by Ellie Hall
I grumble because that was my brainchild.
Back in the bridal suite, we lounge and laugh, recapping the evening.
“What I can’t believe is that Miranda is getting hitched before any of us.”
Daisy shifts uncomfortably. She never did well with gossip.
Me neither. It makes the space between my throat and heart feel icky. Yet we indulge. But it’s harmless among friends.
What wasn’t harmless, in addition to the above crimes, were Miranda’s lethal digs at each of us women in her bridal party—except Suzanne, her sister and maid of honor.
“Well, good to know that I have a big nose,” Mila says.
“You do not have a big nose,” I reply. “Don’t listen to Miranda, she’s always had this made-up rivalry with us.”
“Do you think it’s because we didn’t let her come on the trampoline that time?” Daisy asks.
“She had a broken arm. Anyway, if you recall, we all gave up our afternoon playtime on the trampoline and sat with her in the grass while she gave us every grave detail of the injury.”
“I refused to sign her cast,” Mila says.
“She stole your popsicle.”
“True.” Mila sighs. “I want to be happy for her. Truly.”
“I know. Me too. But she’s mean.” I eye Daisy, not sure if I should bring up the big thing that happened. The sadness in her eyes suggests that it’s not the time. Water under the bridge, let bygones be bygones, and all that.
The five of us release a collective sigh.
Paisley suddenly hoots a laugh. “Do you remember the night before graduation?”
“When all the guys on the football team streaked naked across the field?” Oh, I remember Alex Wilder alright.
“No, when we said that if we were still single by the time Miranda tied the knot, we each agreed that we’d marry the next guy we dated.”
The pact threads back into my memory.
Mila’s forehead furrows. “I do not recall that conversation.”
“Because you already had one foot out of town.”
Blakely jerks to sitting and her eyes widen. “We made up some kind of rhyme...”
“No. That didn’t happen.” Mila shakes her head as if by doing so she can erase the past.
“I bet you that I have proof,” Paisley says.
And that is how we end up in her parents’ attic at midnight.
I haven’t been here in years. The house is unusually quiet.
“It’s so sweet that Mr. and Mrs. Jones went on a cruise called the Love Boat to celebrate their fortieth wedding anniversary,” I say.
“Yeah, real cute that they didn’t invite me,” Paisley huffs.
“Check back when you’re Mrs. Cobb, have three kids, and then don’t invite them on your wedding anniversary trip,” Mila teases.
“Oh, that’s exactly when I’d invite them. Free babysitting.” Paisley smirks.
I say, “That’s not revenge. They’d love to spend a week at sea with their grand-progeny.”
“Truth,” Blakely adds.
Flashlights beam across the unfinished attic ceiling, casting strange shapes. A rocking horse looks more like a Trojan horse and a teddy bear that I recall Paisley’s dad winning at the county fair resembles a grizzly.
“It’s spooky up here,” Daisy says as she tries and fails to get a sticky cobweb off her fingers.
I shiver at the thought of the creepy crawlies hiding out up here.
“This is worse than the slime that the kids I babysit made. I thought it was for science. Nope, they were enterprising and wanted to sell the stuff. Whatever happened to a lemonade stand?”
I reach out my hand to take hers. Likely, she misses her little guy.
Paisley digs through a stack of boxes until she finds one that has the label “The Fabulous Five”—also, Fab Five, the same as our group text name.
“Well, well. What do we have here?” Blakely asks. “Relics from the past.”
We browse T-shirts, notebooks, ticket stubs, Valentine’s Day friend notes, photos, and loads of other memorabilia.
“Here it is.” Paisley unfurls a scroll tied with a pink ribbon.
“Funny, I still don’t remember,” Mila says.
Blakely points. “That’s your signature.”
Daisy reads it softly aloud as we gather close over her shoulder.
“We vow to enact this Marriage Match
If we don’t marry before our enemy.
From that cue, we have one year to say I do.
The next guy we date will be our fate.
Our grooms-to-be hold the key
To our hearts it’s true, so we won’t die blue.
The pact is a fact, an oath to betroth.
To break is to partake in work for the snake.
We five declare to complete this dare.
Signed...” She points to each of our names signed in ink.
We release our collective breath as the memory of that night floods back.
Paisley winces. “Our rhyme scheme is a little off.”
“If memory serves, a lot of movie theater candy was involved in the making of this pact,” I say, nudging Daisy at the reminder of her job during high school.
“I figured since it was more expensive, it would taste better. Don’t blame me for sneaking out candy containers. My boss was a creep.”
“I cannot believe you saved this.” Blakely smooths her hand over the paper scroll.
“I cannot believe we did this. So silly.” Mila laughs lightly.
“I cannot believe I have to marry the next guy I date,” I blurt.
“Remind me why we did this,” Daisy says.
In the low light, our gazes suggest we each recall the story—likely one she wants to forget. The one that involved her best friend Quincy Carter, Miranda, and prom night.
“That snake,” Mila hisses, referring to our frenemy.
“This is like a time capsule,” Paisley says after a beat. “I can’t believe we all vowed to marry if we weren’t already by the time Miranda tied the knot.”
Nervous laughter follows. The five of us are so in sync, if I’m questioning whether we have to follow through with this likely they are too.
“This seems drastic,” Blakely says.
“Extreme,” Mila adds.
“Daring,” I say.
“We made a pact,” Paisley says.
Mila shakes her head. “I have a reputation to keep.”
“What? Being perpetually single?” Blakely asks.
Because Mila has been staying with me, I happen to know she does date occasionally. In fact, my overactive imagination has dreamed up a secret life for Mila—unlike me, she does not wear her heart on her sleeve but does keep her cards close to her vest. Wait, vests don’t have sleeves. Anyway, she’s a dating diva, but is too stuck in her tough, cool-girl ways to admit it.
“Remember the Marriage Match Quiz we made?” Blakely says.
Paisley digs through the box. “Voila.”
We take turns looking at another relic, containing a series of questions aimed to identify the qualities of our ideal “mate”—Paisley was really into biology at the time. She’s since gone into law. And I used it as an early template for my Forever Match Map questionnaire that Miranda poached.
Blakely frowns when it reaches her. “Ew. My match was Blain Busch.”
“Wasn’t his father a senator?”
“Yeah, and his mother was the heiress to that popcorn factory outside Concord.”
“The one that caught fire?”
Blakely nods. “But she had three more overseas so no big deal. My parents would’ve loved for me to be Mrs. Busch. No way am I interested in some rich, arrogant snob—Mom and Dad would sell some of their top performing stocks if it meant they could play matchmaker to get me to say, ‘I do’ to someone who’d be advantageous to the family. I don’t is more like.” She squawks a laugh.
“The Marriage Match kind of reminds me of a blog I used t
o follow called The Valentine’s Day Dating Double Dare.” I tell them about another group of friends who dared a gal from their group with username @Catnip to go on five dates and then pick one for Valentine’s Day. She ended up finding and marrying her one true love. I think they got married. I should see if she’s updated it.
Online dating and the blog reminds me of @PacManWizard. I wonder what he’s doing right now—probably playing video games. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, but my kind of guy is adventurous in real life, strong, strapping, and could lift one of the ceiling beams with a single hand. Okay, maybe I’m getting carried away. But my ideal Marriage Match, my Forever Match, is a balance of brain and brawn.
When it’s my turn to read the quiz from high school, I remember the original disappointment I felt at my match not being Alex Wilder. “Raul Valle.”
“Wasn’t he from South America?”
I wrinkle my nose. “He tried to get me to call him Ralph and smelled like cheese.”
“But you love cheese,” Mila says.
“It’s true.” I sigh and a long beat passes.
“You have a look,” Paisley says. “Are you dating someone?”
I squish up my face like that’s ridiculous. It is. “Nope. Thinking about cheese.” And not @PacManWizard.
“Chatting with someone?” Paisley follows up.
I shrug, playing it totally cool. Yep, that’s me. You can’t see my sunglasses, but they’re on and I don’t have a care in the world. La, lala, lala.
“Tell us, tell us,” they chant.
“It’s nothing. Seriously. Are we doing this Marriage Match thing? Because if this is a dare, I have a ‘Get out of dare free’ card.”
“You do not. Let me see,” Mila says quickly.
“Fine. I don’t, but if I did...”
“Was Miranda really so awful?” Daisy asks.
We all gawk at her. Because the wooly mammoth-sized beast in the room that we never speak of because it was so heartbreaking and cruel has to do with her. Miranda was always a low-level frenemy, but then took things way too far and crushed Daisy under the heel of her chunky, platform heel on prom night.
Daisy swallows thickly as though regretting the question and bracing for our condemnation of Miranda on her behalf. We hold back.
“But how is this going to work? Paisley isn’t single. She’s engaged, so doesn’t that render the pact null and void?” Mila asks.
Paisley gazes at her hands as if she’s uneasy. A slippery feeling slithers into my stomach about her fiancé then just as quickly disappears when she says, “You know what’s also coming up? Our ten-year high school reunion. According to the fine print on the scroll, we each have to get married by then. Even me.”
“But you haven’t set a date.”
“That’s because of Jason’s production schedule, but we’ll get it figured out by then.”
Blakely winks. “Hollywood money can make a lot happen in a year. I have mockups for dresses ready to go.”
“So we’re all in?” I ask.
“What were you saying about a dating dare?” Paisley asks me.
“Are you turning this into a dare?” Mila asks.
“Figured it can’t hurt to up the ante. I don’t want to be the only one walking down he aisle.”
“Sneaky. You know we can’t back down from a dare. Fab Five rules,” I say, recalling an early mandate we made in our friendship guidelines.
Daisy stands at the edge of our group as we link hands the same as we used to anytime we were preparing for something serious—a date, a doctor’s appointment, going home with a report card...
“We have one year.”
I clear my throat. “Actually, three-hundred and thirty-five days. It’s after midnight.”
“I’m going to be a wreck tomorrow,” Paisley says. “I need my beauty sleep.”
“Yes, because it looks like you’ll be the first to walk down the aisle.”
She replies with a weak smile.
We return to the bridal suite at Knotty Pines Resort and the next thing I know, it’s go time—Miranda’s wedding. We each wear velvety blue dresses. Admittedly, I look a bit like Cookie Monster which is probably better than an ostrich. Also, we had a midnight cookie raid in Mr. And Mrs. Jones’ pantry because midnight munchies are real, especially after agreeing to this dumb dare.
Miranda seems to be on her best behavior during the photo session. But then everything slowly slides downhill, involving the absence of something blue (Mila fixes that), a missing bouquet (Daisy comes to the rescue), an auntie that doesn’t like the seating arrangement (Paisley missed her calling working with seniors—I swear she should’ve been a nurse rather than going into law), and a dozen other Miranda misdemeanors.
I’m standing beside Blakely watching the father-daughter dance when she whispers, “Forget bridezilla. More like... bridezilla meets groomzilla. Between her and Reed, it’s a match made in...”
“He doesn’t seem so bad.”
“The guy whines. A lot. ‘These shoes are too tight. I don’t like the smell of this hair gel. I think I’m allergic to shellfish.’ Wah, wah, wah. Let me assure you, they deserve each other.”
I stifle laughter. “At my wedding, I’ll be bride-chilla...”
“Like you’re so chill, you mean you’re going to elope?” Blakely asks.
“No, but I’m not going to stress or invite people out of obligation or because I want to humiliate them.” I toss a sharp eyebrow in Miranda’s direction.
“Nor will you throw—Watch out. Incoming. Duck,” Blakely says in rapid succession as she extends her arm and catches a shoe. Her smile is thin. “I work with a lot of hangry models, but this is—”
“That gives new meaning to the tossing of the bouquet. Looks like you’ll be the first to complete the pact,” I say.
Blakely laughs darkly. “Not likely.” She passes me the shoe. “That was aimed at you. Time to meet your Forever Marriage Match.”
I fight against throwing the shoe back at the bride...or her.
4
Shaw
In any other office, memes about it being Monday, complete with petitions for a steady coffee drip, would filter through the cubicles.
Not here. This is a no-fun zone. No laughter, no bowls of candy on desks, and definitely no pranks.
It’s partially my fault. I built this company and then handed over the reins without including a contingency in the contract that so much as hinting at a smile is permissible.
I wonder if I could change things. Write some code into these office stiffs that would force them to crack a joke around the water cooler. Oh, wait. We don’t have one of those. Instead, we have a glass, gravity-induced, touchless “bevi” dispenser.
Just to tick the others off, I could come in with a jumbo Slurpy or something equally obnoxious and filled with food dye and sugar.
They’d probably cower in fear that I’d dump it over one of their heads. It happened with a cup of water once—but the object of the liquid was hungover and not doing his job. I had to wake him up somehow.
I don’t usually go for stuff like that, but after being stuck here for much of the weekend, giving very little meaning to the start of the week since it never ended, I’m starved for diversion, amusement, something funny from @CookClickChick.
After checking my HUB messages for the third time and making sure I did not turn the settings for notifications off, I force myself to review the office brief—a timeline for what to expect this week, including projects completed and on the docket.
It’s all kinds of boring and I alternate between thinking about my next trip and wondering what @CookClickChick is doing right now.
What she’s wearing.
What she looks like.
What her voice sounds like...
My computer pings. In record time, except the time I intercepted some corrupted files that would’ve taken down our servers, I click on my HUB account.
@CookClickChick: Remind me not t
o go to another wedding for a while.
I know I should play it cool or at least make it seem like I’m working, but I reply instantly.
@PacManWizard: Then I’m guessing it was worse than the takeout order mix-up that plagued my Saturday night. Let’s say I’m not a fan of calamari. Someone got lucky and had my onion rings with their dinner.
@CookClickChick: Seriously? I love how calamari is so slimy and rubbery. Yum.
I wrinkle my nose.
@PacManWizard: Oh, I forgot. You love to cook. But that might be a deal breaker for me.
@CookClickChick: I’m kidding. Understandably, you wouldn’t want to be friends with someone who likes calamari. I wouldn’t either. I’ll admit I tried it once, and that was more than enough. The food at the wedding was subpar.
@PacManWizard: I bet you could’ve made a better menu.
@CookClickChick: For all you know, I could be terrible in the kitchen.
@PacManWizard: Nah, I can tell by the way you talk about cooking that you love it. No way could someone with that amount of passion be a bad cook.
@CookClickChick: I’m blushing. You’re too kind, sir.
This would be the opportunity for us to introduce the idea of getting together for a meal. For meeting in person. For making this something real. I blink a few times and remember to breathe. No, not going there. Anyway, considering the HUB and the companies involved, we probably live on opposite sides of the country. Although, I do travel frequently.
I tell myself to forget it.
@PacManWizard: Tell me about the wedding.
If we were in person, face to face, this would be dangerous territory, akin to asking her what her favorite baby names are. Guys know better than to bring up these topics because they could lead to other conversations—ones about the future, a shared future.
That is not on my timeline.
But with the buffer of screens and the internet between us, I can ask @CookClickChick anything. Well, almost anything. We never get too personal. We don’t even know each other’s real names.
