Author: Kristan Higgins

“So handsome!” Willa said, kissing her man.

“…and pineapple juice, for the sweet bride.” I smiled, getting an “aw” from the crowd. “Now maybe it doesn’t sound like those two ingredients go together…” I winked at my sister…“but when you try them, you’ll see. Crillas are fantastic! So go ahead, gang!”

This wedding reception was eternal. Faking good cheer was definitely not a specialty of mine, but Nick and I seemed engaged in a war as to who could ignore the other the most effectively. It seemed to be a draw. Here I was, behind the bar—I’d bartended through college, as well as during my brief stint in New York, and was now playing merry maid of honor. Nick, for his part, had claimed the role of available bachelor/uber best man, and had danced with every woman present from Emily to BeverLee to an elderly woman from Wisconsin who wasn’t a wedding guest but wasn’t complaining, either. Every woman but one, of course. He laughed and flirted and seemed as happy and good-natured as humanly possible, and I’d be damned if I was going to let on that my knees still buzzed from that kiss.

I’d been spared, that was it. In a moment of weakness, of useless, pointless sentimentality, I might’ve let things go further with Nick, and then I’d be swamped with regret and guilt. It was bad enough…Dennis hadn’t even crossed my mind during that kiss, and what the hell did that say, so thank the Lord nothing went any further. There was a reason Nick and I hadn’t worked, and it would serve me well to remember that.

As I went to the bar for my third Crilla, Jason Cruise approached, doing that side-to-side swagger so that the friction between his chubby thighs wouldn’t cause a fire. “Harper, wanna dance? Old time’s sake or whatever?” He adjusted his Wayfarers sunglasses. Wayfarers. Honestly. So 1980s.

“Bite me, Jason,” I said.

“Whoa. You don’t have to be such a bitch.”

“And you don’t have to breathe, Jason, yet you continue to do so. Frustrating.”

“Why do you hate me?” he asked. “What did I ever do to you?”

For a second, I wasn’t going to answer. Jason had, in point of fact, never done anything to me. But letting things go wasn’t exactly my forte. “I don’t hate you, Jason. You’re not important enough to hate. But I dislike you intensely.”

“Why?”

“Because I know about you, Jason,” I hissed. “How you treated Nick when you were kids, broke his toys, rubbed your life in his face and shot him in the chest with an arrow. Add to this the fact that you’re a shallow, irritating twit, and there you have it.”

“So? I thought you hated Nick.”

I opened my mouth to protest, reconsidered (I did rather hate Nick, at the moment, anyway). “Whatever.”

Jason lifted his Wayfarers to better ogle my breasts. “So how about that dance, Harper?”

Men. A friend of mine from law school had just gone the sperm-bank route. She was first in our class, okay? Clearly a brilliant woman.

I was saved from further interaction with Jason in the form of Firefighter Costello, all six foot two of him. “This guy bothering you, Harp?” he asked, looking down at Jason.

“Yes, Dennis. Please beat him to a pulp.”

Dennis gave me a startled glance. “Seriously?”

“Dude, I just asked her to dance,” Jason babbled, backing up rapidly. “She used to be family or something. That’s all. I wasn’t trying to, uh…you know. Whatever.”

I shot the little toad a lethal glance. “Shoo, Jason. Go back to your swamp.” He slumped away, bumping into one of the posts that held up the ceiling, since he’d put the stupid sunglasses back on, and went off to bore more people with his recitation of Tom Cruise’s biggest box-office hits.

“Wanna dance, babe?” Dennis asked.

“Definitely,” I answered, and so we did, my guilt over kissing Nick causing me to snuggle up against Dennis’s broad shoulder. Den smiled and copped a feel, since he was not a man to resist a breast, especially two so obviously offered as were mine.

“What time do you have to leave tomorrow?” I asked.

He grimaced. “My flight’s at seven,” he said. “Which means I have to catch the five-thirty shuttle.”

“You know what? Take the rental car,” I offered. “I’ll grab the shuttle later on.”

Dennis’s face lit up. “That’d be great, dude. Thanks.”

When I first asked him if he’d wanted to come to this wedding, Dennis hadn’t committed right away. The result was that he’d had to book a much less civilized flight than my afternoon departure. Dad and BeverLee were driving to Salt Lake City—I guess BeverLee had some third cousins there she hadn’t seen in years—then flying home from there, and so I’d be all alone on my journey back East. That was more than fine with me.

“Gotta hit the head,” Dennis said. “Catch you later.”

“Roger,” I answered.

As soon as he left, BeverLee came over, her Cinnabar so thick that I nearly choked.

“Have you had a chance for a sit-down with your daddy?” BeverLee asked, automatically reaching out to plump up my hair.

“BeverLee, I thought we agreed that I wasn’t the best one to interrogate Dad about…you know,” I said, resecuring my hair in its twist.

“Well. Sure, now. That’s fine and all.” She sat there, looking like a large, ungainly chick with that butter-colored hair and blue-mascaraed eyes.

“But I’ll…I’ll say something to him. Sure.” How’s that for a random act of kindness, Father Bruce? That should hold me for a month.

“Oh, thank you, sweet knees! That’s just so…! Oh! Thanks, darlin’! He’s right over there. No time like the present!”

“Okay.” I sighed, patted Bev’s freckled shoulder, then made my way through the dancing crowd. There was my ever-elusive father, handsome and solitary, sitting at a small table with a beer. “So, Dad,” I said.

“Harper.” He gave me a half nod.

“Having fun?”

“Sure. You?”

“Oh, yeah.”

It was turning into one of our longer conversations. After my mother had left, he’d ask such searching questions as “You okay?” to which I’d answer (in a sullen, resentful tone), “No,” which would fail to elicit further conversation and served only to make us both feel worse.

I sighed. “So, Dad, how are things with BeverLee these days?”

He slid his eyes over to me. “Why’d you ask?”

“Um…just because?”

He took another sip of his drink. “Actually, I think we may be…heading our separate ways.”

“Really?” A prickle of alarm ran up my spine. “Why’s that?”

“Just…growing apart.”

I sat rigidly. “Does that mean you’ve found someone else?” It often did, let me assure you.

“Oh, no. No, there’s no one else. I’m not the cheating type. We just…you know.” I didn’t know. BeverLee and Dad had been together for twenty years. Dad was sixty-two. Not that older people didn’t divorce. Still, I couldn’t help feeling…weird. With a sigh, I asked my dad if there was anything I could do.

“Maybe you could handle the divorce when it rolls around,” he suggested quietly.

“Absolutely not, Dad.”

“I’ll take care of her, don’t worry.”

“I’ll recommend someone for both of you. It doesn’t have to get ugly.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

We sat in silence for a few minutes. My father finished his beer. “Dad,” I said eventually, “have you talked to BeverLee about this? I don’t get the impression that she knows you’re thinking divorce.”

He glanced at me and looked away. “I will. Soon.”

I started to say something else, then reconsidered. If a person thought he wanted a divorce, well, it wasn’t my place to convince him otherwise. Besides conversations about emotions and feelings and love were not something I ever had with my father. Willa and he had always had a much easier time…she’d plop herself down on his lap and tease him and make him laugh. Much more normal than the Mexican standoff I myself had with dear old Dad. After all, I’d always been Mommy’s girl. Right up until she left.

I thought again of the envelope, sitting like a tumor in my suitcase.

BeverLee was looking at me anxiously. I gave her a shrug and a smile—Men, who knows?—and she nodded back. Sadly. Ah, poor Bev. She loved my father, though I did have to wonder if she really knew him, even after all their time together. According to her, the man practically invented air. Maybe that was the problem. The guy she had in her head bore little resemblance to the person who actually existed. It was a common enough problem.

Suddenly exhausted, I decided to call it a day. My sister and Christopher were locked together on the dance floor, playing tonsil hockey by the looks of it. I went over, tapped Willa on the shoulder and slapped on a smile. “I’m beat, guys,” I said. “See you tomorrow at breakfast, right?”

“Actually, we’re leaving early,” Chris said. “Heading up to Two Medicine for some camping.”

I looked at Willa, and my chest tightened. “Well, call me when you can. When do you think you’ll be heading back East?”

The happy couple exchanged a glance. “We’re kind of playing it by ear, Harper,” my sister said.

Great. That always worked out, especially when traipsing around the wilderness with grizzlies and wolves and potential snowstorms. But I held my tongue, and Willa gave me a huge hug. “Thanks for everything, Harper,” she said, smooching my cheek.

“Oh, sure,” I murmured. Not that I’d done anything other than voice doubt, of course. “Mazel tov, okay?” Lame. “Listen…I hope you’ll be very happy.” Still lame, but better. I hugged Willa back, always a little awkward where physical affection was concerned. I nodded to my new brother-in-law then headed to my room. Just before I started up the stairs, someone said my name.

“Hey.” It was Chris. “Listen, Harper. I know this must’ve been awkward, seeing Nick and all, me marrying your sister, and I know you don’t really approve. I just wanted to say thanks for coming out here. It meant a lot to your sister. And to me, too.” He smiled. Not without his brother’s charm, this guy.

“Well,” I said. “Just be careful, Chris. Marriage is hard. I want you guys to make it, I do.”

“I really love her,” he said earnestly. “I haven’t known her all that long, I realize that, Harper, but I do love her.”

“Well, you better. You’re married now. All the days of your life.” I patted his shoulder. “Good luck. Really.”

As I climbed the stairs, I imagined I felt Nick looking at me, but when I turned, I didn’t see him.

Though I’d checked on Coco numerous times throughout the day and Dennis had taken her for a couple of walks, she was in full Chihuahua orphan mode, huge eyes, still body, not raising her head from her tragic little paws, looking at me as if I’d just locked her in Michael Vick’s basement. Her bunny was on the floor (I was sure this was deliberate), reinforcing the fact I hadn’t visited poor little Coco in nearly two hours.

I picked her up and kissed her funny little head. “I’m very sorry,” I told her. “Please forgive me. Pretty please.”

She acquiesced, morphing back into Jack Russell territory, and gave a wriggle of delight, then licked my chin, letting me know I was forgiven.

“Hey, you’re here,” Dennis said, emerging from the bathroom, his shaving kit in his hands. On the bed, his suitcase was open, clothes stuffed in haphazardly. I released Coco and began refolding his stuff so it wouldn’t wrinkle so much.