“He went to high school with Tim. He’s divorced. Got married a few years ago, but it didn’t work out.”
I recoiled slightly. Sure, I knew people who had been divorced. At thirty-two, who didn’t? But I had avoided dating into that pool. Anyone who had already hit that level of commitment seemed like they were on a different plane of existence than I was. “Kids?”
“Nah.”
“When did they split up?”
“Last year, I think? He was kind of out of commission while they were married, then he started trying to reconnect with people after it ended. Sounds like she was pretty controlling.”
“So is he, like, hitting on me?”
Megan laughed. “Since when do you need to ask that question?”
“I don’t know, this one is weird.”
“He’s a little weird. But not creepy weird. Just . . . quirky.”
“I can see that,” I said. “But, like . . . what now?”
“Do you want his number? I can ask Tim.”
“God no!”
Megan laughed again. “Is that not how dating works anymore? I’m an old, soon-to-be-married lady. I don’t know how you kids do these things nowadays.”
“Dating happens entirely through coffee sleeves now. You’ve missed everything.”
“Apparently. Are you interested though?”
My heart twisted a tiny little bit in my chest—not over Alex, over the question itself. I could read between the lines of the word she chose to emphasize. Megan would give her blessing if I were serious enough. But otherwise she didn’t want to deal with the fallout and I couldn’t fault her for that. We had been down a similar road before.
“No,” I said quickly. Maybe too quickly. “He seems cool, but just as a friend.”
I heard her sigh in relief. “Obviously I’d say go for it if you liked him. But . . . you know . . .”
“I know, Megs. I promise. Just friends.” A pause. “What did he ask about me though?”
“Just what your deal was.”
“What did Tim tell him?”
“That you’re really easy when you switch from martinis to wine. But he already knew that.”
“I’m hanging up now.”
Megan laughed. “K. Text me later!”
I shook my head. She was ridiculous.
I wouldn’t say I rushed to get ready for work on Friday morning, but I was mildly more conscious of the time than I typically was. Not that I wanted to get to Starbucks while Alex was still there. No, that would be way too awkward. And would probably lead to him asking me out, which I would absolutely say no to and would definitely make things more awkward. But I was anxious to see if I got a reply. No matter what I told Becca, it was cute.
I forced myself to walk slowly to the Metro and then from the stop to the Starbucks, reminding myself that I didn’t actually care and that my message had been distinctly nonchalant.
I arrived a couple minutes earlier than usual, but still later than the day when I had run into Alex. I made my way through the line and got to Taylor. “Anything for me?”
She shook her head. “I told you the first message was better.”
I felt a twinge of disappointment, but it was for the best. Really. There were plenty of fish in the sea who weren’t off-limits.
“Grande skinny vanilla latte then,” I told her. “Actually, make it a venti.” I deserved a treat for behaving like a grown-up.
CHAPTER TWELVE
From: Caryn Donaldson [[email protected]]
To: [bridesmaids]
Subject: Wedding newsletter volume 2
Date: October 28
You guys! My wedding dress is officially being made! How crazy is that?
Now, it’s time to focus on YOU. I want all of you to feel as beautiful as you did on your wedding days (or will someday, Lily!) when you stand up there with me, so we need to find you the perfect dresses! I’ve got some ideas, but I want as many of you as possible to come shopping for them so we can make sure we find something that flatters everyone equally. Which shouldn’t be hard, I mean you all look like runway models anyway! How does next Saturday look?
There was more—a lot more, actually—but I had stopped reading. The only thing “runway model”-esque about me was possibly my height. I stood a solid six inches over the rest of Caryn’s Lilliputian bridesmaids. And while I felt pretty good about my pant size most days, you could probably fit one of Caryn’s friends inside each leg and still have room for dessert.
I heard the chimes starting to signal a chorus of replies, but I muted my computer. I had work to do on a press release about a presentation being made at the next cosmic ray conference.
An hour later, Caryn popped her head into my office. “What’s wrong?”
I looked up. I was almost finished with the draft. “Nothing. Why?”
“You didn’t respond to my email.”
“Oh.” I clicked over to my inbox to see thirty-eight new messages. Jesus. “Sorry. I was doing the Lewis-Fielding release.”
“That can wait,” she said, waving a manicured hand. “Can you go dress shopping on Saturday?”
I pulled out my planner. Becca’s birthday was that night and Amy wanted me to go bridesmaid dress shopping with her that Sunday. “As long as it’s not too late, yes.”
“We’ll do early afternoon. I’m going to a barre fitness class in the morning with Caroline and Mia. Caroline swears it’s why her arms look so good.” I glanced at Caryn’s arms and raised an eyebrow, which she ignored.
“Okay. Are you serious that you want us in nice dresses? I thought half the fun of bridesmaids was forcing us into something ugly.”
“Why would I want you ruining my pictures?”
“So no huge eighties-style puffed sleeves and butt bows?”
She laughed. “Can you picture my friends dressed like that?” I tried to imagine Caroline with permed hair and fried bangs. It was a satisfying idea.
“No. But it’d be funny.”
“I’m thinking pale purple. Everyone looks good in purple. And something simple and strapless and elegant. You know—something you’d totally wear again.”
I tried to remember the last time I wore an elegant gown to something other than a wedding, where recycled bridesmaid dresses were beyond obvious, and the best answer I could come up with was my high school prom, fourteen years earlier. And purple? Did I even own anything purple? Granted, black was the primary color of my wardrobe, but still.
“Saturday it is.”
“Great! Can you reply that in an email so everyone knows you’re in? And bring a good strapless bra so we can see what the dresses will actually look like!”
I looked down at my chest and back up at Caryn’s. A good strapless bra probably existed for her—but when you’re a D-cup, “good strapless bra” becomes an oxymoron. “Um . . . I’ll try.”
I hopped off the Metro a stop early on my way home, determined to find a bra that got the job done. Either Bloomingdales or Lord and Taylor had to have a contraption that would hold my boobs up adequately for a wedding. I checked my bank account from the escalator at the station. This was definitely a wedding expense, as I would probably need a high-quality strapless bra for more than one of the weddings, but it was going to have to go on my credit card to be worried about later.
Two stores, eleven bras, and one saleslady who had to be forcibly removed from my dressing room after trying to adjust my breasts herself later, I had one that seemed to stay in place well enough to dance without creating the dreaded quad boob or cutting off my circulation to the point where I would suffer the loss of any vital organs. It cost a gut-wrenching ninety-eight dollars before tax and looked like it was part of a Victorian asylum restraining device rather than the pretty, lacy underthings that the girls who were less blessed in the chest were able to buy, but it would serve.
I walked back toward the Metro station. If it were warmer out, I would have walked the mile and a half home, but there was a chill in the air and the sun was setting earlier and earlier, making that option less desirable. Plus I was still in my work shoes. My phone vibrated to tell me I had a text and I looked down at it, narrowly avoiding a collision with someone exiting the Metro station while also looking at his phone.
“Lily?”