Arranged (12 page)

Oh. My. God. I think I might actually pass out.

All I can manage to say is “Oh.”

“Again, not the response I was looking for.”

I need to breathe. Yes, breathing would be good.

“You okay, Anne?” Jack puts his hand on my arm. My skin warms to his touch.

“I’m kind of freaking out.”

“Come on, let’s go.”

“But we need to tell Ms. Cooper whether we’re getting married.”

“Forget about that. Just come with me.”

Jack stands and reaches out his hand. After a moment’s hesitation, I place my hand in his and let him lead me to an exit located at the opposite end of the room from where Ms. Cooper is standing.

We walk past the pool and down a set of steps to the dark beach. I sit on a low concrete wall, breathing in and out deeply, trying to get my bearings. I usually love the tangy scent of ocean, but tonight it barely registers.

I take off my shoes, bury my feet in the soft white sand, and think about what Dr. Szwick told me to do if I had doubts. “Concentrate on what brought you here,” he said. “Trust in your decision. Trust yourself.”

I’m here because I want what everyone else has. I want a family. I want to be married. I decided to do this. I have to trust myself. I have to . . .

“Anne? You all right?”

I open my eyes. Jack’s standing in front of me, looking concerned.

“I’m okay.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

Jack stuffs his hands in his pockets. “Look, I don’t want you to do anything you’re not comfortable with. I just thought, since we’re here, and we seem to get along . . . and I felt . . . I
feel
a connection between us . . .”

I have to trust myself. I have to trust the decision I made.

“I know, Jack. I feel it too.”

He smiles. “What do we do?”

“Keep talking to me.”

“I can do that.” He sits down on the wall next to me so that we’re both facing the ocean. “Looks fake, doesn’t it?”

The moon is full, and all around it are thin clouds illuminated by its glow. The wind has dropped, and the water’s so calm, it’s almost flat. A lone palm next to us has a strand of tiny neon lights wound around its trunk. It reminds me of a movie set staged for a perfect romantic night.

“You’re right, it does.”

Jack takes off his shoes and socks, rolls up his pants, and imitates me by digging his toes into the sand.

“What’re you doing?”

“It seemed to do you good, so I thought I might try it.”

“You’re a strange man, aren’t you?”

He grins. “And here I was, thinking I was hiding it.”

“Not so much.”

“Oh, well. There’s always next time.”

“Next time?”

“Yeah, you know, your replacement. Match quotient seven.”

“You’re prepared to take a step down?”

“It’s not what I want, but in the interest of preserving the mission, I guess I’ll have to learn to cope.”

“The mission?”

He grins nervously. “Yeah, you know, Operation Get Married Before I’m So Fat and Ugly, No One Will Have Me. Oh, sorry, guys aren’t supposed to think that way, are they?”

I laugh out loud, too loud for the silence surrounding us. He smiles briefly. We sit there staring at the moon, listening to the ocean beat against the sand.

“What are you thinking about?” I ask eventually.

He glances sideways at me. “Why do girls always ask that?”

“Because we always want to know.”

“Always?”

“Well, usually.”

“You know, I think this is going to work out well.”

“How so?”

“Since I’m not trying to impress you, I can find out all the things I’ve always wanted to know about women but was too afraid to ask.”

“You’re not trying to impress me?”

“You know what I mean. We don’t have to play games—”

“I get it. And I think you’re right. In a weird way, there
is
less pressure than usual.”

He gives me a hopeful smile. “So you’ll tell me what I’ve always wanted to know?”

“I might tell you the truth about me, but I’m not going to betray the whole sisterhood.”

“We’ll see.”

I watch a small wave crest and break on the shore. My heart feels calmer than it has in a while. There’s just one nagging thought I can’t get past.

“Jack, do you buy in to this friendship-philosophy thing? Have you really given up on the idea of love?”

He’s quiet, pushing his toes around in the sand.

“You don’t have to answer.”

“No, it’s okay. I guess the truth is, I don’t know. Do I exclude the possibility of meeting someone between now and death that I’ll fall in love with? No, of course not. How could I? But have I accepted that the people I’ve been with haven’t made me happy in the long run? Yeah, I guess I have. And I do believe in friendship. I think you can be happy with a friend who wants the same things you do. Does that answer your question?”

“Yeah.”

“What about you? Have you given up on love?”

“I guess that’s what I’m struggling with. I know I’ll keep meeting people I’m attracted to, but that hasn’t gotten me anywhere. I’m thirty-three years old, and I’ve never been in a good relationship. I don’t want to struggle anymore.”

We watch the moon and clouds floating overhead.

“Maybe it’s
harder
to make it work if you start out in love,” Jack says.

“Why do you think that?”

“Because if things change, you remember how they used to be, and you’re disappointed. If you don’t have any expectations going in, you can’t be let down.”

“Sounds cynical.”

“Maybe. I don’t have all the answers. I only know that I don’t think Blythe and Company fucked up when they put us together.” Jack looks directly into my eyes, and I feel my stomach whoosh in the way it usually does with men who look like Aaron, Tadd, and Stuart.

“What do you think?” he asks gently.

Decision time, Anne. What’s it going to be?

“I think we should . . . get married. What do you think?”

“I think I agree with you.”

We smile at each other. I like his eyes. The green has a rim of blue around the outside, a trace of their newborn color.

“You know, you never answered me when I asked what you were thinking.”

“I was thinking this is a hell of a first date.”

“That’s sweet.”

He looks troubled. “It’s not the way we’re supposed to be thinking, though, is it?”

“I guess not. Still, you can’t erase years of training in one day.”

“No.”

“Maybe that’s what therapy is for. We have ways of making you stop expecting love.”

“Dr. Szwick again.”

“There’s no escaping him.”

“I guess not. But still . . .” Jack leans forward and kisses me gently. His beard is softer than I expected. His lips are firm, a good fit. After a moment, he pulls back and looks at me shyly.

“I bought you something this afternoon. It’s not much, but I wanted to give you something. You know, if you agreed . . .”

He reaches into the front pocket of his shirt and takes out a silver band. It has a turquoise stone inset across the flat top, which reminds me of the color of the ocean. It glows blue-green in the moonlight.

“It’s beautiful,” I say.

He slips the ring on my left ring finger. It fits perfectly.

“Will you marry me, Anne?”

“Yes, Jack, I will.”

Chapter 11

All I Want to Do Is Dance, Dance

J
ack and I walk up from the beach to the hotel, where two buses are waiting to take us to our bachelor and bachelorette parties. Ms. Cooper is standing off to the side, talking to one of the couples. Jack goes to tell her we’re getting married.

“Nine and twelve-fifteen,” Jack says when he returns.

“What’s that?”

“Therapy at nine, marriage at twelve-fifteen.”

A double whammy.

“Right.”

We stand there awkwardly. The spell that the moonlit beach cast is losing its grip.

“I’ll see you tomorrow morning?” Jack says eventually.

“Sounds good.”

“Have fun tonight.”

“You too.”

He gives my hand a squeeze and ambles off toward his bus. As I watch him walk away, some of the panic that subsided on the beach worms its way back into my body. I think it starts in my ring finger. Good thing I’m headed toward a drink.

I follow the line of women climbing on the bus and take a window seat.

Margaret slips into the seat next to me. “Hi, Anne!”

The bus jerks forward and turns onto the same street that brought us here from the airport what seems like ages ago.

“This is going to be fun!” she says.

“I guess. Do you know where they’re taking us?”

“Somewhere called Señor Frog’s, I think,” she says in a bad Mexican accent. “How did it go tonight?”

“With what?”

“Meeting your husband-to-be, silly.”

Right. My husband-to-be, Jack. I’m going to marry Jack. I just agreed to do that on the beach.

“Good, I think. You?”

“Yeah, it was really good.”

“What did you talk about?”

“My kid, his kid. Nothing much.”

“But you had an easy time talking?”

“Of course. We wouldn’t be a good match if we didn’t.”

“Isn’t that a flawed argument?”

She looks puzzled. “What do you mean?”

“You could’ve had a good conversation without being a good match, right?”

“I guess.”

“One good conversation doesn’t mean anything.”

A trace of uncertainty crosses Margaret’s face. Shit. What am I doing? She’s happy, and I’m using her as a sounding board for my inner turmoil.

The bus slows down and turns in to a parking lot next to a brightly lit disco. A green neon frog crouches over the entrance as a line of women and men stream through the door.

After paying a cover charge to an enormous bouncer, we enter the steamy bar. The music’s pulsing rhythm is so loud that I can barely hear myself think, but that might not be a bad thing. The strobe lights flick around at odd angles, illuminating the black walls and a large dance floor covered in twentysomethings glistening with sweat as they bounce to the beat. The air smells like too many people, old alcohol, and dry ice.

I order a margarita for me and a piña colada for Margaret from a bartender who’s wearing a black mesh top. We clink glasses and down our drinks.

As the alcohol seeps into my bloodstream, I can feel my shoulders loosening, the tension beginning to lift.

“Let’s dance!” Margaret yells into my ear.

All the wine, stress, and margaritas make this seem like a good idea. I set my empty glass on the bar and follow her onto the dance floor. She immediately starts flinging herself in all directions, like the whirling dervishes I saw at a Dead concert I went to a few years before Jerry died. I dance more sedately next to her, letting myself meld into the music. I don’t know if it’s the heat or the alcohol, but my body’s moving more fluidly than it usually does. I might actually be having fun.

“Can I buy you a drink?” asks one of the men dancing near me. He’s wearing a white T-shirt, loose cargo shorts, and sandals. He’s tall and slim, with dark hair and light eyes. If I squint, I might mistake him for Pierce Brosnan, circa 1985. Only younger.

“Sure.”

I follow him to the bar, and he orders me a margarita.

“How’d you know what I was drinking?” I yell over the music.

“I saw you order one before,” he says into my ear, his breath tickling my skin.

Oh boy. He’s gorgeous, and he’s been checking me out, and he looks like he’s twenty-two. This has trouble written all over it. I take a step back.

“Well . . . thanks.”

“Welcome. I’m Tom.”

“Anne.”

“First time here, Anne?”

“That’s right.”

“You here alone?”

I motion to where Margaret is still at it on the dance floor. “I’m kind of here with her.”

He laughs. “Really? She a friend of yours?”

“Um, yeah, sort of. How old are you?”

“I’m twenty-two. You?”

“What do you think?”

He sizes me up. “Twenty-six.”

Ha! This guy is so trying to get into my pants. Too bad I’m not remotely interested.

“How old do you
really
think I am?”

Wait, that’s interesting . . .

He shrugs. “Twenty-eight, twenty-nine.”

This guy’s my type . . .

“Good try.”

“Am I right?”

. . . and clearly into me. But . . .

“A lady never tells.”

He leans in closer. He smells like beer and the beach. “You wanna dance?”

. . . I’m really not interested. Not even a little bit.

“Sure.”

I follow him onto the dance floor, amazed at my newfound immunity to the Stuarts of the world. We face each other and start to move to the beat, laughing as we watch Margaret being free to be you and me.

“Can I cut in?” a familiar voice says. Jack’s voice. He looks a little angry. Or jealous. Maybe both.

“What’re you doing here?” I ask him.

“The men’s bar was lame.”

“This bar’s pretty lame too.”

He eyes Tom. “Looks like you’re having a good time.”

My heart gives a weird little beat. “I was just dancing.”

“Okay.”

“You’re not jealous, are you?”

“What? I can’t hear you.”

I yell louder. “You’re not jealous, are you?”

The music cuts out at precisely this moment. I’m yelling into a quiet room.

Tom puts his hand on my shoulder. “Everything okay, Anne?” He looks at Jack with a challenge in his eyes.

I shrug his hand off me. “Everything’s fine. Tom, this is my, um, fiancé, Jack.”

Tom’s eyes widen. “You didn’t say you had a fiancé.”

“Well, she does.”

Tom looks back and forth between Jack and me. “Nice to meet you, Anne.”

“You too, Tom. Thanks for the drink.”

“No problem.”

The music comes back on, a danced-up version of Imogen Heap’s “Hide and Seek.” Jack and I stare at each other, uncertain. I move closer to him so he can hear me without my yelling.

“Are you pissed?”

“Should I be?”

“He bought me a drink and asked me to dance. He’s twenty-two. Nothing happened, and nothing was going to happen.”

“That’s what the guys you’ve liked in the past look like, though, right?”

“Pretty much, yes. But—”

“What am I supposed to do with that, Anne?”

“I don’t know, but I wasn’t interested in him. I should’ve been, but I really wasn’t.” I take another step toward him. The colored lights play across the planes of his face, glinting off his beard. “You know, you look cute when you’re mad.”

“I do, huh?”

“Yeah.”

His face softens. “Good to know.”

“Am I forgiven?”

“For now.”

“You want to dance?”

I hold out my hand, and after a second’s hesitation, he puts his in mine. We walk to a clear spot on the dance floor and start dancing.

We quickly fall into a good rhythm, matching the pulse of the music. He’s a surprisingly good dancer, though I’m not sure why this should surprise me. After a few minutes, I can tell Jack’s residual anger has melted away. He moves closer to me; our bodies are touching every third beat, and I don’t mind. I move to the left and our thighs touch. He moves to the right and our arms brush. A lock of hair slips across my face. He brushes it away. I feel shivery where he touches me, as if a cold hand touched my skin, even though his hand is warm.

The DJ transitions to a slower song—something by Colbie Caillat, I think. Jack places his hands on my hips, and we move together to the pace of the music. I can feel his fingertips through my dress, warm and strong.

I look up. Jack’s face is glowing. I raise my hands to his shoulders, and he leans in and kisses me. As we tilt into the kiss, his tongue edges my lips apart. He tastes like beer and mint gum. His hands pull me closer, closer, and now I can smell him too: woods and soap and the salt of his sweat from the hot room.

The music cuts out suddenly, and we fall apart, out of breath. My head’s spinning, and I feel like something’s been taken away from me, though I’m not sure what.

Jack is looking at me with an expression I haven’t seen before. “Anne . . .”

“There you are!” Margaret yells, even though the music’s stopped.

“Hi, Margaret. This is Jack.”

“You’re not supposed to be here,” she says to him.

“I thought I’d see what Anne was up to.”

“She was dancing with a kid!”

His face slackens. “I saw that.”

“Why’d they turn the music off?” I ask Margaret.

“I think it’s time to go.”

We walk toward the front doors and line up to leave. Jack is standing behind me, close enough so our bodies are touching. I check the big clock over the exit. It’s one in the morning. One in the morning on our wedding day.

“We still getting married today?” I ask quietly.

He puts his hands around my waist, holding me tight. “Why the hell not?”