Months ago, Will somehow managed to con or coerce Ruby into legally marrying him. I didn’t ever get the details, but I did gather there was kissing involved and, perhaps, a bit of bribery. Within twenty-four hours of this agreement, the four of us—Ruby, Will, Roman, and me—were at a courthouse, signing papers to bind them forever to each other. It was the least romantic wedding I’ve ever been to, even if Will did shed several tears as they kissed amongst the clerks and other soon-to-be-wedded couples.
Despite not being the most romantic thing in the world, the weddingwaslife changing. Ruby and Will’s, of course, but alsomine.
Marriage meant Ruby moving out of Roman’s house, which meant Roman losing the rent money he was getting from her, which happened to coincide with my brother, Sol, abandoning me to move to freakingWest Virginiato work at an offshoot branch of Sweet & Salty—despite the fact that we had a perfect setup working together at Sweet & Salty Downtown, living in an apartment together across the street and getting to see each other every day. All of this culminated in Roman needing a housemate and me being unable to afford Sol’s and my apartment on my own—definitely unable to manage the emotions brought up by being there or at the café where we had worked together.
The solution, sadly, was obvious. To Ruby, anyway. It took her a month to convince her brother and me to swallow our pride, stop being stubborn morons, and have me take over Ruby’s old room. I made the move, reluctantly, and transferred to Sweet & Salty Uptown—the location where Roman works—so that we could carpool and I wouldn’t have to think about Sol or how much I miss him every time I walk into work.
Jokes on me, I think about it anyway, because, hello dummy, the different Sweet & Salty locations lookexactly the same. The sole difference is that Uptown has a bigger kitchen space, since it’s where Roman develops all of the recipes for the menu. Whenever I need a break from the Sol sadness, I’ll sneak back there under the guise of needing some water. It means seeing Roman, but sometimes that’s just the distraction I need. Hard to cry over missing my brother when I’m busy arguing over half-prepped café food with a big, giant jerk.
“I get not wanting the wedding to be in winter,” the big, giant jerk says, a tinge of exasperation covering his words. “Perhaps spring?”
“Perhaps not,” Ruby replies. “Mom and Dad are already upset that we didn’t wait for them for the courthouse. I’m not making them wait any longer for the ceremony than they have to. We would’ve done it in June, but June 14th was booked at all vendors, and the next date available that wasn’t in the middle of hot and humid summer was in September.”
Right. So. We’re having the wedding in September then.Nobodywants to disappoint the Vann parents.
Roman comes to the same conclusion as I do, jaw working as he grinds his teeth. “September,” he grumbles. “I’ll start making the menu.”
Will beams at him, and Ruby manages a teensy smile. “You guys are thebest,” Will says.
My phone alarm goes off before I can think of a reply forthat,especially the part where he’s lumped Roman and me together. I shudder. Icky.
“If this is all settled,” I say, fishing my phone out of my pocket and silencing the alarm. “I’ve gotta go. I have a class.”
I ignore Roman’s mumbled suggestion that I should be staying to help iron out a plan for how we’re going to plan this wedding, not attending my class on, he assumes, “shrimp herding and other mainland practices." He can think what he wants to. And then, later, he can feel like an idiot when he finds out he’s been wrong.
“I think we’re done,” Ruby says. “If Will’s finished shoving pastries in his mouth.”
Will, mid-shove, freezes. “You’re so smart and hot and cool,” he says around histhirdscone before he can’t speak at all because he’spushing the entire thing into his mouth in one go.
Ruby’s nose wrinkles, and she scowls.
Beside me, Roman’s chair scrapes as he stands, and I rise when he pulls my chair out, too. I grab my huge lemon-yellow tote bag and round the table before I leave, hugging Ruby and Will and telling them that I really am so happy for them, even if planning is tight. “It’s going to be beautiful,” I assure them. “It’ll have the best music and the best flowers—smell and sight—and the best couple, and it’ll be everything you want. I promise.”
Ruby nods, unconcerned. “I trust you. Just stay in budget.”
Ah, yes. Budget. “Of course,” I reply. “Which is?”
I’m not sure what I expect, considering Ruby and Will are loaded but also want to DIY things, but “$200,000” coming out of my bestie’s mouth is certainly not it.
Two. Hundred. Thousand. Dollars.
On what?I think, but do not ask. What couldpossiblycost that much?
“I think I can manage that,” I say instead, hugging her again.
Roman uses his superior breadth and width to nudge meout of the way to get his own hugs, and I take the opportunity to wave my goodbye to Will before speedwalking through the clutter of empty tables that dabble the after-hours Sweet & Salty floor.
At five foot eight inches, my legs aren’t exactly short, but Roman still manages to eat up my stride with his super-humanly long limbs and make it to theEMPLOYEES ONLYdoor before me, holding it open with a frown.
I return his grumpy face, and we walk in tense silence through the hallway, past the doors to the kitchen, office, and bathroom, and out the back to where his car is parked in employee parking, my pretty yellow bike hanging off a bike rack on the back of it.
Roman beeps the locks on his car while I pull out my keyring and unlock the bike lock keeping my baby semi-safe from robbery. I pull her down as he grabs a girlie, adorable, pink-and-yellow polka-dotted drawstring bag from his back seat. It holds my safety gear—helmet, elbow pads, knee pads—and he’s religious about making sure I wear them. I would anyway, so it’s a waste of his time, but still, he hands the bag over to me while going over common sense safety rules, as if I am a child.
“Wear them theentiretime you’re on your bike, please. The joint pads too, even if you think they look goofy.”
I don’t think they look goofy. They’re yellow, to match my bike, and I painted big pink flowers on them. They’re adorable. My nose scrunches to relay this information to him.
He glances at my nose scrunch, scrunches his own in reply, and continues, “If it’s dark after class, come in the front of the shop. The light in the alley is out, and they aren’t coming until later this week to fix it. You don’t need to wind up a statistic in a dark alley.”
