Author: Kristan Higgins

“We’re not together,” I say, fiddling with the hem of my shorts.

Ryan’s gaze snaps back to me. “Then why are you breaking up with me?”

I swallow. “Because, Ryan, I think you deserve someone who loves you with her whole heart.”

“Well, that’s a noble sentiment, if a bit sappy,” he replies. “Are you sure, Chastity? I think we’re really well-suited for each other.”

I shift on the couch to face him more directly. “Ryan,” I say softly, “I’m in love with another man. I care about you, and I like spending time with you…but not like…It’s just not enough.”

“It’s enough for me,” he says softly, and I can see that it’s true.

“Not for me,” I whisper, the tears dripping off my cheeks. “I’m sorry. I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

He pauses. “I’ll miss you, Chastity. You’re a lot of fun.” For a minute, I think he might get mushy, but no. “Well. Good luck.”

“Same to you,” I say, and with that, my engagement is officially over and done with.

What next, I have no idea.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

WORK IS INCREDIBLY BUSY the next day, mercifully, so I don’t have time to think about Ryan or Trevor or Perfect Hayden. Instead, I’m immersed in editing, assigning stories, talking to Alan about various and sundry issues, running things by Pen. Lucia gives me her piece for the month—seventeen column inches on making a wreath for your front door. “Looks fantastic, Lu,” I say, flying past her in order to avoid discussing it. Suddenly, I lurch to a stop and take a closer look at her.

“Lucia,” I ask hesitantly, “how are you doing about Teddy Bear and all that?”

“Fine!” she snaps. “I’m fine, okay?”

“Are you ready to start dating again, do you think?”

She hesitates, her frown evaporating. “Why?”

“Let me put it this way. Do you want to have kids?”

“Two,” she whispers back, catching my drift. “A boy and a girl. Hopefully in that order.”

Holy crap. I smile. “Mind if I fix you up with a surgeon?”

Because let’s face it. I didn’t exactly break Ryan Darling’s heart. I have a feeling that Lucia and Ryan meeting could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

I decide not to tell anyone in my family about breaking it off with Ryan until after Mom’s wedding. In truth, I’m lying low. If Matt suspects something, he’s keeping his mouth shut. Or he just doesn’t notice, too wrapped up in Angela and planning his college courses to notice his sister’s love life (or lack thereof). I cover by going out with the gang from work a couple of times, switching Ernesto’s rowing lessons to the evening, seeing a couple of movies by myself, with only a silo of popcorn for company. I take my dad out to dinner, but we go up to Lake Champlain so I don’t have to run into anyone from town.

Oddly enough, now that I’m single once again with no prospects for husband in sight, I feel more relaxed. Happier, even, for some reason. I guess I’ve found that I’d rather be alone than with the wrong person. Even if the right person is with someone else.

I avoid Emo’s. I avoid the firehouse. I really don’t want to see Trevor just yet.

I ask my mother if she’d like me to stay with her the last few days before the big day.

“Oh, honey, that would be great.” She smiles. “I’ve hardly seen you! Yes, by all means.”

And so, two nights before her wedding, she and I are sitting in the living room of my childhood, drinking cheap pinot grigio and having a rather wonderful time. Buttercup is asleep on my old bed; even from down the hall, we can hear her snoring.

“You really love that dog, don’t you?” Mom asks.

“Someone has to,” I answer. I study the living room walls…there are dozens of pictures of us, the O’Neill kids and grandkids, front teeth missing, christenings, first communions, graduations, baseball, basketball, crew, hiking, skiing, camping, action shots ordered from the paper, Matt and the little old couple he helped rescue from a house fire. Jack getting the Medal of Honor. Lucky and his fellow bomb squaddies when they defused a homemade and very powerful bomb from a high school. Mark and the kitty-cat montage.

And Dad. He’s everywhere, smiling, blue eyes gleaming, abundantly happy in every single picture.

“Where’s your wedding picture?” I ask, noting a blank spot on the wall.

Mom sighs. “In the closet.”

I swallow. “Can I have it?” I ask quietly.

“Of course.” She says no more, just takes another sip of her wine.

“Mom?” I venture.

“Not another lecture, honey,” she says, gazing out the window at the dark street.

“No, no.” I pause. “Ryan and I called it off, Mom.”

Her eyes flick back to me, unsurprised. “I thought so. You haven’t mentioned him for days. Why, honey?”

“Well, I just…we didn’t…Trevor. That’s why.”

She sets her wine glass on the table next to her chair. “What did he do?” she says, an ominous hint of Holy Roman Inquisitor in her voice.

“Not a thing,” I lie. My eyes fill, however, and Mom doesn’t miss it. “I just love him, Mom. Even if he doesn’t quite feel the same way.”

“Quite?”

“Well, I know he cares about me and all that crap, but he doesn’t want a relationship. With me, anyway. Too much to lose.”

“So you tossed over a perfectly good fiancé for nothing, honey?”

I snort. “Yes. I’d rather be alone than with someone who didn’t…measure up.” I wipe my eyes. “Don’t say anything to anyone just yet, okay?”

She nods, then goes into the kitchen and returns with the wine bottle. “Well, whatever. I think you’re brave, Chastity, forging out on your own. All or nothing. Do or die. By the way, I heard about that car accident when you were so calm. Good for you, honey! I’m so proud of you.”

“Thanks, Mom.” I take a slug of wine, and maybe the alcohol gives me the courage to say something once more, just for the record. “You don’t have to marry Harry, you know. Dad will love you till the day he dies.”

“In his own way, yes,” she says bitterly, then she starts to cry, too. “Oh, isn’t this fun? I’m so glad you came over,” she sobs, and I laugh wetly and go over to hug her.

“Let’s run off to Vegas, just us girls,” I suggest, and she gives me an affectionate swat.

“I’m going to be very happy with Harry,” she proclaims. “Guess what I’m giving him for a wedding present?”

“A new prostate?” I suggest.

“No, you bad girl. The Joy of Sex.”

I blanch. “Now who’s the bad girl, hm? Let’s change the subject! Isn’t The Office on tonight?”

I AWAKEN THE NEXT MORNING with my dog draped over my torso and no blood at all in my extremities. “Off!” I mumble, shoving Buttercup with my lifeless limbs. “Breakfast time.” She ignores me and remains corpse-like. I pet her ears and stare at the ceiling.

Mercifully, there is no official rehearsal dinner tonight. Instead, we’re going to Harry’s to meet his daughters and grandchildren and have pizza. “Okay, dog. Up and at ’em.”

My dog and I roll out of bed and careen down the hall, my legs still prickling. Water’s running in the kitchen, so that means Mom’s making coffee, thank God. I may be a little hungover.

The back door opens and closes, and I hear familiar footsteps. I grab Buttercup’s collar and lurch to a stop just outside the kitchen.

“What are you doing here, Mike?” my mother asks.

My breath catches. At last!

“Chastity, we know you’re there,” Dad says. “Come on in here, Porkchop.”

“Morning,” I mutter, obeying. Dad raises an eyebrow and doesn’t smile, making me feel like I’m in sixth grade again. I slink over to the coffeepot and pour myself a cup.

“What is it, Mike?” Mom asks, smoothing her hair down. She’s dressed already, looking very cute in her sweater set and beaded necklace.

“Betty—” he begins.

“Don’t start!” she barks. “You can’t do this to me the day before my wedding. I won’t—”

“Quiet, woman!” Dad snaps. “Listen. It’s not what you think.” He glances at me.

“I’ll just take my coffee down to the rec room, where I won’t eavesdrop at all,” I offer.

“No. Stay, sweetheart.” He looks at Mom again, then takes her hand, very gently, and looks down at her from the ten-inch difference in their height. “Betty,” he says softly, “you were a wonderful wife and an extraordinary mother. Thank you.”

A sob bursts out of me, causing coffee to splatter down my front. “Sorry,” I say, covering my eyes. Buttercup licks up the spilled coffee, then lies at my feet. Tears drip down my cheeks.

Dad doesn’t even glance at me. “I hope you and Harry will be very happy together, honey, and I’m sorry for every time I disappointed you,” he tells my mother.

She’s crying, too. “I’ll always love you, Mike,” she whispers.

“I’ll always love you, too. I wish I could’ve given you what you wanted.”

I press my arm against my mouth to stifle my crying. Dad leans down and kisses Mom on the forehead, then hugs her. His eyes glow with tears, but he’s smiling, too.

“Mike?” my mom says. “Will you do something for me?”

“Anything,” he answers, and in this moment, he means it.

“Will you give me away tomorrow?”

Dad wipes his eyes, then pulls back to look into Mom’s eyes. “It would be an honor,” he says.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

THE NEXT DAY AT ONE-THIRTY in the afternoon, I give my dress I final tug. “Do I look ridiculous?”

Elaina steps back and examines me critically. “You look hot, bambino. This is your color.”

“Pink?” I ask incredulously. “Pink?”

Olivia bursts through the bedroom door. “Oh, Auntie, you look so pretty!” she breathes. “Like Cruella DeVille!”

I shoot my niece a sharp look. “Thanks, Livvie. That’s definitely what I was going for.”

“It’s your hair,” Olivia explains. “It’s black-and-white, like Cruella’s.”

“It’s not black-and-white,” I tell my six-year-old niece with thinly veiled patience. “I have one or two gray hairs. My hair is black.”

“Actually, you do have kind of a streak going on here,” Elaina says, examining my head.

I slap her hand away. “Where are the rest of the girls?”

All of us bridesmaids—that is, my nieces and me—are wearing pink. A deep rose for me, pale pink for the girls. Mom, to my surprise, is wearing a red dress. She looks fabulous. Her cheeks glow, her blue eyes snap with excitement, and any bitterness or sorrow she’s been hiding seems to have evaporated with my father’s grand gesture.

No males are allowed at the house; it’s just us womenfolk as we dress and curl and spray and brush. The Starahs are in charge of their daughters, and I help buckle little shoes and zip little zippers. My brothers, father and nephews—and of course, Harry—will meet us at the church.

After the photographer torments us with an hour and a half of picture-taking, we spend several years (or so it seems) discussing who will ride with whom to the Unitarian church. “I’m just gonna walk,” I threaten. “It’ll be faster than this conversation.”