I could work in the back, but if my weeks in this shop might be numbered, I want to soak up the atmosphere. I grab my laptop and sit in the main showroom along with Jess so I can watch customers come in to shop and admire all our glittering jewels. I click open a new document and type out a list of everything I need to do today to confirm that the wedding can happen as seamlessly as possible a week from tomorrow. The idea of a concrete to-do list soothes me; it’s something solid to cling to. I need to call the Wythe Hotel to check in with the event manager and the caterer; confirm arrival times and schedules with the photographer, officiant, and florist; and triple-check that my dress will be delivered to the hotel. Maybe I should book a bikini wax. Shit. Do I have time this week for a bikini wax?
As I debate adding that to my to-do list, Sophie enters the shop.
“Hey!” I say. I have so much to tell her. “So I have news.”
She stops short and shoots me a nervous look. Historically, I tend to give her mostly bad news.
“No, no, I think you’ll like this news,” I clarify.
She shifts her weight onto one hip and sighs. “Lay it on me.”
“I broke things off with Blake for good.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Sophie interjects.
I steamroll onto the good stuff. “And then I went to Golden Years to apologize to Raj and patch things up. And then he offered to consider helping us out next week by marrying me at the wedding.”
“Wait, shut up, he did not!” Jess says, leaning over the counter, eyes gleaming. “I wish you had said that first thing today.”
“Hold on, you decided one impulsive engagement wasn’t enough this year, so you’re spontaneously gonna marry Raj now?” Sophie asks. She folds her arms across her chest in disbelief, looking every inch the part of the judgmental big sister.
“Well, ‘marrying’ might not be the right word,” I say, backtracking. “He offered to maybe marry me in a legally nonbinding ceremony, just for show, just to help out Brooklyn Jewels, because he knows that this business means everything to me.”
“Maybe?” Sophie echoes.
“What do you mean, maybe?” Jess asks.
“Well, he’s still thinking it over,” I explain.
Sophie stares at me for a moment, looks at the to-do list on my computer screen, then actually tips her head back to cackle.
“Wow, you’ve outdone yourself this time,” she says, once she’s composed herself. “You’re really planning a wedding with no actual groom in sight, aren’t you?”
I angle my laptop away from her. “He’ll be there, okay? Just watch. He’ll show up and say yes,” I insist.
Sophie throws up her hands. “Fine. God forbid you ever do anything like a normal person. Have fun ruining your own life.” She gets up and heads into the back room.
Jess looks at me blankly.
“I, um, have some work to do,” I say pointedly.
She snaps her attention back to her own laptop.
I feel incredibly self-conscious as I dial the first number, the event manager. The line rings once, twice, three times. I’m on the verge of hanging up out of nerves. But then someone picks up the phone.
“Hi, this is Eliza Roth, I’m looking for Sharon, the event manager?” I ask, slipping into my most professional, take-no-bullshit voice. It’s go-time.
By one o’clock, I’ve made my way through three-quarters of the list. I was careful with my language, subbing in “the groom” instead of Raj’s name. I didn’t specify on any of the calls exactly who I was marrying. I break for lunch and head to Sweetgreen for a salad. I order my kale Caesar salad to go and carry it the few blocks back to the store. I’m distracted by texting Carmen updates from last night, so I don’t notice anything strange through the glass window of the shop. It’s not until I’ve reached the door that I notice our CLOSED sign. I look up from my phone in confusion and enter the shop.
Raj is standing alone in the middle of the shop. His usual duds—the old hoodies I’ve seen him wear a thousand times—are replaced by a pair of charcoal gray dress pants and a pale pink button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up just so. As I enter the shop, he presses something on his phone and a familiar song that I can’t quite place fills the room. The first few chords are bouncy and upbeat.
“Hi,” I breathe, taking all of this in.
“Hi,” he says, grinning.
“I’ve never seen you dressed like this,” I say cautiously.
“Special occasion,” he says.
That’s when I realize what the song is. Bruno Mars’s smooth voice belts out, “I think I wanna marry you.” I get it. I get what’s happening. I clap a hand to my mouth; I feel giddy and so absurdly relieved. I walk toward him.
“Eliza, I can’t promise you that we’re going to fall in love, or grow old together, or stay together forever, but I can promise you this: you’re the most incredible woman I’ve ever met, and I want to give us a try,” Raj says. “I really care about you, you know? And if that means helping you out, that’s what I’ll do.”
I’m so flooded with gratitude I can only nod and eke out, “Thank you so much.”
But then there’s more. Raj looks around at the jewelry cases. He shoves his hands in his pockets nervously.
“I wanted to do this properly,” he says. “And I imagine you have enough fancy rings of your own. But I . . . I brought you something, and I’d like to give it to you.”
He takes out a small, colorful package and tears it open to reveal a red Ring Pop on a purple piece of plastic. He gazes down at it and then back up to me.
“You told me you used to love these when you were a kid, back when you first dreamed about opening your own jewelry store,” he says. “I know this is silly and nothing much, but I thought this would remind you of how important that dream is, and how—together—we can make sure it stays a reality.”
“Oh my god, Raj,” I say, eyes wide. “You didn’t. This is amazing. You’re amazing.”
I move toward him to kiss him, but he holds up his hand.
“Wait, let me do this,” he says.
He sinks down onto one knee and holds up the Ring Pop as an offering. “Eliza, would you do me the honor of fake-marrying me?”
Unlike my last proposal, this time around I’m bursting with enthusiasm to say yes. I can’t get the words out fast enough.
“Yes, of course, yes. Raj, you’re incredible. Yes!”
He stands and carefully slides the Ring Pop onto my finger. It’s a little snug (it’s made for a child, after all), but somehow it’s perfect for this moment. I throw my arms around his neck to kiss him.
I’m sure there are a million and one logical reasons why I should be afraid right now—and maybe Sophie is currently holed up in the back room making a list of all of them—but I don’t feel that way. Forget that pre-wedding checklist. I just checked off the most important item of all. I’m fully aware that what Raj and I are about to do is unorthodox, to say the least, but I feel relieved to be taking this next step with a person I feel so comfortable around. I’m grateful that Raj and I are on the same page here. He knows that I don’t need a promise of forever. I only need a promise that we’ll take our relationship one day at a time.
Sophie and Jess emerge from the back of the shop with tentative expressions on their faces.
“You did it?” Sophie asks haltingly.
“They did it!” Jess shouts. “Look at them! Look at the lovebirds!”
Raj holds up my hand and kisses my Ring Pop. “We did it.”
Bewildered, I look from Raj to Sophie. “What?”
“I may have had some help getting into the shop while you were at lunch,” Raj admits. “And I needed someone to tell me your favorite flavor of Ring Pop.”
“I knew strawberry was your favorite,” Sophie says, sighing like this admission cost her a lot.
“But you were so—you were so negative,” I point out.
She shrugs. “You’re so far into this rabbit hole, I can’t ima
gine another way out. If this is what you want, so be it. He’s a nice guy.”
That’s as much of a ringing endorsement as I can ever expect from Sophie.
“Come sit and hang out here?” I offer Raj. “I’m just going through the pre-wedding checklist.”
“Sure,” he says. “Let me help.”
“Well, first, you can start by inviting your friends and family,” I point out.
He laughs. “You want to meet my parents?”
“It wouldn’t be a wedding without them, right?” I ask.
“I’ll see if they can make it,” he says, pulling out his phone.
I take a seat behind the counter with a newfound appreciation for the fact that this place might not be in jeopardy any longer.
• Chapter 29 •
I never imagined I’d scarf down a semi-stale bagel straight out of a paper bag on the morning of my wedding, but these days I’m learning it’s good to roll with the punches. So I’m marrying my boyfriend of nine days in a sham ceremony to save the fate of my company. Whatever. So I’m eating carbs on my wedding day, and I forgot my Spanx at home. Whatever. Carmen tosses me the bagel she picked up on her way over to the bridal suite at the Wythe Hotel; who am I to refuse food?
“You should eat something,” she says. “My cousin refused to eat on her wedding day so she’d look skinny in her dress, but wound up literally fainting in the middle of her reception.”
“Bagel it is, then,” I say, giving her a thumbs-up.
Carmen, Sophie, Liv, and Jess are joining me in the bridal suite this morning for hair and makeup, along with the photographer. They’re not technically my bridesmaids; with a hazy sense of exactly who the groom would be, we skipped that tradition. Anyway, even if I was planning more of a conventional wedding, I don’t know if I’d want a bridal party beyond maybe Sophie as my matron of honor. Shouldn’t wedding ceremonies be solely about the two people getting married, not forcing your closest friends to line up like a MySpace Top 8 in matching outfits?
The photographer flits around the room, snapping semi-candid pictures of us getting glammed up.
There’s a knock on the door.
“Come in!” I shout from under the hands of a makeup artist dabbing concealer on my dark circles.
Mom enters the suite. It’s the first time I’ve seen her since dinner with Dad and Blake over the summer. I called my parents last week to tell them about the drastic change of plans. They didn’t quite understand why I’d want to pretend to marry a guy I’ve barely even dated, but after a long, tough conversation, they agreed to come and support the wedding.
“Think of it like that time I was in the school play,” I had explained to them. “You and I both knew I didn’t have much of a future as an actress, but you showed up with a camcorder anyway.”
Mom squeezes in between me and the makeup artist to give me a hug. “I can’t believe my baby’s all grown up and getting married!” she says. “Well, sort of married.”
“I know, Mom, I know,” I say, hugging her back.
She settles onto the edge of the bed. “So you’ll have to tell me more about this guy. Can you show me pictures?”
The makeup artist doesn’t manage to hide her shocked expression.
Once my hair and makeup are done—I asked for long, loose waves to feel like myself and a bright red lip to pop in photos—I move toward the window for the best lighting and film a quick video for Instagram Stories.
“It’s my wedding day!” I squeal. “I’m here with my friends and family in a bridal suite at the Wythe Hotel. We’re all getting ready, thanks to our amazing hair-and-makeup team provided by Glamsquad.”
I don’t like how tentative I sound. I film it again. The framing looks off. I try it a third time, and it’s finally good enough to post. This begins the process of promoting all the companies who are sponsoring the wedding—in other words, helping me pull this off for free. Seconds after it uploads, I get a flurry of excited messages in response. I exhale. I’m going to be okay. This has to be okay, right?
“Here, let me take your phone,” Carmen says. “You don’t need to be worrying about it all day. I’ll post photos for you. Just tell me what to tag and hashtag.”
I hesitate. But she’s right. I’ve hustled to get a man here, planned a gorgeous free wedding in under six months, and hyped up my followers along the way. There’s nothing else I can do. If the wedding is going to work as a marketing tactic for Brooklyn Jewels, it’s going to work—but it’s out of my control now. I give Carmen my phone and all the information she needs.
Suddenly, I hear a gagging noise. Sophie bolts out of the hair stylist’s chair with a hand pressed over her mouth and sprints to the bathroom. A second later, I can hear her retching over the toilet. Liv scoots in behind her.
“Watch your hair!” the stylist calls.
“Honey?” Mom says, filing in behind Liv.
There are more noises, then a beat of exhausted silence. The toilet flushes.
“I’m fine,” Sophie moans. Her voice echoes off the bathroom tile.
The hotel room is not set up for this many people to crowd around the bathroom door, but I squeeze in anyway. My sister looks tired but ultimately okay.
“You’re not sick on my wedding day, are you?” I ask.
If she is, I hope it’s not contagious.
Sophie and Liv exchange glances.
“Should we?” Sophie asks.
“Go ahead, I guess?” Liv says uncertainly.
Mom catches on first. She erupts in a happy sob and sinks onto her knees to hug Sophie.
“Mom!” Sophie squeaks, wiping the vomit from her mouth.
Our mother is hunched over, hyperventilating and howling, “I’m just—so—s-s-s-so h-h-h-happy for you!”
“We were going to keep it a surprise until after the wedding to avoid stealing your thunder,” Liv explains. “And it’s still so early, but . . .”
“I’m pregnant!” Sophie says.
Tears spring to my eyes, and I flap my hands to keep them at bay. I don’t know who to hug first, so I scramble into the bathroom and try to embrace all three of them at once. Sophie is going to be the best mom. I know this with all my heart because she’s practically been a mom to me. I’m so overjoyed for her and Liv, and their newly budding family. You think conceiving babies is the simplest thing in the world until you see someone you love struggle to have one. The good news is almost too much to process. I hear a click behind me; the photographer is either bold enough or crazy enough to catch this moment on camera, too.
“Oh no, don’t you cry, too,” Sophie says, squeezing my arm. “You’ll ruin your makeup.”
I take a deep, ragged breath and try to calm myself.
“I’m just so happy for you,” I say, voice quavering. “You’re getting everything you’ve ever wanted.”
“You, too,” she says with a smile.
Later, once I’ve collected myself and the makeup artist has touched up all our watery eye makeup, my mom helps me into my dress.
“It’s so beautiful,” she says, carefully zipping up the back of the dress. She runs her fingers over the delicate lace sleeves. “You’re so beautiful.”
“You like the dress?” I ask, trying to gauge her reflection in the mirror.
She gently adjusts the hook-and-eye closure at the top of the zipper. “I love it. It’s perfect for you.”
“And you’re not . . . upset that you weren’t there to pick it out with me?” I ask tentatively. I’m afraid to exhale.
She steps around the sweeping hem of my gown to look at me directly. She sighs.
“Do I wish I had been more involved in planning this? Sure, maybe. You’re my daughter—of course, I would want to be there with you. But this is your day, and you’ve always done things your own way. That’s just who you are.”
I melt forward into a hug. I didn’t realize how much her approval meant to me until I wasn’t sure I had it anymore. I’m glad I do.
A high-pitch
ed trilling sound cuts through the moment.
“Your phone alarm,” Carmen says. She turns it off.
“Time to meet Raj for the first look photo,” I say, hitching up my skirt so I can step into my blue satin pumps.
For something old, I dug a scarlet red lipstick out of the bottom of my bathroom cabinet; it’s a kiss-proof formula I bought at the height of my dance-floor make-out phase in college. My something new is obviously my dress. The veil I’ll wear later today was first worn by Sophie at her wedding; it’ll be my something borrowed. And the heels are my something blue.
I take a last look at myself in the mirror. Between the stark white lace of my wedding dress and the movie-magic makeup that somehow erased months of stress from my skin, I look like a bride—not like a girl playing the part for the cameras, but like a real bride. For all the frantic effort that went into making this moment happen, I almost didn’t really believe I’d ever see myself like this. I spent years after my breakup with Holden watching my friends pair off and find love—and I didn’t. I knew that stumbling into a relationship is a mere matter of luck, but the darkest sliver of my anxious mind worried that being alone was my fault, somehow.
Maybe I was too busy, too ambitious, too messy, too vocal about too many of my opinions to let love in. Maybe there was something fundamentally unlovable about me. Maybe I was quick to cling to this façade of a wedding because deep down, I worried this would be my only possible shot at a happily-ever-after. The second that awful thought bubbles up, I know it’s the truth.
I’ve spent six months stuffing these feelings down because I had a single goal: to save my company at whatever cost. But now, I can’t ignore how I feel anymore. I choke up and clap my hand over my mouth to muffle a painful sob. My engagement ring catches the light and sparkles obnoxiously in front of my face. Tears pinprick at the corner of my eyes again as everything sinks in: I am a bride. There is nothing unlovable about me. And today, along with sweet, sexy Raj, in front of my family and my friends and a hundred thousand strangers on the internet, I’m going to celebrate that.
The makeup artist steps in with a damp makeup-removing wipe to dab away under my eyes one last time.
Love at First Like Page 24
