Two Wedding Crashers

by Meghan Quinn

  I sigh and place my hand over my brow, massaging my tense forehead. “He has different ideas for the future than I do. And what’s the point of getting my hopes up about a man I know I won’t be able to . . . fully give him what he wants?”

  “Kids.”

  She says it so upfront, so in your face, but that’s who she is. She’s never really been one to beat around the bush. She’s always straight to the point but shows empathy while doing it.

  “Yes, kids. He wants four, and you and I both know that ship has sailed.”

  With a deep breath, my mom takes my hand in hers. The soft, velvet touch of her thumb fans over the back of my knuckles, a common stroke I’ve grown accustomed to over the years. It’s gentle, sweet, reassuring, but also comes with her two cents.

  “Rylee, sweetie, the day you came home and told Dad and me about your cancer, and your options, I remember feeling utterly gutted. How could my child go through such a hardship? It’s the question that kept rolling around in my head, followed by the realization that you will never be able to carry a child like I carried you. But guess what?” She lifts my chin up. “None of that matters because you’re sitting here, with me, breathing in the same air as me. You’re living. You need to stop dwelling on what you can’t have and start living for what you can.”

  My eyes start to burn, tears welling up at my lids.

  “I love you so much, honey, but you’re stubborn as all get out. What I see in that man, when he looks at you, is true adoration. Like you’re the one who rises and falls with the moon and the sun every day. You’re the one bringing in the light, the humor, and the love in his life.” Tears begin to drip down my cheeks, and my mom wipes them away with her thumbs.

  “And if he’s anything like me, which I’m almost positive he is, he’s not going to care about a big family, or the tons of kids you can’t have. All he’s going to care about is the beating heart in your chest and the air you’re able to bring into your lungs. You’re alive and you make us happy. That’s all we ask for, all we want.”

  She stands and pats my cheek lovingly. “Now, it looks like he’s headed into Snow Roast with a bakery box in hand. You have two choices. You can sit here and cry, let your face get all blotchy and red, or you can go home, think about what you really want. What YOU want, and forget about everything else. You’ve been through enough for a lifetime, so it’s your turn to take what’s being offered to you.” But that’s the problem. I don’t know if the offer I want was ever on the table. He didn’t tell me he loved me. He didn’t tell me he wanted that family with me. They were his dreams. But if he’s here, what does that mean? Do I have any right to dream too?

  Biting on my lower lip to keep it from trembling, I take another deep breath and ask, “Do you really think he’ll want me? Just me, broken parts and all?”

  “I think he’ll do anything, and I mean anything, to have you in his life.” She squeezes my shoulder and says, “Now go on and get out of here. You don’t want him seeing you like this. Next time you run into each other, I want to make sure he sees that charming and beautiful smile of yours instead of your sorrowful tears.”

  Kissing me on the head, she helps me to my feet, gives me a brief hug, and sends me out the door. Could Beck really be happy with me and me alone? Dare I hope for that?

  I don’t leave the gallery and go home like my mom told me to, because why not be the girl with a splotchy face, oversized T-shirt, holey pants, and crazed hair who crouches down behind a mail box and watches for the man she loves to walk out of the coffee shop?

  Who doesn’t want to be that girl?

  She’s popular.

  She’s in with the hip crowd.

  She is by no means desperate or crazy, or nasty to poor Mrs. Braverman, who asked for privacy when putting her mail in the box.

  “It’s mail for fuck’s sake,” I yelled, taking the mail from her and shoving it down the hole in one giant swoop. “It’s not like I’m looking over your shoulder in the voting booth. Now scram, I’m spying.”

  Not my finest moment.

  Honestly, I don’t think I’ve had many fine moments lately.

  And I blame Beck. He’s driven me to the looney bin.

  Legit, I am certifiable right now.

  I realize that as I grip the mailbox, talking to it about the troubles of Beck living in this town, making friends with all the locals and barely speaking to me.

  Want to send someone straight to the insane asylum? Pull a Beck Wilder.

  “I mean, what is he really doing here? For so long? And where is he staying? It’s tourist season, which means the bed and breakfasts and inns are booked up.”

  I stroke the mailbox with my thumb, the blue paint rubbing off the metal. “Have you heard anything around the street? You know, since you’re in the thick of things?”

  I steady my breathing, half expecting the mailbox to respond to me in my state of delirium.

  “Nothing? Not even a little gossip? For someone who has access to everyone’s mail in this town, I would have—”

  I pause as the coffee shop door opens.

  I hold my breath.

  Just as Mrs. Braverman pops out holding a cup of tea.

  “God damn you, Mrs. Braverman. She’s always getting in the way.” She looks both ways before crossing the street and heads toward the harbor, most likely to stare at all the tourists and “accidentally” trip them with her cane.

  She’s not fooling me. I know her game.

  I turn my attention back to the coffee shop just in time to see Beck step outside and hold the door open, Victoria following beside him.

  What?

  Beck wraps his arm around Victoria’s shoulder with the arm that’s carrying the bakery box. She smiles up at him and laughs at something as they casually walk together down the sidewalk toward the gallery.

  “That harlot,” I seethe, gripping tightly onto the mailbox, watching their every move.

  Why are they so chummy?

  My mind mulls this over as they reach the gallery and say their goodbyes. I see Victoria say something like, “See you at home” but that seems . . .

  “Gah!” I spring from my crouched position just as Victoria gets to my trusty mailbox. “You’re sleeping with him?” I point my finger accusingly, jumping in her face and causing a scene right there on the sidewalk.

  “Sweet Christ!” Victoria holds her chest and pants heavily. “What in the hell are you doing hiding behind a mailbox? Have you completely lost it?”

  “I don’t know, maybe.” I fold my arms over my chest. “Maybe I have lost it. Maybe I’m on the verge of a total and complete mental breakdown, because my best friend, my bosom buddy, my very own frolicsome crony is sleeping with my boyfriend. Care to explain the sexual tension you have going on with Beck?”

  Adjusting the height of her turtleneck to hide the redness in her skin from embarrassment, Victoria lowers her voice and says, “I don’t believe this is a conversation to have out in the open, on the streets.”

  “Oh, we’re having this conversation, right here, right now.” I point my finger to the ground, but Victoria doesn’t listen, and instead turns the corner between two buildings and whispers for me to follow her.

  Rolling my eyes, I duck away with her and lean against the brick while chewing on pretend gum I don’t have, I don’t know why, probably because I’m a crazy person. With my arms crossed over my chest, I say, “Explain yourself.”

  Straightening her dress, she puffs her chest and says, “First of all, last I knew, he wasn’t your boyfriend.”

  “I knew it. You’re dating him, aren’t you?” I didn’t know it actually, but I’m just that crazy to conjure up such thoughts. That’s what happens when you’re a creative being. The simplest answer is never the one that comes to your head.

  Victoria wouldn’t do that to me.

  Oh, there you are, finally. I finally hear from the logical brain instead of the crazed brain. Since when do I have two brains? Is that normal? I thought
there was only a left brain and a right—

  “No, and I would appreciate it if you wouldn’t think so low of me to think I could date the man you’re obviously in love with.”

  I’m going to blow right past the L-word comment and keep moving on. “Then what were you guys talking about? Why are you going to see him at home?”

  Without blinking an eyelash, Victoria says, “Because he’s been staying with me for the past week, that’s why.”

  “Judas!” I scream and throw my hands in the air.

  “Oh for crying out loud.” Victoria shakes her head and starts to walk past me. “You know, Rylee, there are a lot of people who love you, who want nothing more than for you to have everything you deserve.” Facing me, she steps close, inches only separating us. “It would behoove you to treat the people who love you with a little more respect, especially since they’re the ones helping the man who is head over heels in love with you find a way to be the man you want.”

  And just like that, Victoria metaphorically drops the mic and takes off down the street, making me feel like the biggest asshole in the world.

  Hmm . . . maybe it’s because I am the biggest asshole in the world.

  But who uses the word behoove anyway?

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  RYLEE

  A week.

  Beck has been in my small town one week, making friends with the locals, becoming ever-so popular with the Knightly brothers, yucking it up with Mrs. Braverman while feeding pigeons in the park, and telling jokes to the elders at the corner store where they gather for their morning meetings.

  I’ve seen him everywhere.

  And yet, he hasn’t come to talk to me. Is he waiting for me to approach him? Does he want me to approach him?

  From everything I’ve heard from my parents and friends, and maybe from a quick check-in with Mrs. Braverman—the old coot—he seems to be talking about me to everyone. So why isn’t he talking to me?

  It’s . . . devastating. Seeing him here, seeing that handsome smirk of his, those brilliant eyes, his enigmatic presence. It’s a reminder of everything I gave up, everything I walked out on. Everything I will never have.

  I see that now. I’m not that stubborn. I can admit when I’m wrong. I got scared, and instead of sticking around to work things out, I was that dumb girl who ran. But I’m human. I’m not perfect by any means.

  I have my faults.

  I have my demons.

  And unfortunately, as strong as I try to be, they still affect me. They still drive me to do stupid things. They still cause me to hide.

  It’s human nature. It’s me.

  I wish I was stronger.

  Scanning my emails, I open one from my cover designer and check out the mock-ups for my next release, studying them intently while sipping tea.

  His hand looks weird like that, like it’s broken.

  Whoa, too many pubes. I don’t mind a few strays, but the bush police would write up this picture for sure.

  Is that . . . a third nipple? Well, don’t we have ourselves a beautiful unicorn?

  Knock, knock.

  I look to my front door that’s open, the screen door offering a light breeze to pass through the small holes.

  Zoey is standing there holding a bag.

  “Why are you knocking? Come in,” I call out, pushing my glasses back on my nose and studying the third nipple that’s entirely too fascinating to me.

  There is another knock. I glance up, and Zoey continues to stand there.

  “Oh for fuck’s sake.” I stand from my table and walk to the entryway, opening the screen door with a slight creek in the hinges. “Zoey, why—?”

  She hands me the bag and then walks away.

  “What is happening?” She doesn’t say anything, just continues to walk toward Main Street.

  Looking at the bag, I let the door shut, clanking against the doorjamb. I open the tissue paper and spot a bag of coffee on the bottom.

  Okay.

  I pick it up and roll it over finding a Post-it Note.

  This is my favorite brew at Snow Roast. Not too rich, but very smooth. – Beck

  My stomach drops, my pulse picks up, and my hands start to sweat. I look back at the door and notice Art approaching with another bag.

  I set the coffee down and go to the front door, and before he can knock, I open it. Without a word, he hands me another bag with a wink.

  I go back to my counter and open it up. At the bottom is a plastic container full of soup. I read the note.

  You probably already know this but The Lighthouse Restaurant has amazing lobster bisque, like orgasmic level. But did you know if you ask for their secret cheese sauce on top it brings the soup to an entirely different level? It’s my favorite. – Beck

  Secret cheese sauce? What? How didn’t I know about this?

  I’m about to rip the top off the soup and heat it up when there’s another knock at my door. It’s my dad.

  “Hi, Dad.” I open the screen door only for him to hand me a bag as well. He leans over and kisses me on the cheek and then takes off.

  My eyes start to well up when I bring the bag to the counter.

  Inside is a rolled-up newspaper. Today’s paper . . . with a note.

  The Port Snow Observer is my favorite thing to read in the morning. It’s not like a normal newspaper giving you the gloom and doom of the week. It speaks of Tommy Hornbuckle’s high-scoring game at Pee Wee football. It shares Martha Gillroy’s banana bread recipe, and it speaks of the quirky tourists that are spotted every day. It’s intimate and perfect, and I love picking it up and talking to the town elders every morning. – Beck

  I shake my head. The Port Snow Observer is by far the weirdest newspaper, but he’s right, it’s intimate, and one of the reasons why I try to read it at least once a week, if not for a laugh.

  There is another knock at the door. Griffin. I raise my brow and open the door.

  Just like everyone else, he hands me a bag and takes off, a huge smile on his face.

  This bag feels heavier, and I have a feeling I know what it is. When I see the red and white packaging, my suspicions are right.

  I’ve spent far too long testing the fudge at Lobster Landing but I’m here to say, the original is my favorite. There I said it. It’s out in the universe. P.S. The abs have taken a hit from the fudge, but they’re still there, don’t worry. – Beck.

  I snort-laugh, a stray tear falling down my cheek that I quickly wipe away. The original is to die for actually and probably goes unappreciated with all the different flavors offered.

  Knock, knock.

  My mom? I don’t think I’ve ever seen her so happy. She’s standing at the door, holding a canvas and smiling big. Going to the door, I open it and she hands me the canvas, my heart rate really picking up, my breath starting to become slightly labored. My mom presses a kiss on my cheek briefly and whispers, “He’s a very good man, Rylee.”

  Then she leaves.

  I take the canvas to my dining room table and set it down carefully. It’s wrapped in paper with a note on the top.

  I’ve been all around this town, soaking it in, taking in every passerby, every local, every popular sightseeing spot marked cleverly by the tourism board. And I’ve come to find one particular spot that grabs my attention, one place in this town that I can stare at all day and be completely and utterly content. This is my favorite spot to sit and watch the view in Port Snow. – Beck.

  With shaky hands, I carefully take the brown paper off the front and bring my hand to my chest when I take in the picture in front of me. A gasp on my lips, I press my fingers lightly against Beck’s signature strokes and colors.

  It’s the coffee shop, neon pinks and greens and oranges making up most of the picture. But there in the window is a distinct figure with black hair sitting in front of a computer.

  It’s me.

  I don’t even know what to say.

  He’s already stolen my heart, but this . . . this . . .
r />   Knock, knock.

  I whip around to see Victoria standing at my door with a suitcase at her side. Wiping away my tears, I open the door for her only to hand me the handle of the suitcase and take off.

  “Victoria, wait.” She pauses and turns. “I’m sorry about the other day. I’ve been a little . . . lost.”

  Her face softens and she nods. “I love you, Rylee.” With a small smile, she walks away but says, “Open the top zipper.”

  Not bothering to put the suitcase on a surface, I move it to the side of my entryway, and open it up, fumbling with the zipper in the process. On the very top is a note. Picking it up, I snag a black V-neck T-shirt in process and bring it to my nose where I take a small sniff. The smell of Beck’s cologne floods my senses, soothing my shaking bones.

  I read the note, Beck’s shirt pressed against my heart.

  Did you know if you forget to rinse one of Victoria’s forks after eating eggs, she begins to lose her damn mind? Yeah, she kicked me out, but I’m kind of hoping I’ll be able to stay for a while at my favorite house in Port Snow. What do you say? – Beck

  I wipe away a tear and look up to my door only to find Beck standing behind the screen, hands in his pockets, smiling. It’s like he’s been here this entire time, waiting for me. Waiting for me to see him.

  Leaving his shirt in his suitcase, I rush to the door and open it, disregarding my not-so attractive loungewear. The minute the screen door opens, Beck’s eyes meet mine, and I can’t do anything but step into his embrace and rest my head on his chest. His arms wrap around me, tight and strong, and his lips find the top of my head, loving and warm.

  “Hey Saucy.”

  “Hey you.” I snuggle closer, gripping his grey T-shirt firmly. I never want to let him go.

  “Mind if I come in?”

  Glancing at him, his light smirk greets me and I melt. How did I ever think I could say goodbye to this man? How did I convince myself being away from him was smart, that is was the best decision for the both of us?

  Because right now, I’m one hundred percent sure we are two lost souls searching for each other, and we happened to meet in paradise.