by Piper Lennox
“I’ll take care of it, Aunt Dana. Thanks for letting me know.”
The aunt gives her a sort of “poor dear” smile before shuffling off.
“When I come back,” she says to me, shifting her clipboard to her other hip, “that jar had better be gone.”
I bow at the waist. “As you wish, Juliet.”
The lights dim while a love song tumbles from the speakers. I think I see her smile again, but she’s gone too fast to tell.
You tried, I tell myself.
Which is laughable, because it implies I’m done trying. This night is far from over.
2
Finally: the home stretch.
This wedding—an entire year of planning, enduring bridesmaid drama, choosing color swatches, and spending money I don’t have—will end in precisely sixty minutes. Hallelujah.
“Juliet, sweetheart!” Another of my aunts and cousins intercepts me on my way to the bar for my first drink of the night: I’ve been too busy to get more than a single sip of champagne, consumed at the end of my maid of honor speech. I’d kept it sweet and short, referencing how Marco was my blind date first (just self-deprecating enough to be funny, rather than pathetic), and concealed my tears as I toasted my baby sister to a life full of love. The second the champagne touched my lips, though, another tiny crisis needed my attention, then another.
So here I am. Sober and exhausted, a dead-eyed shell in the itchiest dress ever brought into existence. But sober definitely takes the cake. I’m at the end of my aquamarine rope.
Whatever happens next, I order myself, leave it alone. Drama will fix itself. Signs will get righted. Guests can find their own damn way to the bathrooms.
“Glad to see you guys!” I hug both of them, my cousin’s lip gloss leaving a mark on my cheek as she kisses it.
“Viola told us you made all the signs?” My aunt motions around the room. At every turn, there’s a schmaltzy quote in my handwriting.
“Um, yeah, that was me.” My modesty is almost entirely feigned. Truth be told, I did a hell of a lot more than the signs. Every rose-gold thrift store find was hunted down, cleaned, and spray-painted by yours truly. Every ribbon on every chair: me. Every vase of faux peonies and baby’s breath: me. The signature drink ideas, the birdcage card box, the balloon arches and flip-flop box, every Pinterest-perfect detail: me, me, me.
Still, I’m surprised Viola thought to mention it to someone. She tends to take my help for granted. And why shouldn’t she? I’m always there, always willing. For as long as she can remember, I’ve been the one to count on for everything, big or small. But usually big.
I thank them as their compliments continue, all the while bracing myself for the question I know, without even one molecule of doubt, is next:
“So, two out of three Brooks sisters off the market! When’s your big day?”
Lucky for them, we’re blood. I’m not sure I could resist cursing at complete strangers.
“Soon,” I say, with a good-natured smile. Nobody likes a poor sport. “Just the minor detail of finding a groom.”
They laugh, oblivious to my tense goodbye hug, and wave their way back to their seats.
“What can I get you?”
I blink at the bartender. “Sorry. Um...vodka pineapple. Double.” He throws it together with a sympathetic kind of smile: we’re both staff, not guests, when you get right down to it. But at least he’s getting paid.
The drink is way stronger than I ordered. For just a second, I see the benefit of tip jars at a wedding.
Outside, the weight of this party feels bearable. Springtime in these parts means hot days and chilly nights, and I’ve caught the glorious equilibrium that happens right before sunset.
My father stands at the far end of the lot, rifling through his truck; he’s in charge of the fireworks show for Viola and Marco’s big exit. At least that was one favor Viola couldn’t ask of me. Nobody does fireworks like Dad.
“Juliet, there you are.”
Great. What vicious-with-good-intentions relative is going to rub salt in my wounds now?
When I turn, I’m face-to-face with the cotton candy guy.
“Oh...hey. What’s going on?” Instantly, I check for a place to set my drink. Of course something would go wrong the minute I step out. And of course I’d still feel like it’s my responsibility to fix it. I need my head checked. Bad.
“Nothing.” He tilts his head with a funny smile. “Man, you are wound tight.”
I shut my eyes, embarrassed. “It’s been a long day.”
“In that case, let’s have a toast.” He holds up a beer. “To the last half-hour of receptions. It’s the best part, knowing it’s almost over.”
I have to nod. He’s completely, undeniably right.
We tap cups and drink, then sit on a retaining wall along the sidewalk. “Aren’t you on the clock?”
“Not anymore. Bride only paid for two hours.”
“So what are you still doing here?”
“Enjoying a few perks.” Again, he holds up his beer. “Figured I earned at least one. Especially since someone wouldn’t let me put out my tip jar.”
“Tacky is tacky.” I hide my smile with another swig.
The alcohol unleashes a heavenly burn through my chest. It’s already hitting me: besides some cotton candy, the only food I’ve had tonight is a single bite of chicken, savored right before another bridesmaid fight erupted in the bathroom. Breakfast and lunch weren’t much better, nothing but strawberries and Saltines in the bridal suite.
Note to self, I think. Whenever you get married, give your girls plenty of food.
We sit in silence and drink. When my cup’s empty, I push off from the wall and stumble, just a little.
“Whoa.” The guy holds my elbow to steady me. I look down at his hand, then his face. He lets go.
“I never introduced myself.” He sticks out his hand and takes mine without asking, like he might kiss it. Little that I know about him, I wouldn’t be surprised. “Cohen Fairfield.”
“Juliet Brooks.” We shake. I’m about to head inside and get a refill when I stop, turn, and study him.
“Fairfield?” I ask. For reasons I can only assume relate to the alcohol, I drift back to him and lean on the wall again. “Like that family that owns the Acre Hotel?”
“And the train station,” he adds, a hint of sarcasm in his voice. “No. I mean, yes, that family—but it’s my aunt and uncle who own everything. My mom went in the opposite direction: money is evil, live simply, raise the kids in a nudist colony, all that.”
I laugh, feeling more of my weight transfer to the wall. “A nudist colony. Right.”
“I’m serious. It was this little commune down south, kind of a trailer park. Filled with naked hippies.”
“You’re telling me,” I say, “your mother—a Fairfield daughter—raised you in a nudist trailer park.”
“You don’t believe me?”
“Not really, no.”
“I’ll prove it to you, one day.” He hooks his thumbs in his belt loops and leans back, legs stretched out, one ankle crossed over the other. One razored, dusty brown shock of hair falls onto his forehead. Now that I know he’s a Fairfield, I can find the traits his family’s been known for since our city was nothing but tobacco fields: perfect white teeth, squared jaw, and a charm you can’t ignore.
I also notice he’s rolled up the sleeves to his dress shirt, my ultimate weakness: that hint of muscle and power, wrapped up in formalwear.
“One day,” I repeat. “Awfully presumptuous of you.”
“Yeah.” He winks at me, eyeteeth glinting in the faded-rose light of the sunset. “That’s kind of my thing.”
“Your brother’s your boss? That must...suck.”
Juliet peers into her drink. It’s the third one, by my count, but I’ve had a few myself and can’t be sure. I press my leg closer to hers and watch the tips of her ears grow red. “It does, sometimes. Levi can be really critical.”
“Yo
u mean you don’t spin cotton candy to his high standards?” she teases, giggling to herself. I elbow her; she laughs even more.
“Heard a rumor about you tonight.”
“You did not.” She shoves my leg with hers, her laughter fizzling out to a hum. “What’d you hear?”
“That you used to date the groom.”
“Oh, my God, I did not ‘date’ the groom. Marco and I went on one blind date, then I introduced him to my sister precisely because I didn’t want to date him.”
“Giving your sister your rejects. That’s cold.”
“It isn’t like that. He and I just...didn’t have that spark. You know?”
In the last bit of light, I study her profile. There’s a softness to her features, now that she’s out of the wedding fray; her hair’s fallen from the pins on either side of her face. Her lips are full and relaxed from liquor. Suddenly, getting her out of that dress doesn’t seem so important. Just as long as I get to feel those lips on mine.
“Yeah,” I say. “I get that.”
“Marco and I are both twenty-six,” she goes on, “so everyone’s like, ‘Why wouldn’t they be together?’ because my sister’s only twenty. But that’s the thing. When you get past the age, it’s really obvious Viola and him have way more in common. They just have this....”
“Chemistry,” I finish, and she nods.
“Exactly. They make sense. They have the spark.” She laughs. “Though I definitely didn’t think they’d get engaged and move in together just a month later.”
The doors open. Everyone’s gathering to see the couple off: this party is ending with a literal bang.
“Those can’t be legal.” I motion to the man she pointed out as her father, when the first firework launches into the sky. We can barely see him; he’s crouched in a corner of the parking lot with the rest.
“They’re not entirely illegal,” she offers.
“Meaning…what? He’s got all the clearances and stuff, if the cops show?”
“I don’t know, honestly,” she chuckles. “But he does have some connections, if the cops show. He’s been in the fireworks business a long time.”
The next one launches. Guests part around the doors.
“I should get up there,” Juliet says, but I take her hand and pull her around the crowd, near the limo.
“Two people are already manning the doors for them. You don’t have to do everything, you know.”
“But—”
“Your sister would rather see your face at the end of this line than stuck behind a door. Let somebody else handle the details, for once.”
In the flash of the next firework, Juliet looks up at me. I expect her to be angry. Who the hell am I to tell her what to do, or what her sister wants? I don’t know either of them. Not after one night.
But she’s not mad at all. She’s simply quiet, blinking at me as the words sink in. She nods.
The fireworks pick up speed until the sky’s flooded with neon. There’s nothing to hear but blasts and cheers, while the bride and groom run through the crowd.
Her sister notices her before they climb into the limo. She waves and blows a kiss; Juliet waves back.
While the limo pulls away, the fireworks reach their finale: rapid-fire flashes and pops, the smell of gunpowder so thick it feels like it sticks to us.
Everyone’s watching the fireworks. I watch her.
Her face is glowing: first bright pink, then green and gold. I see tears on her cheeks and a breathless kind of movement to her chest. But she’s smiling.
Finally, the fireworks are spent; the limo’s taillights have vanished. Guests trickle back inside for their coats and purses, a few sprinting to their vehicles for a quick escape. Juliet and I linger there a moment before heading back to our wall.
“I’m sorry,” she sniffs, wiping the tears away with her palms. “I don’t know why I’m crying. I’m happy.”
“You guys must be really close. You looked more like a mom waving off a daughter than a sister. Your expression, I mean—not your age.” I cringe. Nice.
“Yeah,” she says softly. The way she toys with her earring clues me in: there’s a reason she only pointed out her father, before.
“Is your mom...not around?”
Juliet sits on the wall, same place as before. “She passed away when I was fourteen. I kind of raised my sisters, because they were only eight and nine, and Dad was working so much.”
A lot of things about her suddenly make sense. “That why you were running around all night?”
“Yeah. I just...have a really hard time telling my sisters no.”
My fingers find hers on the cool stone of the wall. That last bit of space, crossed. “I’m sorry.”
“Thank you. But it was a long time ago.”
“Doesn’t mean it stops hurting.” I duck my head to look at her, but she’s focused on the stack of plastic cups we’ve built at our feet. “I wasn’t saying sorry about your mom dying, though. I am sorry about that, but I meant the other thing. You having to step in and raise them. That’s so much pressure for a kid.”
There’s the quickest flash of relief on her face. Like all these years, she’s been waiting for someone else to say it.
It’s gone almost instantly, when she clears her throat. “It really wasn’t a big deal. But thanks.”
“They’re lucky to have you. Even if they take you for granted, sometimes.”
The sight of her smile—knowing I was the one to bring it back—gives me this rush not even alcohol can numb.
“So,” she whispers, swallowing as her hand turns in mine, “we’re two single people at a wedding. What do we do about that?”
I laugh and lean closer. She smells like perfume, citrusy and faded. There’s a speck of glitter on her nose, stuck there from her dress, and I stare at it while my hand frees itself and floats to her chin. Gently, I lift her face to mine.
“I’ve got a few ideas.”
3
Cohen’s lips against mine are like ice on a burn: relief so sweet, you’re in shock at how badly you needed it, skin hungry for it down to the bone.
On the wall, I feel like a brick. My limbs fumble and my head is waterlogged. But as soon as he pulls away and helps me to my feet, the world clears. My drunkenness transforms from an exhausted fog to that invincible, anything-is-possible-tonight feeling.
Right now, I’m not the Last Single Brooks Sister, twenty-six and loveless, good at knowing what everyone needs but me. I’m sixteen again, skirting the edge of a new crush like the warmest part of the tide.
“Where should we go?” He loops his arm around my waist as we make our way to the back lot, kissing and laughing and stumbling along.
“I don’t know.” I don’t care. I could fall into this shadowed grass with Cohen right now.
“I’ve got my van?”
Sober Juliet would call this a deal-breaker. Van hook-ups are lame at best and dangerous at worst. But Drunk Juliet—especially after a day like this one—just finds it funny. Here I am, about to embark on a fling with a cotton candy guy. He’s got his van. It’s hilarious.
“I’ve got a hotel room.” I’m still laughing as I pull up a ride-share app on my phone, fetched from my purse in the trunk of my car. The air smells like all those recycled barn wood signs I carted here, now abandoned in the event hall, nothing but cutesy touches the guests and even my sister will forget by tomorrow.
“Do you live out of town or something?” His disappointment is visible. Even Sober Me would find it adorable.
“No, I live downtown. But Viola wanted hotel rooms the whole wedding weekend, thinking it’d be a big fun party or something, so....”
“So you got hotel rooms,” he finishes, smiling like he kind of feels sorry for me.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m a pushover. But I did insist on getting my own room, no matter what my sister said.”
“Ballsy,” he quips. I shove him and laugh again, before he pulls me back for another kiss.
His lips are amazingly smooth, which makes me all the more self-conscious about mine; I’ve been biting them all day. If he notices, he doesn’t say anything.
“God, are you drunk?” He cracks up when I basically dive head-first into the back of the car. He climbs in after me.
“No.”
“Well, I’m drunk.”
I try to buckle my seatbelt and fail, the strap flying back and slapping me in the face. “Okay,” I sigh happily, as he takes it and buckles it for me, “I’m pretty damn drunk.”
The driver glances at us in the rearview. He looks annoyed, but we can’t stop laughing, can’t stop touching. I could run my hands down Cohen’s chest forever. “Where to, guys?”
I give him the address and sit back, my head against Cohen’s shoulder, both of us out of breath. The night feels like a tunnel stretching ahead of us. I have no idea where it will let out. I’m just happy to be here.
“I knew I’d get you, before the night was over,” Cohen whispers. The heat of his breath cradles my ear. I hear him swallow hard, twice, like he’s nervous.
Even so, his hands aren’t the least bit shy. He lifts the hem of my hideous dress and skims my thigh with his fingertips. When he touches me through my underwear, I stifle my plea for more.
His lips are gentle, pulling the top of my ear between his teeth like a delicate sheet of paper, but his touch between my legs is rough.
Incongruous, my drunken brain prompts. That’s the perfect word for Cohen Fairfield. Built like a man, muscles under dress shirts and khakis with a crease—but playful like some goofy teenager, spinning webs of sugar and offering the back of his van, of all places, to fuck a girl.
We aren’t as quiet or light on our feet as we think we are, creeping through the hotel lobby like kids opening a liquor cabinet. He touches me again in the elevator. I press my thigh against him, surprised at how much I find.
“Juliet,” he whispers, lips pushing harder into my neck. “God, I love saying your name.”
At my door, my hands fumble with the keycard. I scan the wrong side twice, then scan it too fast.
