by Holly Kerr
Perfectly Played
Holly Kerr
www.threebirdspress.ca
www.hollykerr.ca
Chapter One
Flora
I hate wearing heels.
Sometimes I think I’m the only woman alive who doesn’t appreciate the sleek sexiness of a nice Manolo Blahnik, or doesn’t melt a bit when I catch sight of the red sole of a Louboutin pump. But a wedding does seem like the place where heels are in order, so I got myself a pair. Nude, patent leather, with a peep toe and four-inch heels. Not stilettos but skinny enough.
Wearing these heels, I take four steps down the aisle of the tiny chapel and stumble. I will later say a loose thread from the well-worn carpet tripped me but at the time I know it’s because I can’t wear heels.
I do catch myself in time, giving a quick glance to see M.K. clap her hand over her mouth in horror. Ruthie, of course, laughs because she spends her days laughing. But Thomas…
Thomas looks annoyed. Peeved. Irritated.
I take a hesitant step and then another, wishing I had something to hang onto. A father’s arm would be best, but Dad is long gone. I’d even settle for one of my brothers to walk me down the aisle, but eloping to Las Vegas, not to mention the giant split between us, kind of puts a damper on that idea.
I could have had a lovely bouquet to hang on to, like the arrangement of creamy- white calla lilies and blue orchids I put together last month, but Thomas insisted he would look after the flowers.
“You work with the things every day,” he had said in his soothing voice, the one he uses when he thinks I’m stressing about something. “Let me do this.”
Now I’m walking down the aisle with a green leaf that M.K. pulled off a plant in the lobby scrunched in my hand. I’m a florist and my fiancé can’t remember to buy me flowers.
I take another step and another. I’m within arm’s reach, and it would be so nice if Thomas steps forward to meet me halfway. At least reach out a hand.
But he stands there with an expression of annoyance on his face. Why have I never noticed that Thomas loses his looks when he frowns? When the furrow between his eyes deepens, he becomes an old man. Or what he would look like when he was older. Older than me. Quite a bit older than me.
When I make the full stop, the expression of annoyance deepens to pissed off.
“Flora,” Thomas hisses, probably thinking I’ve stopped to say something. I used to be prone to stopping in the middle of the sidewalk or in Loblaws grocery store to loudly announce ideas or plans to everything in my vicinity. I have three brothers and I’m used to making myself heard.
But I haven’t done that in years, not since Thomas shushed me on the subway platform when I announced that I needed to go see The Lion King.
Thomas shushes me a lot.
M.K. and Ruthie stare at me from where they stand at the end of the aisle. Neither one of them hold out their hand to me either, although M.K. gives me an expectant nod. But I can’t move. I stand there not three feet from the place I’m supposed to be in to say “I do” to the love of my life.
Is he?
He didn’t buy me flowers.
He knows I wanted flowers at my wedding. I love flowers.
He’s never bought me flowers.
Suddenly the words are in my mouth like that little bit of bring-up I get when Thomas makes me drink a smoothie. “I can’t marry you.”
The words are drowned out by the “Wedding March” so I say it louder. “I can’t marry you.” This time the couple in the lobby can hear me.
“Flora, stop it.” There is no doubt that Thomas is frustrated. Annoyed, irritated, aggravated—there’s no sense going through the thesaurus because all the words are the same.
He is pissed.
And suddenly I don’t care.
“No.”
“Flora.” The way he says my name is a warning, a clear indication he’s angry. I’ve spent the past eight years doing all I can to avoid his anger.
I’m done now.
“I can’t do this,” I say. “I don’t want to marry you, Thomas. I thought I did, but I don’t. Not now. Not…ever.”
Thomas shakes his head, looking a bit like a wet dog forced to come in from the rain. “You wanted this. I was perfectly happy with how things were, but you wanted more. You always want more.”
“I deserve more.” I hold out my leaf, which left a green smear on my hand. “I deserve flowers.”
“This is because I didn’t get you flowers?”
“Oh, god, don’t start with the flowers with her,” Ruthie says under her breath.
Thankfully, Thomas ignores her. “Stop being a child, Flora.”
“I’m twenty-nine and have my own business. You’re the only one who thinks I’m a child.”
Someone finally moves and it’s the justice of peace, still holding his prayer book with both hands. “If the blessed event isn’t going to take place, I do have others that need the space.” He looks down his nose at me like this is a prank gone wrong.
“I can’t marry him,” I repeat. “I’m sorry, but I can’t. I thought I could; I thought it was what I wanted but now that I’m here and you’re standing there looking so annoyed with me and I don’t have any flowers that I—”
“Yes, we know, Flora,” M.K. says, stepping forward to take my hand. M.K. is always patient and calm except for when she isn’t. “You’re not going to marry him. We need to get out of here, then.”
“I don’t believe you!” Thomas erupts. “That’s it?”
The words I should say dry up in my mouth. “I can’t. I don’t know what else to say.”
“You’ve ruined everything.”
“No, I think that was you,” Ruthie says, reaching for my other hand.
With a final look of disgust, Thomas storms past us like I’m nothing more than a slow-moving pedestrian in his rush to get to work. “Jackass,” Ruthie says loudly. “Don’t let the door hit you in the ass on the way out.”
The three of us turn and watch Thomas disappear into the lobby. Then he’s gone.
“That’s it?” Ruthie asks.
“He’s gone,” M.K. marvels. I’m not imagining the relief in her voice.
“Ladies.” A glance over my shoulder shows the justice of the peace with a thunderous expression that no man of God should ever wear.
“Has he been paid yet?” Ruthie mutters.
M.K. squeezes my hand. “Let’s get out of here.”
Suddenly I have the urge to run, run away from the chapel and the justice of the peace and what is undoubtedly going to be on the top ten list of all-time worst days. Hiking up the dress I bought off the rack at Nordstrom for forty percent off, I run down the aisle to the lobby, with M.K. and Ruthie hot on my heels.
And then the toe of my shoe really does catch on a loose thread on the carpet, sending me careening right into a man standing in the doorway of the chapel.
“Jesus!” My face smashes into a broad back and I grab on to him to keep from falling.
“What the—?” He looks over his shoulder, yet another man annoyed with me. I get a glimpse of bright blue eyes and a well-trimmed beard the colour of fall leaves before I push away.
“Flora, come on! How could you not see him?” Ruthie is laughing as she rushes up, blonde braids dancing like crazed snakes. “He’s like the size of a tree.”
The man turns, towering over me by almost a foot. Tree indeed. “Are you all right?”
He looks nice, I think irrationally. Cute, especially with the beard.
Like it has a mind of its own, m
y hand reaches up and touches his cheek. My fingers trace his jaw line, the wiry, reddish hair softer than it looks.
His eyes widen. “What—?”
I gasp and drop my hand. “Get out of my way,” I demand. “I have to get out of here.”
He steps aside and I run down the street, with Ruthie and M.K. chasing after me.
Dean
In the eight days between Evelyn’s proposal and my arrival in Las Vegas, I’ve refused to let myself wonder if two years is enough time to spend with a person before getting married.
But Evelyn is already fifteen minutes late, and I can’t help but wonder.
Maybe a quickie wedding in Las Vegas isn’t the best idea.
That’s when I hear the shout. “Flora!”
Something barrels into my back, right below the shoulder blades, as hard as taking a pitch while up to bat.
“Jesus!”
A blonde in a white dress stumbles backwards and I reach out to her.
Two women rush up; one tall and solid with long braids, the other small and slight with swinging dark hair.
“Flora, come on! How could you not see him?” The tall and braided blonde laughs as she grabs the blonde.
“Are you all right?” The blonde has eyes the same shade of green as the grass in the outfield. I stare, fixated as she touches my face, smoothing my beard like I’m some kind of animal.
“What—?” She’s clearly upset, but that’s no reason to pet me.
Her eyes widen when she realizes what she’s doing and she drops her hand. “Get out of my way” she demands. “I need to get out of here.”
Amazed, I step to the side and she brushes by me without another word.
“What was that?” Clay asks as he hurries to my side.
I cup the cheek she touched. “I was standing there waiting for you, and she runs into me.” The white dress has already been swallowed up by the throng on the sidewalk outside the chapel. “Literally runs into me.”
She may not be that big, but she packs a good punch.
“Was she cute?”
“Can’t say I noticed,” I say with a roll of my eyes at Clay and his one-track mind.
“Deano, you’ve always got to notice.”
“In case you missed it, I am waiting to get married.” I wave my hand at the doorway of the chapel. “Waiting. To get married.”
“Yeah. About that.” Clay holds out his phone.
I take the iPhone from him with a sense of dread. Nothing good ever comes from a text message.
I’m not coming.
“Bro, it says she’s not coming,” Clay says helpfully.
I read the text a few more times before handing the phone back to Clay. “I got that, thanks.”
“That’s all you’re going to say?”
“What’d you think I should say? She’s not coming.”
She’s not coming.
“Maybe we should get out of here, head back to the hotel?” Clay suggests after a pause. Stunned silence is more like it. She’s not coming.
I stand in the doorway of the chapel, the place I had planned on getting married. Evelyn says she’s not coming, but is that now, or ever? What if I leave and then Evelyn shows up, full of apologies and explanations?
It’s not her character to be late. If she says she’s not coming, she’s not coming.
“Deano?” Clay says. “Wanna get out of here?”
I run my hand through my hair, leaving it tousled, the way Evelyn hates it. “I guess.” Pushing away from the doorway, I take a step onto the sidewalk, and then another. Clay found the tired-looking chapel earlier in the day, a few minutes’ walk from the north end of the legendary Las Vegas strip. I had always thought I’d get married at the church back in Edmonton where I’d gone to Sunday school every week from age four to twelve. But Evelyn had said elope, so we eloped. At least that had been the plan.
I wonder if this would have happened if we’d gone to Edmonton.
Evelyn had woken me from a sound sleep eight days ago, hysterical about her upcoming birthday. She is the most together person I’ve ever met, and I’d never seen her like that—raving, almost incoherent with talk about age and wrinkles and wasted life. I thought maybe she was drunk or overdosing on her acetaminophen-free headache medicine.
The only way to calm her down was to agree to marry her. I’d gone back to sleep, thinking Evelyn would forget it by the morning, but when I got up, Evelyn had organized flights and hotels. She’d even done some online shopping and found a dress for herself, as well as a suit, tie and shoes for me.
I tug on the cuff of my jacket. She’d done well with the suit, but the shoes pinch my feet.
“Deano?”
Across the street, a group of young and unnaturally blonde women laugh and stagger along the sidewalk. One of them has on a tiara and a bright-purple sash. Bride-to-be.
Evelyn would never be caught dead in an outfit like that.
“Let’s get out of here,” I say, before the group catches sight of us. The last thing I need is for Clay to be all Clay with them. I watched him pick up a grandmother once. The man is a legend, and not just in his own mind.
“Gotcha.” Clay pushes himself away from the wall of the chapel, bobbing in his excited, let’s get something going way that he does during a baseball game. “There’s no sense worrying until you talk to her, and I don’t think that’s happening right now. There’s a bar in the hotel; let’s go there. Methinks you need a drink.”
“I think I need more than one.”
I follow Clay back to the hotel, my confusion growing with each step. Getting married had been Evelyn’s idea. This is what she wanted.
Was this some sort of punishment for Clay coming with me? Like her refusal to buy my favourite potato chips unless I drank my daily, disgusting smoothie? Or even worse, like her refusal of sex before one of my baseball games? She says it saps my energy and won’t listen when I say I have lots of energy to be sapped.
What changed her mind?
And do I really want to know?
It’s a relief to get off the busy street, until we walk into the hotel. I had planned on bringing Evelyn back here, planned on scooping her off her feet and carrying her through the doors. I know she would have complained, but the corners of her mouth would have curved up in the tiny smile and that would have been worth it.
Instead, I stalk after Clay, not wanting to think about what I’d had planned to do with my bride once I got her back to our room. We head through the casino in the lobby, weaving through the gamblers and the waitstaff and the crowds of excited people.
I can’t imagine being excited about anything.
Once we get into the hotel bar, Clay lets me take the lead to push through the bodies dancing to unintelligible music, since he’s Tom Cruise-sized and I’m six foot five with shoulders like a linebacker.
My father loves both Edmonton’s beloved Eskimos and Oilers, and the plan had been for me to play football or hockey. I went against his wishes and chose baseball.
A lot of good that rebellion did me, seeing as I can’t throw more than a fifty-mile meatball across the plate these days.
The path to the bar is clogged with bodies. The sounds and smells and drunken smiles, all looking for love or a simple pickup makes me realize this is a mistake. I should go up to my room, pack and get out of the city. There’s no point staying; I still can’t understand why Evelyn wanted to come here to get married. A beach in Hawaii, maybe; even City Hall would be better than this.
I manage ten feet before a woman blocks my path. “Hey, hey, hey!” she shouts, weakly punching my chest in time with her words. The slur of her words cancels out any attractive qualities she might have. That, and the spittle that flies out of her mouth. “You look like someone. Doesn’t he look like someone?” She turns to her friends, who are too busy with their drinks to notice. “I know! You look like that big guy on Game of Thrones!” She reaches up with eager hands to stroke my beard.
What’s with
the petting tonight?
“Yep.” I started growing the beard before the show began, which was a mistake, since every time someone meets me, they inevitably point out how much I look like the redheaded wilding character on the show, Tormund Giantsbane. I’m a big fan, so I don’t mind the comparison. I can even do a fair impression of him.
“You’re really hot.” She leans back to appraise me, wavering on high heels, and I reach out to catch her before she falls backwards.
“Thank you. Now, go back to your friends.” Taking her shoulders, I angle her towards the group of women holding glasses as big as buckets. Clay is already talking to one of her friends, flashing his Tom Cruise smile. I catch his eye and gesture with my chin.
“I’ll be back,” he promises. With a pout, one of the girls stretches out a hand for him, but he easily evades her reach.
“Do you think he makes it?” my admirer calls after me. “Do you think…?” Her words are drowned out as I shoulder into the crowd.
“Deano, they were hammered,” Clay says with a frown. “I’m going back to check on them later.”
Clay’s a seriously nice guy. He may be a huge player, with women moving in and out of his life like grocery deliveries, but he never mistreats them.
I finally elbow up to the glass-topped bar, finding a space between a group of laughing men and two older women. I edge closer to the men when one of the women leers at me, fluttering mascaraed lashes.
“How about buying us a drink, big guy?” she coos, leaning against my arm. It’s difficult not to check out the cleavage in her tight leopard-print top. “We’re lonely, sitting here all by our lonesomes.” Her friend leans over and smiles.
I blink with surprise. Way too much Botox. “Sorry. I’m meeting someone.”
The bartender appears. “Guinness for me. Clay? Clay?” His back is turned, already talking to another woman. This one doesn’t seem nearly as drunk. I elbow his back to get his attention. “What do you want?”
He focuses on the taps on the bar. “I want to try an IPA, from one of the local microbreweries.”
