s all you’re gonna get.

  I must focus on enjoying the ride. The intimacy the bike affords us. Physical, for how close our bodies touch, and emotional, for the trust I have to put in him, surrendering all control. That’s how it’s been with Archie from the start. I might’ve set some stupid rules, but he’s been the one in charge since he promised to make me forget my name that first night.

  The plan succeeded. But at what price? What will it take to forget him?

  Green country sweeps by, and I wish we could exist in this suspended universe forever, where there’s only him and me on a bike. Our bodies so close they might’ve been fused. My heart pounding faster and faster, jacked up on adrenaline at every turn, incline, and acceleration Archie makes. If this is what flying feels like, I wish humans were born with wings.

  But all too soon, we reach our destination. Archie parks in the brewery parking lot, and I let go of his chest as fast as if I’d been electrocuted. The daydream is over; now we’re back to reality, to a world where in two days we’ll say goodbye to each other for good. I’d better remember that and keep reminding myself: enjoy the time you have left, but start distancing yourself.

  I hop off the bike and begin the act. Like a person without a care in the world, I unhook my helmet and hand it to him, saying, “That was amazing.”

  Archie smiles, removing his helmet. And I have to suppress the instinct to run my fingers through his hair to flatten it out. Right now it’s deliciously disheveled, sticking out in all directions.

  “You were a dream passenger,” Archie says, after securing both helmets to the bike. He comes close to me and pokes my nose. “Not a wobble in you.”

  Ah, because he has no idea how precarious my knees feel right now. Wobbly doesn’t begin to cover it.

  He rises a bent elbow, offering it to me. “Shall we?”

  I nod, link our arms, and follow him inside the brewery.

  The visit, and the two pints of beer, relax the tension between us. But at lunch, Archie spaces out again. As if his mind was a million miles away from our conversation. That’s when there’s any talking happening at all. At times, silences stretch for longer than I’m comfortable with, and whenever I ask him questions, most of Archie’s answers are short and of the yes or no kind. And he never asks me anything.

  Once we’ve made our order—we’re in a French bistro in Yountville—I can’t take the weirdness any longer and finally ask, “Are you sure you’re okay? Did something my sister tell you freak you out?”

  Archie stares at me. And his gaze is present and not the least detached when he asks, “Did you really freeze your eggs?”

  Seventeen

  Summer

  I’m going to kill my sister. Strangle her. Drown her in confetti.

  I want the ground to open and swallow me whole. Or, better, I want a meteor to fall from the sky and obliterate us. I wish lightning would strike our table, even if we’re sitting under a porch and it’s not even raining. Or for the San Andreas fault to finally get a move on and bring The Big One. Because anything, anything would be better than having to answer this question.

  I cover my face with my hands and peek at him from between my fingers. “I can’t believe she told you that.”

  Archie makes a cute frown, a cross of amused and embarrassed. Then he reaches for my hands and gently lowers them to the table. “Why? It isn’t a bad thing.”

  “It’s very personal,” I say. “Why did you bring it up?”

  Archie sighs. “These last few days… we had fun, didn’t we?”

  Fun isn’t supposed to be a negative word, but I’m seriously starting to despise it. What does fun mean in his head? The constant uncertainty makes me snap, “Yeah, a blast. Only two days left; we’d better enjoy ourselves.”

  I take a long sip of wine.

  “That’s not what I meant,” Archie says. I can tell he’s struggling to find the right words. “What I wanted to say is that I enjoyed being with you…” Loaded pause. “Honestly, more than I enjoyed being with anyone else in the past.” I hate my heart for the leap it does in my chest. “And I was wondering if we could… maybe… uhm… see each other even after the wedding is over.” My treacherous heart keeps soaring into the air. “But then your sister…”

  My heart is at that point in mid-air where it has to come down from its jump, and Archie’s last comment makes it lose focus and balance, and the poor organ ends up going down in an uncontrolled fall until it splatters on the floor of my rib cage.

  “But then my sister brought frozen eggs into the picture, and it all became a bit much?” I suggest.

  “Yeah, I mean, no. Not exactly. What do the frozen eggs mean? If it’s okay for me to ask. You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.”

  Too late for that. My sister showed all my cards, so I might as well play my hand. “I won’t go into technical details,” I say, trying to lighten the mood. “But the gist of it is that after thirty-five a woman’s fertility drops—”

  An embarrassed cough behind me makes me stop. A server is hovering next to our table with two plates in his hands. I lean back in my chair and give him space to set the appetizers down. He does, and once he’s at a safe distance, I don’t even pretend I’m interested in my food.

  “In short,” I continue, “I’m cheating biology to give myself more time to have kids.”

  “More time.” Archie looks like he’s digesting this information. He picks up his fork and moves Brussels sprouts around on his plate. “But you definitely want kids?”

  “Not tomorrow, but one day, yeah, I want to have kids.”

  “And to get married.”

  Gosh, my sister really put the heavy load on him.

  “Yes,” I say, working hard not to grit my teeth. He’s making marriage and kids sound like dirty words or something. “If I were in a relationship, it would have to be with someone who’s on the same page about having a family, eventually. I’m in no rush, but that’s the end goal for me.”

  Archie looks up at me, a death sentence in his eyes. “I don’t know if I want kids.”

  And there it is, the ugly truth my sister has forced us to reveal to each other sooner rather than la
ter. The San Andreas fault might as well have opened in the middle of our table, putting us on separate ridges, because we’ve never been so far apart.

  “Okay,” I say, swallowing a glob of sorrow. Then I shrug in a “So what?” way. “Guess we’ll have to stick to the plan, then, and say goodbye on Sunday.”

  I’ve lost all appetite, and the idea of riding back to the resort on Archie’s bike makes my stomach churn even more. I throw my napkin on the table and get up, saying, “I need to use the restroom.”

  Instead, I walk out of the restaurant and call a cab. Once I’m safely inside and out of Archie’s reach, I text him.

  Sorry, I couldn’t stay

  This was a mistake

  Archie never texts back.

  ***

  I spend half the afternoon crying while taking a bath, and the other half crying while watching a marathon of One Tree Hill on TV. The teen show with its high emotions helps me mourn my own love story that will never be.

  I want to be with Archie; every fiber in my body yearns for it.

  But he’s not relationship material.

  No, that’s not true or fair. The only problem here is that the man isn’t playing for keeps, because if he were, he’d be a fantastic boyfriend. Archie is kind and attentive when the situation calls for it, but also knows how to lighten the mood with a joke when things aren’t that serious. He has had many women, but I bet that if he picked one as his forever and ever, he’d be loyal till the end of times. As a partner, he’d be solid, generous, reassuring, frigging hot, fun to be with, interesting, challenging, protective, but not asphyxiating, full of life, amazing in bed.

  Archie would make an exceptional father, too. I could picture him being his kids’ hero. Being the kind of dad who builds a treehouse in our backyard. Because we’d be the kind of family with the white fenced house, the cat, and three kids, two boys and a girl.

  And I’ve crashed into fantasyland again. I’d better rein in my imagination. No part of this dream of mine will ever happen. Maybe five, ten years from now when he’ll be ready. But that won’t happen by Sunday, not with me.

  Wrong timing.

  Story of my life.

  I hate it.

  Eighteen

  Summer

  Tomorrow’s lunch will be held on the beautiful lawn behind the estate, but tonight is too cold to dine outside, so the rehearsal dinner has been moved indoors.

  Standing signs engraved with Spencer & Knowles Rehearsal Dinner point to a spacious room I haven’t seen yet. This must be the space the resort uses for indoor receptions when it rains or is too cold. The salon is next to the breakfast hall and mirrors it, two halves of the same pie. A nice choice for indoor events. The faraway glass wall provides a beautiful view of the lit vineyards even at night, and the outside patio is decorated with strung fairy lights, adding even more romance to the atmosphere. The only thing I wouldn’t necessarily like for a wedding is the carpeted floor. Its intricate leaves and flowers pattern is not bad per se, but it’s a strong reminder we’re in a hotel and not a magical place lost in a fable somewhere.

  I’m so absorbed in my observations, I don’t notice Archie coming my way until he’s standing right in front of me.

  “Can we talk?” he asks.

  I’m not ready for the ambush, and I’m tempted to flee again but can’t see a way out. Instead, I use attack as the best defense.

  “There’s nothing left to say.”

  His eyes widen. “Are you mad at me?”

  “Yes, I’m mad at you. And I don’t want to talk to you, especially not where everybody can hear.”

  Archie purses his lips. “Let’s move somewhere else, then, but we’re going to talk now.”

  I oblige him, mostly because other guests are streaming into the room and I want to avoid making a scene.

  He pushes the patio doors open and I follow him outside.

  We walk away from the French windows so the people inside won’t be able to spot us, and, as soon as we turn the corner, Archie crowds my personal space. “Explain to me how in this scenario you get to be mad at me.”

  “You didn’t text me back,” I reply, irrationally mad.

  “I didn’t text—” He scoffs, shakes his head. “You left me in a restaurant mid-meal, making me look like a complete ass.”

  Is that what he cares about?

  “Sorry if I embarrassed you. Don’t go back to that restaurant and you’ll be fine.”

  “I don’t give a damn about the restaurant people. You walked out on me,” he accuses.

  True, I did, but… I say the next part aloud. “Sorry, but I couldn’t sit there and listen to you tell me how this is never going to work. How we’re never going to happen. I just couldn’t.”

  “Yeah? And what would a text have solved?”

  “Nothing, you’re right. This situation is unsolvable. But don’t worry, come Sunday, you’ll be free to go back to banging an endless stream of women. Hell, you can start tonight for all I care.”

  I make to walk away, but Archie gently grabs me by the elbow. “Don’t walk away again.” The phrase comes out as half a plea and half an order.

  I yank my arm free. “Why? You’ve made it clear where you stand.”

  “Really? Because I’ve no idea myself. Why don’t you explain it to me?”

  I turn back to him, the irrational rage of a few seconds ago gone. It’s sheer pain that makes my breath shallow as I speak next. “I want commitment, and you want the opposite of that. We’re like a square peg and a round hole. No matter how hard we try, we’ll never fit together.”

  Archie stares at me, at a loss for words. I want him to deny it. To say I’m wrong. That we can be together. But his mouth stays inexorably shut while his eyes search mine in a panic. Whether it’s fear of losing me or of being tied down to me forever, I can’t say. And I’ve had to deal with too many shitty situations in my life to follow another unicorn.

  So, I walk away.

  This time, he lets me.

  ***

  Throughout the entire rehearsal dinner, I push the food around on my plate without trying more than a few bites. My wine glass, on the other hand, empties and gets refilled much quicker so that by the time the dessert arrives, I’m very tipsy. In my alcohol-induced semi-euphoria, I stop seeing why being with Archie would be wrong. Suddenly, the prospect of having sex with him tonight becomes much more attractive. So, when everybody begins to mingle and walk around the room, I get up as well, bringing my unfinished glass of wine with me. I wait for Archie to be alone by the pastry station—there’s a mini-desserts and fruit buffet—to saunter up to him.

  “My room or your room?” I ask.

  His eyes widen. “What?”

  “I want to have sex. Should we do it in your room or mine?”

  Archie frowns at the glass in my hands. “How much did you have to drink?”

  I shrug. “A few glasses.”

  “You’re drunk.”

  “Am not. I want sex.”

  “You’re in no position to make that decision tonight.”

  “Want to discuss positions? Okay, I’m game. Up for something we haven’t tried yet?”

  “I’m taking you to bed.”

  I roll my eyes. “Finally.”

  Archie tries to take the glass from me, but I snatch my hand away before he can grab it. The red liquid inside sloshes dangerously close to the rim, but stays in—mostly. I watch, mesmerized, as a few droplets fly out and land on the carpet, disappearing into the intricate pattern.

  “What’s happening here?”

  I look up from the floor to find my sister standing next to us, a fake, let’s-keep-up-appearances smile plastered on her lips.

  “She’s drunk,” Archie says, just as I say, “We were about to go have sex.”

  All pretend politeness washes out of my sister’s face as she glares at Archie. “You wouldn’t—”

  He stops her before she can contin
ue. “No, exactly, I wouldn’t. I’m bringing your sister to her room to sleep. And that’s it. You know me better than that.”

  Winter gives him another hard, this-is-all-your-fault stare, but nods.

  While I’m distracted, Archie successfully removes the glass from my hands and steers me toward the exit door.

  I turn my head over my shoulder and wave at my sister. “Nighty, nighty.”

  In my room, Archie undresses me until I’m stripped down to my underwear. I try to kiss him, but he fends off my attacks, his superior height proving determinant.

  Then he picks me up as easily as if I were a child and deposits me in bed, tucking me under the covers. I tap the space next to me in what I hope is a seductive move.

  Archie obliges me and sits on the bed, but dressed and above the sheets, I note.

  Still, this position allows me to hug him.

  “Come on,” I say, wrapping my arms around his torso. “What are you waiting for? I want sex.”

  “You’re tired,” he murmurs in a soft voice, stroking my hair.

  “I’m not,” I reply, even as a treacherous yawn escapes my lips.

  Archie’s chest is moving in a rhythmic, soothing motion underneath me, and his hand is working magic on my scalp. Gradually, my eyelids begin to droop, and I close them just for a second… I only need to rest for a moment, and then we… I never finish that thought as sleep takes me over.

  Nineteen

  Summer

  The next morning I wake up with the shrill sound of the room telephone piercing my eardrums. I roll over and scramble to grab the receiver.

  “Hello?”

  “Good morning, Miss Knowles,” a polite female voice says. “This is your wakeup call.”

  “I didn’t set up a wakeup call.”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry, Miss Knowles. Let me check our records.” After a brief pause, the woman talks again. “It shows here your sister requested the call.”

  “Okay, thank you.”