Once and for All

by Sarah Dessen

  “Remind her this was part of our deal,” my mom said. He flapped at her again. “If they stand us up for this, no discount on the rehearsal dinner fee. I might even mark it up.”

  Yikes, I thought, raising my eyebrows. When I snuck a look at my mom, she looked so incensed I quickly went back to folding programs.

  “Well, that’s unfortunate,” William said into the phone, sitting back in his chair. “And of course we’ll discuss how it affects our fee. . . . Fine. Okay. Right.”

  “No,” my mom said flatly, as he hung up the phone. “No way she just canceled on us for this. I won’t accept it.”

  “You know I usually am a big fan of denial,” he replied with a sigh, “but we probably need to call the photographer and reschedule. We can’t shoot wedding images without a bride.”

  Just then, as if on cue, the front door chimed. When I looked over, a petite woman with close-cut black curls was entering, pulling a case behind her. A light setup was over her shoulder. “Morning,” she called out, totally oblivious to the mood of the room. “Where do you want me?”

  My mom groaned, putting her head in her hands. This was dramatic for her, but I understood the frustration. Ever since Natalie Barrett Weddings had been chosen as a finalist for Local Business of the Year by Lakeview Monthly she’d been on edge, doing everything she could to better our chances of winning. This included, but was not limited to, eschewing the staff photographer the magazine had sent to get some quick candids in favor of a professional taking pictures of a real-life couple in our office. One of our upcoming brides, Marlo Wagner, had been all set up to come in with her fiancé that morning until the phone call a few minutes earlier. We’d had a lot of problems in the office, but lacking a bride and groom at the same time had never been one of them.

  “I’ll call the magazine,” William said now, picking up the phone again. “Tell them we need another day.”

  “Don’t bother,” my mom told him through her hands. “They already made it clear that if they don’t have these images by business close today they’re going with stock ones. Stock, William. Can you even imagine?”

  “There has to be a solution to this,” he said, as the photographer started unpacking cameras and lenses from her case. “We don’t need a real bride and groom. Just two people to play the part.”

  “No one wants to see us cutting a cake,” my mom said. “We’re too old and grizzled.”

  “Speak for yourself. I got carded buying prosecco the other day,” he replied, somewhat haughtily. “And I wasn’t thinking about us.”

  I was moving on to the next stack of programs when I became acutely aware of the fact that I was being watched. Sure enough, when I paused and glanced up, they were both looking right at me.

  “No,” I said firmly. “No way.”

  “She has a point,” my mom said, although she kept her eyes on me. “We’re not in the child bride business. However, if we just did body part shots—”

  “What?” I asked, horrified.

  “—it would easily work,” William finished, as if I hadn’t said anything. “Hands cutting a cake, hands holding a bouquet, shots from the back. Yes. I think it’s doable.”

  “Do neither of you hear me saying no over here?” I said.

  “I guess we don’t necessarily need a groom,” my mom told William, answering this question for me. “Although I did like the symmetry aspect of some of your ideas.”

  “I’m not speaking to either of you,” I announced, going back to what I was doing. The door chimed again, cheerful, and I made a point of not looking up. The silence that followed, however, was familiar. As in a recent way.

  “What?” I heard Ambrose say. He’d been out getting the first coffee order of the morning. “What is it?”

  Now I had to speak up. “No,” I said loudly.

  “Okay, okay,” Ambrose, assuming this was directed at him, said quickly. “Fine. I did eat one of these doughnuts I just got us without offering them around first.”

  My mom and William were still studying him, much like hungry cats in cartoons eye plump birds whistling on a swing.

  “Fine, it was two,” Ambrose added. “I’m sorry! I was hungry. Also—”

  “This isn’t about doughnuts,” my mother told him. She looked at me again. “It’s about helping out when the company is in a serious bind.”

  “Oh.” Ambrose exhaled. “Well, sure. What do you need?”

  “See?” she said, pointing at him. “Now that’s loyalty.”

  “I am not going to pretend to be engaged to Ambrose!” I said.

  “Engaged?” He grinned at me. “Oh, this should be fun.”

  This was not the word in my head when, half an hour later, I left the conference room with my nails still wet from a rush manicure from Liza, a nail tech from the nearby salon whom my mother coaxed over with a crisp fifty-dollar bill. Because this was supposed to be shots of a casual client meeting, I’d kept on the sundress I’d worn to work that day. As I walked toward Ambrose and the photographer, now set up in the reception area, I saw he had on a new, crisp shirt. Also, he was smiling at me in a way that made it clear he still thought this was hilarious.

  “Now, I think first we’ll just do some shots of you flipping through the books of other weddings,” the photographer said, gesturing for me to sit down on one of the chaises. “Because we’re not doing faces, I’ll blur your profiles in editing, focusing more on your hands, together, on the pages.”

  Ambrose patted the seat beside him. “Come on, honey. Time for our close-up.”

  I looked at my mother, who held up ten fingers, symbolizing the hundred bucks I’d been promised for going through with this. It was not enough. Still, I sat down.

  “Okay,” the photographer said, squatting down and lifting the camera. “Now, let’s have the groom open the book and hold it in his lap. Louna, lean into him and point to something on the page.”

  “Should we talk motivation?” Ambrose said to me. “Want to develop our backstory? How long we’ve been together, all that?”

  “No,” I said flatly, jabbing a finger at a picture of a cake, flowers trailing off it.

  “I think,” he continued, ignoring me, “that we met cute. Like, you dropped a kitten, and I picked it up for you.”

  “Why would I drop a kitten?”

  “Well, clearly, it was an accident,” he replied, sliding his other arm around me. I told myself not to stiffen, then glared at William, who had the nerve to laugh out loud. “Your hair smells good, by the way. Is that vanilla?”

  I didn’t respond to this. The photographer, now shooting, said, “Louna, can you relax your mouth? You look kind of angry.”

  “Imagine that,” I said under my breath.

  From the albums, we moved on to posing with the cake William had bought just for the shoot, a grocery store variety he’d carefully decorated with fresh flowers. The photographer put us beside it, then arranged our hands—Ambrose’s above, mine below—on a silver cake cutter.

  “Now, just put it on the edge,” she called out, checking her light meter. “And, Ambrose, shift your hand so we can see the ring on Louna’s finger a bit better. It’s just so pretty!”

  “Three months’ salary,” he told her, insisting, still, on being in character. “But my baby deserved a rock!”

  My mom, who was the actual owner of this ring, snorted. William said, “You guys actually look really cute together, if you don’t mind me saying.”

  I was about to tell him that, in fact, I did, when Ambrose moved in closer behind me, his mouth right at my ear. “FYI, your tag is sticking out. Let me get it. It’s what a fiancé would do.”

  A second later, I felt his fingers on the small of my back, smoothing down the fabric of my dress there. And the weirdest, craziest thing happened: I felt something. That unmistakable, sudden rush of feeling when your body responds to
a touch in that certain, specific way. As I blinked, trying to process this, I realized that despite my reluctance, I hadn’t stiffened even once in all the times he’d touched me so far. So weird.

  “Great,” the photographer called out, clicking away. “Now, Louna, turn your head and look up at Ambrose. Again, I’ll blur your features. But I love this staging.”

  I swallowed—calm down, Barrett—then did as I was told, turning toward him. With one of his hands over mine, the other beside me against the table, it was almost like easing into an embrace, and I was surprised, again, by how natural it felt. No elbows or awkwardness; I just fit there.

  “What?” Ambrose said, looking down at me.

  “Nothing,” I replied, as the photographer moved in closer, getting even more of us together. It seemed like she shot forever, us frozen in that spot. Even so, when we broke apart, the space between us felt huge, much bigger than it was. As if somehow it was the odd thing now.

  “Okay,” Jilly said, extracting a lock of her hair from Bean’s sticky grip. “Tell me again exactly what you said to the Lumberjack.”

  “His name is Leo.”

  “Whatever. Just read.”

  I looked down at my phone, between us on the bed. At my desk, Crawford was now reading my dictionary the way anyone else might a newspaper, flipping through for the big stories. “‘Hey, it’s Louna. Going to a party tonight, want to come?’”

  She considered this, wrinkling her nose. “It’s a bit conversational for my taste.”

  “It’s eleven words,” I pointed out.

  “Yes, but it’s how they sound.” Bean let out a wail, and Jilly put her on the floor, where she promptly made a beeline for my closet, her hands slapping the hardwood. “I would have been like, ‘Party Tuesday you in’. No punctuation, because you’re a busy girl, and let him ask who it is, don’t tell him.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because it adds mystery!” she said. “And mystery is everything, especially at the beginning.”

  “Well, it’s done now,” I told her. “He already responded.”

  “And said what?”

  I hit the screen, scrolling down. “‘Sure. Off at 7.’”

  From her serious face, studying the screen, you could have thought this was an ancient scroll that needed to be translated. “Yeah. He’s got the upper hand now. It’s obvious.”

  “How?” I asked.

  “He responded with ‘Sure.’ It’s like you’re twisting his arm, begging him. He’s agreeing, not accepting.”

  “You get all that from ‘sure’?”

  “It’s syntax. Context. You have to read between the lines.”

  “There aren’t lines, it’s, like, one sentence.”

  “Two,” Crawford corrected me from the desk. “That was two sentences.”

  “Are you supposed to be listening?” Jilly asked him. “Read your book.”

  “It’s the dictionary.”

  “Even better.” She got to her feet, walking over to the closet, where Bean was now trying to chew on one of my shoes. Picking her up, she said, “Let’s just work with what we have. He’s off at seven. Now, you absolutely can’t go to his work and meet him there—”

  “Why not?” I asked. “Isn’t that why he told me that?”

  “Because that looks even more desperate! You never meet anyone halfway, you make them come to you. He’s already had ‘sure.’ You need to call the rest of the shots.”

  “This is insane,” I said. “I refuse to believe everyone strategizes at this level when it comes to a simple date.”

  “Don’t call it a date,” she corrected me. “Too formal. You’re hanging out at a party. With a group.”

  There was a bang outside my door as KitKat entered, each carrying a bag of pretzels. “What are you guys doing?” Jilly demanded. “Did you let yourselves in?”

  “No, William did,” Kat told her. “And he offered snacks.”

  “No fair,” Crawford said. “I’m hungry.”

  “Mom says you need to drive us to the truck so Dad can take us to gymnastics,” Kit told Jilly, popping a pretzel in her mouth.

  “I thought she was doing that. I have a party to get to.”

  “She’s tired. She said she needs to lie down.”

  Jilly and I exchanged a look. Her mom went nonstop. When she got tired, it usually meant something. As in, another Baker something. “I am going to East U in August,” she said to me, under her breath. “Baby or no baby.”

  “Who’s having a baby?” Crawford asked.

  “Nobody,” we said in unison. Jilly shifted Bean to her other hip, then looked at KitKat, now sitting on the bed together, crunching. “Fine. I’ll drive you guys, then circle back and get ready. Louna, let’s meet at six forty-five at my house. In the meantime, text the Lumberjack again but only give the party address I gave you. Nothing else. You have to have hand. It’s important.”

  “Louna knows a real lumberjack?” Crawford asked.

  “No,” I told him,

  “I want more pretzels,” Kit announced, crumpling up the bag. “Can I go ask William?”

  “No,” Jilly replied. “We’re leaving. All of us. Now! Let’s go.”

  Crawford put the dictionary back, the twins got to their feet, and Jilly followed, Bean squirming for me as she passed. I patted her chubby hand, giving it a kiss, and she laughed.

  “Why would anyone want to add to this?” Jilly said, once everyone else had thumped down the stairs. “It’s madness already.”

  “Love makes people do crazy things, I guess.”

  At this, she harrumphed, then waved over her shoulder as she left. As usual after a Baker departure, the room felt bigger and quieter. I sat down on my bed, looking over the text exchanges with Leo. To me, they were just words, all the nuances and meanings Jilly saw invisible. Was this really how it worked, when you were seeking? It seemed so complicated. Regardless, I did as she’d said and sent the address of the party, nothing else. A moment later, he texted back with just a K. From sentences to words to just letters. It was hard to see this as progress and not the other way around.

  CHAPTER

  15

  BY THE time I’d gotten ready—changing my shirt twice, redoing makeup once—I still had nearly an hour before I was set to meet Jilly. So I went downstairs to look for William.

  He was in the kitchen. William loved to cook, had even toyed with going to culinary school at one point after college. But he hated the small kitchen at his otherwise perfect-for-him high-rise, modern apartment, preferring to keep it pristine at all times and not smelling of garlic. So when he felt like cooking, he always came over to our house, where he could spread out across the island and counters and know whatever he made would be enthusiastically welcomed. (My mom and I were Lean Cuisine and takeout types: about all she could make was toast, and my strength was chocolate chip cookies. These were great staples, don’t get me wrong. But you couldn’t exactly eat them every night.) There was no set schedule when William would cook, though, which added a surprise element.

  “What’s the occasion?” I asked him as I came in.

  He glanced over his shoulder, chopping at something. “Your mother read another article about clean eating and getting in shape. She’s inspired and requested a home-cooked, healthy meal.”

  “Again?”

  “We could both do with a lifestyle change,” he replied, the knife banging as he made more cuts. “We’re going to start cooking more, and walking every night, as well.”

  Sure you are, I thought. They made these diet and exercise pledges every few months, proclaiming it the Start of a New Era. It was usually only a week at best before I found them once again on the couch after work splitting a bucket of chicken and watching Big New York or Big Chicago, their favorite reality shows. I knew better than to point this out, though. “Sounds great. W
hat are you making?”

  “Chicken paillard with asparagus and shaved parmesan and a pear salad,” he replied. “I’m just hoping you guys have lemons. It’s the one thing I forgot.”

  “William. You know we don’t have lemons. We don’t even have bread right now.”

  “What?” He looked aghast. Wiping his hands on his apron—a plain linen one he always brought from home—he went over to the fridge, pulling it open. “Dear God, there is nothing in these produce drawers. Not even a bag of spinach!”

  “I’d be less surprised to find a live animal,” I told him.

  He shut the door, shaking his head. “I always wonder how you managed to get to eighteen without scurvy.”

  “Hey, we order salads from Tossed almost every night,” I said, defending myself. “Just because it’s not here doesn’t mean I don’t eat it.”

  “Well, thank God for that.” He sighed, looking at the onion and chicken breasts out on the island. “I need lemons, though. They’re key to the dish.”

  “I can run and get you some,” I said. “Farmer Fred’s is, like, two seconds away.”

  “Farmer Fred’s?” he repeated. “No. I don’t cook enough to lower myself to that kind of standard. I’m going to Spice and Thyme. While I’m there, I’ll grab some prosciutto and melon, as we do need an appetizer. And maybe some of those Belgian macaroons for dessert.”

  “What happened to healthy eating?”

  “They’re Belgian and organic, Louna. Are you coming or what?”

  Fifteen minutes later, we were at Spice and Thyme, the gourmet market, where the fragrant notes of expensive coffee hit you the second you stepped through the sliding doors. It was practically required that you pause just to inhale. We both did.

  “I want heaven to smell just like this,” William said.

  “And movie popcorn,” I added.

  “Well, of course.”

  He grabbed a basket and we started over to the produce, which was so beautiful and arranged so meticulously it felt like a shame to remove any of it. As William took two lemons, I examined a nearby artichoke that was so big and perfect it looked fake.