I let out a relieved breath. Tobin must be in character, because he and I don’t mention anniversaries.
Sometimes screwups make a wedding memorable, and people laugh over the stories for years. Not ours. No one’s spoken of it, much less laughed over it, in three years.
Amber dragged a reluctant Mark all the way from Colorado, hoping a wedding would remind him why they fell in love. They ended up in a drunken screaming match on the dance floor over who asked for the divorce first.
Meanwhile, Tobin’s dad did his usual disappearing act an hour into the reception. This time, the excuse was that Tor hadn’t raised his son to be the kind of (expletive) man who hyphenated his last name with his wife’s. The real reason: Tor wanted to scamper off with the girlfriend of the best man, who quickly became the only friend Tobin’s ever lost.
Tobin spent the reception consoling his distraught mother, while I scrambled for a last-minute fill-in to make the toast to the groom, then sat in a haunted forest of empty chairs at the head table.
But I’m not me, and Tobin’s not Tobin. Lola can say anything. She’s like everything I’m afraid of.
I love anniversaries. But not the usual. No family party, ugh. Something wild, like a couples’ skydiving trip and a night in the Undersea Expedition room of a sketchy themed motel. Better memories that way.
I bet. I’m more the “every day is our anniversary” type. When I get married, I’ll keep my wedding photo in a waterproof capsule so I can have it with me always.
The world lurches like a malfunctioning elevator, sending my heart into my throat.
Tobin has a waterproof capsule for matches and ID, in case the boat flips. But he wouldn’t keep a photo of our wedding, with all the tense faces on my side and the obvious gaps on his. Would he?
I’m not the wedding photo type.
My text looks stark, sitting there. I meant that Lola likes gritty candids, but it feels like she said “yes, but” instead of “yes, and.”
From the length of time he’s taking to reply, I’m guessing he feels the “yes, but,” too. It’s stopping our scene. I type a hasty addition.
I can see someone’s smile just by thinking about it.
Three dots pop up, disappear, come back. I catch myself leaning around the side of my chair, trying to read his screen.
What else do you think about?
He doesn’t see me watching his cheeks pinken. He looks better than last week. Stronger. Like he’s been getting some sleep. The side of his mouth quirks up the tiniest bit, showing off the tight trim of his beard.
I’m afraid to find out what my own face looks like right now.
But Lola would not blush in public, especially not at this text, which no one would call sexting. She’s a magician. A carnie. She’s seen it all during her twice-nightly shows, working her sequins and top hat while she incinerates hecklers with flamethrower wit.
She sells sex appeal, so what she wants from love is… safety, I think. Comfort. The ability to drop the illusion.
I think about someone special meeting me backstage with a dozen donuts and a brand-new tube of…
I send it, then wait a beat.…foot massage cream.
His soft snort practically kisses my ear. His chair has somehow rotated in unnoticeable increments toward mine.
If we both reached out, we could touch.
I bet you have beautiful feet. Hardworking ones.
That’s the circus life. Hard on the feet.
My fingers fly. It’s amazing how easy this is.
Yeah. One time I broke my toe. The doctor said, looks like an elephant stepped on it. I was like, got it in one.
I laugh out loud.
Tobin grins, one elbow propped on the armrest, feet crossed. His shoulders unwind, pulling his faded T-shirt tight across his chest. He leans like a mountain-town James Dean, carabiner of keys clipped to one belt loop, waiting for me to come along and find him cocking that eyebrow full of bad-boy suggestion.
