Save the Date Read online

  Seeing him as a man … I’m always a little unnerved at how attractive he is. I guess he was always cute, with that boyish charm, the dimple, the perfectly unruly brown hair cropped close on the sides. But as he’s aged, that thing that happens to men began to happen to Reese. He looks more rugged, his shoulders filled out and muscles have replaced the gangly boy I once knew. Dark stubble dotted his jaw and cheeks, and his eyes became even more impossible to stare at … the way the brown mixed with the light green was hard to pull your eyes away from. Reese had always been taller, but now he towered over me, a good foot above where I stood.

  I’m a woman, and I can only deny it to myself so much when I see a hot guy. Which is why it’s hard now to associate my best friend Reese with the gorgeous specimen who stands before me.

  “I thought you were going to blow me off. Kind of like junior prom.” His dimple pops out, and that paired with the suit does strange things to my stomach.

  I can’t help but frown. Maybe I’m just in my head about the pact. Stop being a weirdo, I scold myself.

  Reese motions to the hostess that we’re ready, and I follow him to our table. “You’re never going to let me live that down, huh? I had a chance to kiss Mike Hull under the bleachers, what other choice did I have?”

  I’d ditched my best friend for the dance we were supposed to share on prom night to make out with a guy who now worked as a used car salesman in our hometown. Looking back, I had been an idiot.

  Although, most of my choices in men up until now have been idiotic.

  “You had the choice to dance with me to Boyz II Men, that’s what you had. Good to see you, peas.”

  We had decided, after we’d watched Forest Gump for the first time, that I would be peas and Reese would be carrots. It was a kid’s rationale that led to this decision. I was shorter, and Reese had reasoned that I had boobs (barely), therefore, he was the carrot.

  He scoops me up into a hug before we sit down, and I can’t help but hold on a little longer. I forgot for a while how much I missed him, how big a part in my life he played.

  The restaurant is packed on a Thursday night, people ready for the weekend. It’s low lighting, modern, industrial feel and blue accents are designed to make the diner feel as if they’re eating in an old fish market. Or so I read from our food columnist in one of the Sunday editions.

  Reese stares at me, studying my face when we’re seated across from each other. I pick up the menu, my stomach grumbling.

  “You look good, kid.” He cocks his head to the side. “A little tired, but good.”

  “Is that your way of telling me I look like crap, but only a little crap? I’m getting the surf and turf by the way, because my benefactor can afford it.” I snap my menu shut.

  The waitress comes and we order wine and put in our meals.

  “What, no picklebacks?” Reese smiles, shrugging out of his suit jacket and hanging it on the back of his chair.

  “It’s early, yet, carrots.” I smirk, up for some rounds at the bar after. It’s been a hell of a week. “Now tell me about your interview.”

  We eat lazily, recounting old stories and drinking a little, okay a lot, of wine. Reese tells me that he knocked his interview out of the park, and I tell him how terrible the paper is. I wish I knew what it was like to love my job. Well … I sort of did, but my passion was more of a free time hobby right now than it was an actual career.

  The way Reese talks about being a neonatal nurse inspires dreams. He speaks about it as if he slays dragons or something, like it’s all consuming and he gets up every day, completely happy and content in his position.

  I forgot how he could light me up like a lightbulb, how he could make everything around him shine.

  “God, do you ever look at pictures of yourself from high school and think, I was so much skinnier then? I will never be that skinny again.” I sulk into my glass of red, well and drunk by this point.

  Reese raises an eyebrow at me. “Yeah, guys don’t really do that. I do look back at those pictures and think, ‘Why in the hell did I cut my hair like that?’”

  “Lord, that crew cut was awful. And you’d do that horrible spike in the front thing with that gel stick … you looked like a boy band member.” I giggle.

  “You thought it was cute. Or, at least, Mary Kate Smith did.” He winks, a dirty secret of the past from when he got to third base with her in my living room.

  “You’re disgusting. I had to scrub those couch cushions before my parents got home, because I thought they would smell like sex. Morgan always kept going on about how our parents could tell if any kissing or tomfoolery had gone on. Probably so I wouldn’t do any of it.” I laughed, remembering.

  “Tomfoolery, eh? So you weren’t a prude, you were just petrified of your parents finding out.” His glass meets his lips, and I find myself watching the action.

  I shrug, the liquor invading my brain. “Who said I was a prude? You just weren’t around when I got my rocks off. I didn’t kiss and tell.”

  Reese’s hazel eyes shimmer green with the greed to know more details. But he doesn’t ask. “Well, for what it’s worth, I like how you look now. More curves, instead of those skinny little chicken legs and bony hips you used to have.”

  I throw my napkin at him. “Jerk. I didn’t even bring up the puka shell necklace you used to wear, but now I will. You’ve never even surfed in your life, yet you had that stupid 2000s version of a choker necklace on at all times.”

  Reese laughs, a booming, jubilant sound escaping from his lips. I haven’t seen him in months, and somehow forgot how lethal that boyish little dimple that marks his right cheek is. He may look like a man now, but when he laughs, I’m transported back in time to the days when we used to play under the willow tree in his backyard.

  I need to remind myself of his monster of a girlfriend, because my thoughts are going sideways and I’m being a creep.

  “So, how’s Renée? Of Reese and Renée, of course.” I smirk, because I can’t help but be a bitch.

  Renée was Reese’s girlfriend, or so I thought they were still together. She was a buyer for Macy’s out of Dallas, had naturally pin-straight auburn hair that hung to the middle of her back, and could put Carrie Underwood’s legs to shame. No, I wasn’t jealous whatsoever. Cue eye roll.

  His boo, who he’d been seeing on and off for two years, had an Instagram similar to my own, with less followers. Somehow, that fact always made me smile.

  Oh, and did I mention she also hated me? Yeah, for some reason, the female best friend of her boyfriend, who he confided in more than her, wasn’t at the top of her bestie list. Go figure.

  Not that I minded, because I wasn’t her biggest fan either. They were too perfect, the sheen coming off of their relationship sweet as sugar. Which meant that, of course, it was all bullshit. Reese had told me how sour the pairing was on the inside, how she nagged him, how he hated it. Yet, my best friend stuck with her, because he loved her. Or so he said.

  I think he stayed because, well … Reese always stayed. He was somewhat of a girlfriend slut. Meaning, he was always in a relationship. He was the kind of male who had no idea how to function outside of one, he needed a woman to tell him which way was up.

  To someone like me, who was fiercely independent, it just made no sense. I would run for the hills if anyone tried to tell me squat, much less control my daily narrative. I never understood how he could care so little about being codependent.

  “I wouldn’t know, I haven’t spoken to her since I landed.” His eyes don’t leave mine when he takes another sip.

  And once more, the promise we swore to uphold tickles the front of my brain.

  Four

  Reese

  Picklebacks are worse than I remember.

  It started as a joke when we were in college, to find the grossest shot we could muster drinking. We’d vowed to visit each other every month, her at Villanova and me at Drexel. We’d always met at some restaurant or café, and then when we turned twenty
-one, a bar. On a particularly bad night for Erin, the latest moron had broken her heart, she told me she wanted to get fall-down drunk. And of course, I’d obliged.

  After about six rounds, we just started doing stupid shit for fun. Drinking games, truth or dare, and then, find the grossest shot.

  The bartender had poured us picklebacks, and I’d almost puked mine up on the wooden bar top. It had been our thing ever since.

  I watch as Erin tips it back, her long throat quivering as the liquid slides down it. Her blond hair, the color of sunflower petals, is longer than I remember, with short bangs framing her face. She’s lost weight since the last time I saw her, but those curves are still there. They have been since senior year of high school, when I could no longer ignore the roundness of my best friend’s breasts or tone of her ass. I can’t say I haven’t thought about her in a bikini, or the one time I caught her naked in my childhood bedroom. To be honest, that was shameful spank bank go-to for years.

  It might still be.

  Erin’s long legs are crossed, the skirt she wore to work hiked up and two buttons on the white collared-shirt undone to reveal the smattering of freckles on her chest. She looked hot, in a girl-next-door kind of way, which had always been her signature.

  “So, you know what’s coming up, right?” I broach the subject, because of course thirty doesn’t just mean reaching an age milestone for the two of us.

  And of course, because I’ve had too much to drink and ever since I got the call about the position at CHOP, I’ve been thinking about Erin and our marriage pact.

  She winces from the aftertaste of the shot, but lays an unsteady grip on my forearm. “Oh, shut up. We’re not talking about this.”

  Deadpan, I look at her. “We promised that when we turned thirty, if we weren’t married to other people, then we’d get married to each other.”

  It’s true. We’d taken the oath in my backyard under the willow tree after Erin’s first boyfriend, Dan the football jerk as we referred to him, had dumped her. Pinky promise, spit on the hands and everything.

  Erin laughs, but the humor doesn’t reach her eyes. “We made that pact when we were fifteen! Get the fuck out of here!”

  I level with her, spinning out on the idea as if a lightbulb has gone on and it’s the most genius thing we could ever do.

  “Come on, think about it! There would be no lies or false bullshit. We’d shoot straight with each other. It would be fun, like having a sleepover with your best friend every night! And we’re both hot, the sex would be good.”

  Not for the first time, my blood heats thinking about what it would be like to have Erin on top of me.

  “Yuck, stop it now. You’re going to make me barf up that pickleback.” Erin shudders as if I’ve just told her the most disgusting joke in the world.

  I brush it off, a little hurt, with a sarcastic barb. “Fine, but don’t come crying to me when you turn into an old maid.”

  Erin rubs her ankle, the back of her shoe slipping off her heel. “Technically, by nineteenth century standards, I’m already an old maid. But, Elizabeth Bennett finally found her prince in the end. And she didn’t have dating apps or sex toys. So … I think I’m doing slightly better than her.”

  This is how she’s always been. Sarcastic. Smart. Independent. Gorgeous. And somewhat detached.

  It’s become worse, the ice-cold heart, since her parents announced their divorce a couple years ago. It had been messy and mean, and I could see how it slowly destroyed the small hope Erin had ever had in the emotion of love.

  She had never been the most affectionate person. In fact, most people we grew up with knew she was like a diamond. Shiny, attractive, someone everyone was drawn to. But Erin was cold, off limits to a lot of people, could be cutting. Except to me. I knew how to get under that rock-hard exterior.

  “Ah, so a rich, semi-aloof land owner who likes art and long walks through the woods is going to come along and sweep you off your feet?”

  “I can’t believe you remember the plot of Pride & Prejudice.” Erin laughs, a strong, rich sound that always came from the back of her throat.

  I’d forgotten how that throaty voice affected me, a smoker’s tone coming from such a thin, petite woman. If you ever spoke to her on the phone, you might envision a burly truck driver. I’m not sure why it made her more attractive, but it always had.

  I’d also forgotten how to hide the crush I had on my best friend. After eighteen years, you’d think I’d be an expert at putting on the front, but it seemed that I’d gotten rusty with the time and distance.

  “I’m the bookish one between us, remember? The nerd, as you used to call me. And just because it’s a romance doesn’t mean I didn’t read every book assigned to us in high school. And then there is the fact that you made me watch the movie with Kiera Knightly about a million times.”

  My beer is almost empty, and I motion to the bartender to bring another. We’ve drank way too much, and she has to work tomorrow and I have a plane to catch, but neither of us seems to care. It’s been too long since we did this.

  “So? I love the movie, whatever.” She shrugs, annoyed that I pointed out a soft spot in her armor.

  “Back to the pact …” I half-tease.

  I can’t say I haven’t thought about what a marriage with Erin would look like. What it would feel like if we actually stepped over the cliff. What her lips would feel like if I kissed them.

  “What, is Renée holding out on you? Are you really that horny that you’d resort to me?” Erin scoffs, leaning back on her bar stool a little.

  She keeps bringing up Renée, and something tells me it’s a defense mechanism.

  “You’re never a last resort, Erin. I thought I taught you that.” My voice is serious now. “You know you’ve been the top woman in my life.”

  I wasn’t joking when I said that. Anytime one of my girlfriends gave me an ultimatum, or asked me to distance myself from my best friend, I’d chosen her. I’d tried, every time she broke up with one of those boneheads she dated, to remind her that she deserved the very best kind of man to love her.

  She salutes me and giggles. “Yes, sir.”

  I lean forward, the alcohol and my thoughts possessing me.

  Erin’s eyes grow wide with panic. “What are you doing, Reese?”

  “Just sit still, peas.” I palm her cheek.

  I probably shouldn’t do this, have come close a couple of times but never acted on it. But now, with the pact and our thirtieth birthdays looming over our heads, I want to know what it would be like. I want her to stop laughing about us together. I’m genuinely curious.

  I’m not sure why Erin lets me move my mouth closer to hers, and it suddenly strikes me that I’m doing this with liquid courage in both of our systems. I shouldn’t taste her this way, our first, if only, kiss should be sober. But I can’t stop now, not when she’s allowing me to get this close.

  Shutting my brain off, I close the gap between us, touching my mouth to hers. Years of friendship, hinge on this small, but oh so big, action.

  She’s salty, from the shot, and I push my lips against her cupid’s bow mouth, inhaling the citrus of her perfume.

  I’ve kissed probably a hundred women, which is why Erin called me a manwhore sometimes, but none of them had been like this.

  The velvet of her cheek is smooth under my fingers, and I can feel the muscles in her jaw work as we kiss. Our mouths explore for a few seconds, friction sparking between our lips, before I slip my tongue past her teeth. The minute it touches hers, something in my chest loosens, like the exact key to the lock on my heart has finally been found and turned.

  Erin breaks off first, suddenly, coughing and giggling loudly as she reaches for her martini and taking a giant gulp, finishing the drink.

  A nervous laugh leaves the lips I was just kissing. “All right, carrots, you got your shot. And I think it proved that we’re not meant to live happily ever after.”

  I have to swallow my disbelief, keep it from cl
ouding my features. Because if anything, that kiss proved to me that everything I’d been looking for in a woman had been sitting right in front of my eyes for eighteen years.

  And now I’m going to have to go back to pretending that we’re just friends, because she clearly didn’t feel any of that.

  Five

  Erin

  I’ve never been an overly emotional person. In fact, at one point, I questioned if I even had them.

  Yeah, I love my sister, Morgan, and my parents. I have friends, good ones even, and I’ve always had Reese. But … the way other people outwardly act toward each other, I’ve just never been able to connect with that. Hugging, braiding each other’s hair, freaking out when a boy texts and they all decide what to respond with as a group.

  Needing to go to the bathroom in giggling hordes. I never understood that one. Who needed a buddy system to pee in a public restroom?

  Don’t get me wrong, that doesn’t mean I’m absolutely not girly. I love all things clothes, bags, candles, flower arrangements and shoes. Especially shoes. It’s why I started my blog two years ago, Shoes and the City.

  The blog that almost every single one of my coworkers has no idea about, even if I do have over two hundred thousand followers on Instagram. And even if I do spend every single waking moment, when I’m not work, curating content in the hopes of making it my full-time career.

  As of now, I feel like I’m living a double life. The shit I comb through by day at my corporate, boring job. And the passion that lights me up on nights and weekends. Jesus, it basically sounds like my blog is my mistress.

  But still, despite all of that not needing to gossip and giggle, I feel the need to download on someone about that kiss with Reese.