Speak Now

by Becky Monson

“No,” I say indisputably.

  “Really?” she asks, frustration in her voice.

  I roll my eyes. “No, not really,” I say. “I don’t want to forgive him, but I guess I have to.”

  “Good,” she says.

  “Couldn’t he at least change my fake name? Why did my character have to be named Buffy? There are other ‘B’ names out there, you know.”

  “I’m not sure he intended to have your name start with the same letter. It just worked out that way,” she says.

  “Yes, well, if you ask me, it worked out a little too well.” I give her a frown.

  I’ve made my peace with it and with Justin. Now I just have to hope he doesn’t get accepted into the festival. With my luck, though, he’ll get in, and it will be the featured play.

  Ashley’s phone beeps, and she pulls it out of her back pocket. She stares at the screen, and a huge smile spreads across her face.

  “What is it,” I ask, peering over at her phone, but I can’t see anything.

  She holds it out in front of me so I have a full view of the screen. Speak of the gangly devil . . .

  Justin: I love you.

  “Oh!” My eyes go wide as I realize the impact of those three words. I had no idea they’d moved to that.

  “I know,” Ashley squeaks in delight.

  “I have many questions,” I say, my voice taking on the tone of a school teacher.

  “Shoot,” she says, looking down at her phone, still smiling.

  “How long has he been saying it, and have you said it back, and can I be your maid of honor?” I rattle off my queries.

  “Shut up,” she says, whacking me on the arm. “Stop going there.”

  “What?” I question. “Isn’t the saying, ‘Ashley and Justin, sitting in a tree. First comes love, then comes marriage—’”

  “Shut up!” She cuts me off, swatting me once again.

  “Well, I just want you to know that I expect a dress I can wear again. Not one of those frilly yellow things that make me look like a canary. Do we have a deal?”

  “Shut up,” she says flatly this time.

  “Okay, fine.” I hold up my hands, relenting. At least temporarily.

  She’s still staring at her phone. “Are you going to text him back?” I ask, questioning her with raised eyebrows.

  “Yes.” She rolls her eyes at me. “If you will shut your mouth for a second, I will.”

  I make a motion of zipping my lips and stay quiet as she texts.

  “What did you say?” I ask after she’s hit send. I know fully well I’m stepping over boundaries here, but Ashley is my best friend, after all. I mean, there really aren’t boundaries.

  “Just that I love him back,” she smiles slyly.

  “Awwwwww,” I tease, and she gives me a dirty look.

  My two best friends are now in love. I have to give myself a little pat on the back. Mostly because I made that happen . . . well, I mean they had to actually like each other, but I helped facilitate. But also because even though I don’t have any love in my life right now—not the romantic kind, at least—I’m truly happy for them.

  CHAPTER 41

  This is it. I’ve got my big girl pants on. Well actually, I’m wearing a pair of black trousers, a sleeveless blush-colored silk top, and a black blazer. Not typical Ursula-wear (She tends to do more polyester pants with elastic waistbands and loose-fitting floral blouses that do nothing for her tall frame and large build). I’m sure she would approve, though. Well, of everything except the shoes. Patent leather black platform pumps. Totally Louboutin knockoffs, but I love them. They are slightly risky with the four-and-a-half-inch heel, but I can handle it.

  This event, on the other hand, is not making me feel so confident. It’s not the work; I think I can do that. The fact that it’s Ian’s rehearsal dinner is what makes it all so daunting. I’m feeling a mixture of emotions right now: excited, nervous, stressed, nauseated … and a splash of heartbroken thrown in there, as well.

  This night, even if the catering part goes without a hitch, is going to suck, no matter what. Watching Ian happily celebrating with his soon-to-be wife? I honestly have no experience, but I’m thinking this could be what torture is like.

  Per Gram’s advice, I sent Ian a text to let him know that I would be working his rehearsal dinner and added a “sorry” at the end. He texted back something about how there is nothing for me to be sorry about, and he’s glad to get to see me. I wish I felt the same. It would be better if I didn’t see him ever again. That’s how my heart feels. It’s too hard.

  I tear up a little at the thought, as I’ve been doing for the past week.

  “Bridge, I need—”

  Justin cuts off as he sees me wipe my eyes.

  “Are you crying?” His brow creases as he studies my face. I avoid his eyes.

  “No,” I sniffle.

  “Bridge, it’s just a job. You’ll survive, I promise,” he says, putting an impersonal hand on my arm for an alarming three seconds (which might be a record). No warmth, no feeling. Only a hand.

  “I’m not crying,” I lie. “And even if I were, it certainly wouldn’t be over a job.” Though I’m pretty sure I’ve shed tears over work before.

  “What did you need?” I ask, trying to steer him away from this pointless conversation.

  “I can’t remember,” he declares after a few seconds of trying to remember. He stands next to me and looks over the dining area with me.

  It’s a lovely view of round tables with cream-colored tablecloths, formal place settings for each guest, and large arrangements of fall flowers displayed in the middle of each table. Since the first day of fall is only a couple of days away, I’m guessing Maureen wanted an autumn theme. This is my favorite time of year. I love the changing colors and the crispness in the air. I think if and when I get married, I would have wanted fall colors for my wedding. But not now – Maureen has stolen it from me, so it suddenly feels tainted.

  I blink away tears. This should be my wedding. I should be marrying Ian. I thought I could handle managing this event, but I’m thinking this was a huge mistake. Not that I had any choice in the matter. I guess I better suck it up; there’s no going back now.

  “You ready?” Justin asks as he hip checks me.

  “Nope,” I declare, staring straight ahead, still blinking away tears. I hip check him back, so he doesn’t look at me and ask me, yet again, if I’m crying.

  “Well, you better be,” he says, hip checking me again.

  “Ouch!” I turn to him, the tears blinked all the way back at this point. “You have the boniest hips ever,” I say, rubbing my side.

  “Well, Ashley likes my hips,” he says, with a double eyebrow lift at his insinuation.

  “Gross,” I say flatly.

  I take in a deep breath in as I look around me. Everything looks great, even if I hate what it represents. It’s a smaller space, for only about forty people or so. If forty people are coming to the rehearsal dinner, I can only imagine how many people are coming to the actual wedding tomorrow. I’m just grateful I won’t have to be a part of any of it. Ian and Maureen are getting married at Gotham Hall, which was probably a gazillion dollars, and—thank goodness—comes with its own catering.

  “The food’s here,” one of the servers tells me.

  I go to the staging area and make sure everyone is getting things ready. Everything appears to be running smoothly, which can only mean one thing—something is about to explode, fall apart, or break. It’s just the nature of the beast that is catering.

  Of course, like clockwork, or because I just jinxed myself, an entire tray of salads is suddenly on the ground.

  Derek curses. “Sorry, Bridgette,” he says. He starts to clean it up and the others pitch in.

  “Just trial by fire,” I say as I walk over to assess the damage. Luckily, you never show up to a catering gig with the exact amount of food needed, or this would be a catastrophe. I ask one of the prep cooks to re-plate the tray.

&nb
sp; As far as crises go, this was on the smaller scale. I can handle the small stuff. Here’s to hoping things don’t get any worse than that.

  The rehearsal dinner attendees start to arrive promptly at seven. Butterflies take flight in my stomach every time someone comes through the door. I see Maureen’s parents arrive: her dad with his coiffed hair and bleached teeth, and her stepmom looking more like a trophy wife. She’s showing a lot of cleavage for the mother of the bride, I would say. If Gram were here, she’d offer a tsk in disdain.

  Next to arrive are Ian’s parents. I wish I had the kind of relationship with them where I could just walk up and give them a hug or something. They’re an extension of Ian, and because of that, I feel drawn to them. But I’ve only met them once or twice back in college. Tonight, I’m only the catering manager, not the girl who used to date their son and is still in love with him.

  Another person, who is not Ian, comes through the door. I feel like I need him to get here so we can get the awkwardness over with. I’m not sure what to expect. A smile from across the room? A handshake? A hug? Whatever it is, I need it to happen so I can go back to getting my job done and getting this night behind me. The anxiety I’m feeling about seeing him is making me crazy and slightly paralyzed, as if I can’t do anything until that part is over.

  There’s not much that needs to be done at this point. The water is poured, and the wine bottles are uncorked. Once everyone is seated, we will begin salad service, and then the rest of the evening should go as I carefully, painstakingly planned out. I wrote up an entire schedule and put it on a large cardboard poster and hung it near the door of the staging area. I don’t know if we will stay totally on track, but it’s my hope. I’m also hoping it will work, so I can present it to Ursula as an idea for all of our events. The current system involves her barking orders from a schedule known only to her. The other two assistant catering managers have taken her lead. I’m hoping to change things up a bit.

  As soon as this weekend is over, all of the man drama will be out of my life, and I will be able to focus solely on my job. It’s taken me a lot of work to get here, and I’m going to put all of my focus on doing the best job I can. I just need to make it to Sunday.

  As I turn to check for the thousandth time (I’m not even sure that’s an exaggeration), that everything is ready in the back, in walks Ian, followed by Maureen. I won’t lie . . . there were scenarios (or fantasies) going through my head earlier in which Ian came through the door alone, devastated that Maureen dumped him, or that she died on the way here. I’m ashamed of the latter fantasy. But I can’t help my thoughts, even though I did entertain the notion for longer than I’d want to admit.

  But here he is with Maureen, and they look happy and healthy and ready to get married tomorrow. Everyone applauds them as they enter, and my stomach plummets. The butterflies are replaced by hollowness. I feel empty.

  I glance up to see Ian looking at me. I give him a small half-smile, and he gives me a tiny nod. I can see a touch of sadness in his eyes. Maybe it’s melancholy. Regardless, it’s a silent conversation, but the message is clear: this is awkward. Maureen gives me a little wave, and I wave back. With the initial encounter over, it’s time for me to put on my manager hat and get this party started.

  I go to the back, but before I open the door, I close my eyes and take a big breath. This is going to be a hard night for so many reasons. But, I can do this … hopefully.

  I already gave everyone a little pep talk before we started. Something else I’d like to incorporate into how we run events. Ursula only talks when she needs to yell at us for something, so I’m thinking pep talks are not her forte. But if it makes a difference, maybe she can learn? Doubtful. But it seemed well-received tonight, so I’m running with it.

  Everyone is doing their jobs and I stand in the staging area as everyone works around me. I’ve delegated and managed to the point of near perfection, so I look for something else to supervise. I go over to the food case and monitor the temperatures to make sure nothing will get dry. I’m quite sure the prep cook is taking care of it, but seeing as I don’t have much to do at this point, I’m feeling not very useful. Also, I have no idea what I’m even looking at. Note to self, I probably need to have the chefs and cooks explain all this stuff to me, so I don’t get caught sans kitchen knowledge.

  With everyone busy around me, and me fidgeting with a machine I know nothing about – I’m not changing any of the settings or anything, I’m just looking at it – I’m finding it hard to focus on anything but Ian. This was not the plan. I need to keep my mind on my job so I can make it through this night.

  Since everything is going well in the kitchen, I decide to go out to the dining area and make sure everything is running smoothly there. I take another deep breath before I go out. Time to see the happy couple in all their pre-wedding bliss.

  The tables are full of people chatting with one another. Jazz is being played over the intercom at just the right volume. It’s a beautiful scene, really, with the lighting and music and the décor. Everyone is happy and jovial and behaving as they should before a wedding.

  Everyone but Maureen and Ian, that is.

  I know Ian well enough to know the look on his face. He’s not happy. I hide near the bar to make sure everything is okay, which is just a nice way to say I’m spying.

  They’re trying to look happy, but Ian’s smile is fake, and they keep turning to each other and making small comments. At one point, Ian says something that makes Maureen’s eyes go wide, and then she looks away from him and exhales in frustration. A millisecond later, she’s smiling and asking the grandmotherly woman to her left if she’s enjoying her salad. Wow, great recovery. It must be the lawyer in her.

  Ian gets up and excuses himself, saying he has to use the bathroom. He quickly glances over at me and gives me a weak smile.

  Do I follow him? No, that’s ridiculous. What am I going to do? Stand outside the bathroom and wait to ask him if everything’s okay? A tingle of embarrassment shoots down my spine as I picture doing just that. I must be crazy. Anyway, I’m sure he’s fine. Nerves are probably tense right now. I’m sure everyone fights the night before their wedding. I wouldn’t know, of course, but it makes sense.

  The salad plates are cleared, and we’re getting ready to serve the main course – still no sign of Ian. Someone stands up to make a toast, but Maureen quickly shakes her head then tilts it to the side, briefly acknowledging the empty seat next to her.

  Maybe I should go after him. No. Don’t be ridiculous.

  I wonder if I should wait for Ian before I start the dinner service, but I try to think of this like any other event, not the rehearsal dinner of the person my heart belongs to. Under normal circumstances, I wouldn’t even notice the groom was missing and would start serving. So I go to the back room and direct everyone to start taking out the plated dinners. Salmon, steak, and vegetarian plates are loaded on trays and go out the door.

  I peek into the dining room, and Ian is back. I see him grab Maureen’s hand and squeeze it just once. They look at each other, apologetic smiles all around. And just like that, whatever was wrong is right again. Or at least they’re able to put it away for the moment.

  I don’t want to admit that I was slightly happy when I saw them fighting, but I would be lying if I didn’t. Happy isn’t the best word; hopeful is more like it. But that’s probably not the best word to use, either. I’m a mixture of emotions right now. But none of it matters.

  I will be glad when it’s Sunday, and all of this is behind me. Adam will be married. Ian will be married. I will be . . . by myself. But standing on my own is going to be okay. I can do that. This feeling of helplessness with Adam and his family, and heartbreak with Ian—Sunday will be the first day that’s all in my past. And even though it may take a while to get over the Ian part of it, I can at least begin to accept reality and start the process of moving on.

  I suddenly feel small tingles of butterflies in my stomach at the possibilit
ies. Of course, they are completely smashed when I hear someone making a toast to Ian and Maureen and how their love “knows no bounds” and is “everlasting.” Gag.

  I go into the back to hide from all the love and happiness. I putter around in the kitchen until the toasts are over and dinner has been cleared off the tables. All that’s left are desserts and coffee. We’re almost done, near the home stretch.

  I walk out to the dining area to make sure everyone is doing his or her job right. So far tonight, I haven’t had anything to complain about. Maybe it was my pep talk. Maybe it’s due to the fact that it’s a smaller event, and I have a smaller crew and fewer worries. Whatever it is, I’m grateful my first experience as the event manager has gone better than I expected.

  Deciding I should sneak out for a little bathroom break while I can, I walk toward the exit. But as I’m about to head out the big, wooden doors to the ballroom, the heel of my shoe catches on something, and in a flash, I’m down, my ankle twisted beneath me. Apparently, my fall was accompanied by a small scream because when I look up, all eyes are on me, and Ian is right there to help me up.

  “Are you okay?” he asks, worry in his eyes.

  “Yeah.” I sit up and look at my ankle. I rub it with my hand. It feels a little tender, but definitely not broken.

  “Let me help you up,” he says. Reaching his hands down, he grabs mine and pulls me to standing.

  Heat surges through my hands with his touch, and my heart goes pitter-patter. I try to steady my breath.

  “Are you sure you’re okay?” he asks.

  “Yes,” I say. My ankle will survive, but my heart may not. I put weight on the ankle, and a wince slips out.

  “Come on,” Ian says. He puts my arm around his neck, one of his arms around my waist, and guides me out the door to the couch in the lobby.

  As we leave, I swear I hear a few “aws” and “isn’t he terrific.” If they only knew who he was helping. At least Maureen knows who I am, but she doesn’t really know.

  “Thanks,” I say as Ian eases me onto the couch.