Not the Marrying Kind Page 13

  “It’s so beautiful,” she sighed.

  I hid a smile as I sketched out the system I’d devised for keeping track of Roxy’s dress choices. Then I set up my camera. Edward’s relationship with his wealthy, somewhat-royal family in England was cool at best and strained at worst. Imagining their reactions to Roxy in a black dress would be my chosen daydream the next time I was stuck in a meeting with an aggravating client.

  The bottle of whiskey sailed towards me. I caught it, took a quick shot, then placed it carefully on the ground. The liquor burned down my throat, and I smiled at the pleasant feeling.

  “How’s it going with the benefit show?” she called over the dressing room door. There was a lot of rustling, and some mumbled curses.

  I stood up, wandering over to a short rack of gauzy veils in different colors. “Great so far,” I called back. “I spoke with my one friend who works in tenant and housing rights, but she only told me what I already suspected to be true.”

  “Pop has to pay, huh?”

  “He sure does,” I said. “But things are in full motion for us to raise the funding he’ll need. And I’m having a lot of fun. Max and Pop are handling the bands, Mom and Dad are headlining of course—and fucking thrilled about it.”

  “Oh, I know,” she said. “I’ve gotten a couple calls already, talking about what a brave bad-ass you are.”

  My fingers stilled. They had always emphasized my and Roxy’s bravery growing up, which I loved. Bravery seemed like such a powerful concept as a kid, although I’d translated a lot of mine into color-coordinated wall calendars. Hearing them say that now made me feel less like they were secretly disappointed I was a corporate drone. “They’ll crush their set, bring the house down. It’s going to be a victorious night. We sold seventy-five of the 350 tickets the first day.”

  “Edward knows you need to meet with him and that you want money,” she added.

  “I’m going to take your fiancé for all he’s worth,” I promised.

  There was another round of fabric rustling. “You should.” She sounded out of breath. “The first time I took him to The Red Room, we accidentally fucked in the alley. We owe a lot to that place.”

  “I remember the night you accidentally fell onto his dick.”

  “You told me to go for it, babe,” she countered.

  I had. It was my first night meeting Edward, and the energy between the two of them was like a lightning storm. I was mildly scandalized just standing next to them on the street. But my sister was the epitome of brave, to me, and I didn’t want her to think she had to deny what she wanted because she was scared of what might happen next.

  Isn’t part of it the risk? Max had called it the “scary parts” yesterday, although it sounded like he avoided them as much as I did. Free-fall wasn’t my idea of a good fucking time by any measure.

  I reached into my bag, grabbed the picture I’d found in Pop’s office. I knocked on Roxy’s door. “Are you decent?”

  “Have I ever been?”

  I snorted. “Open up so I can see your dress and show you something that will make you happy. It’s about The Red Room.”

  There was a long pause, and then the door creaked open. She was scowling, but for real.

  The dress… was not good.

  “Hold up,” I said, backing away. “Let me see.”

  She came out, dragging miles of black tulle. The lace covered her all the way up her neck and down to her fingers. “I’m a Victorian widow.”

  “That is certainly the look you are serving here.”

  She huffed out a sigh. “Okay. Maybe I don’t need as much lace as I wanted.”

  I handed her the whiskey and the picture of the two of us backstage at a Hand Grenades show. She squealed. “Speaking of not decent.”

  “How cute are we though?”

  She held the picture close. “Those were some wild days.”

  “I’m wearing a sweater set.”

  “This night—” She pointed at the picture. “—was a crowd-surfing night.”

  “What? No way,” I said. “I was in undergrad.”

  “You still did it,” she said. “A bad bitch even while getting straight A’s. That’s the Fiona Quinn motto.”

  “Huh.” I crossed my arms, leaning against the door. “I forgot all about that.”

  “And now I’m about to marry a sophisticated businessman whose family owns a castle.”

  I glanced back at the dress again. “While wearing a dress that makes you look like you’re doomed to wander the moors, searching for your lost love.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Okay, okay, help me get it off.”

  With much whiskey and giggling, Roxy was finally free of the lace monstrosity. I brought her another ten more choices and settled back down in the red chair, tucking my feet under me.

  My phone buzzed with a text. I glanced down.

  It was from Max.

  I swallowed hard, even as my body immediately went up in flames. I was flushed, giddy, seconds away from twirling a lock of hair around my finger. I was a fucking Quinn, and yet a few days of Max had turned me into some kind of fainting maiden.

  I was not a maiden, that was for goddamn sure.

  I tapped on the text. I’ll be at Mateo’s garage tomorrow night if you still want to do some planning. I’ve got beer if you’ve got fancy office supplies.

  Glancing at the dressing room, to make sure my nosy sister was occupied, I sent a quick reply: Beer and office supplies? You really know how to treat a girl.

  “What are your thoughts on bridesmaid dresses, Roc?” I called over my shoulder, wandering over to a few short, punky dresses covered in polka dots.

  “No thoughts,” she replied. “We’ve still got a year to go. If you weren’t my little sister I’d probably show up to my own wedding in ripped jeans.”

  “Hmmmm.” I propped my hands on my hips. “Thoughts on me wearing an all-white pantsuit, a la my namesake.”

  “Annie?”

  “The one and only.”

  My phone buzzed again, and I pretended to casually check it. I’ve been extremely clear that I know how to treat a girl.

  I pressed the back of my hand to my cheek. Was it normal to fantasize about fucking your friend as much as I had in the past twenty-four hours? The moment he’d left my office last night I’d been overcome with urges I generally didn’t give in to. Of allowing Max to press the side of my face to the cool surface of my desk. To slowly, slowly, lift the material of my skirt until I was completely bare to him, completely vulnerable, completely out of control. He’d be so thorough, he’d be so good, and I knew Max well enough now to understand that he wouldn’t ask me to explain or apologize. Just to give in.

  The issue was my crush. Having hot sex with a commitment-phobic friend that gave you sparks wasn’t my most well-thought-out idea. And I was the queen of well-thought-out ideas.

  Speaking of, how did last night go? I texted.

  Friends asked each other about their sexual exploits.

  Didn’t go out after all, he wrote back. Stayed in and helped Pop at the club.

  I wasn’t sure what to do with this information.

  The dressing room door creaked open, and my sister stepped out in a slinky, black mermaid dress. “Oh my god, you’re beautiful.”

  She wrinkled her nose, staring at herself in the three-way mirror. “I thought I’d like it more but… I’m not sure. I’m not getting that gut feeling.”

  I held up my notebook. “Should we strategize? Want me to do some research for you on what the best dress would be?”

  She flashed me a wry smile. “That’s sweet, but no. I think this needs to be an instinctual thing.”

  She lifted the skirt and stepped nimbly back behind the door. I pressed my hand to my stomach, thought about what she’d said.

  “Would you still be with Edward even if you weren’t getting married?” I asked.

  “Absolutely.”

  I chewed on the tip of my thumb. “Don’t you want
to be married though? The whole fairy-tale thing?”

  From the dressing room came the sounds of hangers and swishing fabric. “Edward is my everything. The marriage, the wedding, all the legal stuff is an important bonus to me. But at the end of the day, being together is all I ever needed.”

  I chewed harder, trying to contemplate this. Marriage had been my only romantic relationship goal. Because it had seemed to be the goal of every family that wasn’t like mine—it spoke of stability and unity and something to hold onto. But if Roxy had told me they were never getting married, I would have cheered and validated their relationship just the same.

  “I’ll love Edward until the end of time.” Her voice was soft and full of emotion. “And I’ll love that man any way I can get him.”

  The night I’d signed the contract, Edward had pushed me on who I thought this man might be. This future husband of mine. Besides categories I’d created on my spreadsheets, I didn’t really know. And until I met Max again, until I experienced those first shimmery, electric, beautiful glimmers I didn’t really see the problem.

  I picked up my phone, read Max’s text message again. He could have been tired. He could have wanted to truly stay in. Max spoke earnestly and often about what he wanted, and I’d be naive to read more into his interest in me than the fact that I continued to turn him down. He made light of his cocky ego, but there was no way in hell I hadn’t at least dinged it a little. I sent back: The great Max Devlin stayed in? Are you unwell?

  “What did it feel like when you knew Edward was the one?” I took out my pen, since ostensibly this was valuable research for future relationship endeavors.

  Even though her voice was muffled by—I was assuming—a shit-ton of tulle, I could hear her very obvious smile. “I should have known it that first night. You remember how I was about him, how differently he made me feel.”

  “Like instant lust, you mean?” Sparks was probably the awkward cousin of lust. Similar and easy to confuse.

  “It wasn’t the whole story, though.”

  She stepped out in a scarlet gown made of crushed velvet. The line between her eyebrows had deepened. “Fuck, I don’t like this one either.”

  “Still Victorian,” I said. “Although this one is more lady of the night and less wandering the moors.”

  “Who doesn’t want a bordello-themed wedding?”

  “I’m guessing Edward.”

  She smirked, then winced when she turned in the mirror. “It’s not me.”

  I spun my finger in the air. “Then get the hell back in there.”

  She stuck her tongue out at me but did as she was told. I took another pull from the bottle of whiskey and pretended I wasn’t waiting for Max to text me back.

  “Anyway,” she continued. “In the beginning I wanted to call it intense sexual chemistry. All the signs were the same. But I used to get so nervous around him. Jittery, fluttery. I loved flirting with him. I loved teasing him. Every time he smiled at me, my heart exploded.”

  Max had the most charming half-grin I’d ever seen on a man, but my heart-exploding-reaction to it didn’t mean anything.

  “The difference was that I thought about Edward constantly. Not only sex fantasies, though,” she said. “I wanted to talk to him. Wanted to comfort him. Wanted to make him laugh and bring him little presents. I mean, for fuck’s sake, I made him adopt a dog because I was so upset that his parents were terrible to him all the time. It felt good to make him feel good. Does that make sense?”

  “Oh yeah,” I said much too quickly. And certainly not analyzing what it meant that I was currently helping Max raise $50,000 to save his father’s livelihood. Or anything.

  “I felt out of control in every single way. I had to trust that Edward would be there for me. In the meantime, especially those first few weeks, when we were figuring our relationship out, every day was like being knocked over by a hurricane of happiness.”

  “That sounds terrible?” I chewed on the tip of my thumb again. Max hadn’t texted back yet.

  Roxy strode out in a black-and-white striped dress with a high collar. I grimaced before I could stop myself. “I’m sorry. Too Tim Burton, right?”

  “I think you’re right.” She yanked the door back closed. My phone lit up, and I snatched it to my lap immediately. Thank you for acknowledging my greatness, he’d written. And no, not sick. Just a little distracted. There’s this smart blond bombshell I can’t stop thinking about. Good taste in music, rocks pearls and diamonds. I hear she’s the baddest bitch with a planner on the east coast.

  I dropped my phone. Caught a glimpse of my flushed cheeks, bright eyes, and cheesy grin in the mirror. “From a quantifiable perspective, how would you describe hurricane of happiness?”

  “I can’t, Fi,” she laughed. “You have to feel it. You’ll know, I promise.”

  I hated that answer more than I hated stacks of unorganized clutter.

  I picked up my phone and dashed off: That sounds an awful lot like flirting. And friends don’t flirt. I waited a second, then sent a second message that fit the jittery-giddy feeling I had all over my body. But I’m giving you a pass since you made me laugh.

  His response was immediate. Didn’t realize making you laugh was a loophole. And for the record, you have a beautiful laugh.

  Roxy flounced out in a hot pink dress with about one hundred layers. She sank down on the floor in front of me, looking like a mopey punk-rock bride. I let her have some whiskey before poking her hard in the arm. “What’s going on in that partially shaved head of yours?”

  “I love this place, and I’m having fun,” she said. “But the dresses aren’t looking the way I thought they’d look. But for the past year I’ve had this idea in my head that looked, well, like this.” She indicated the pink material swirled around her feet.

  “It’s only the first attempt and only the first shop,” I said. “We’ve got all the time in the world for you to fall in love.”

  “That’s true.” She ran her fingers over the fabric, frown lifting into a dazzling smile. “And honestly? All I really care about is that Edward and I belong to each other. Dress or not.”

  “Plus you’ve got that sex swing.”

  “What more do I need?” She stood up, brushing herself off. “Also, can we please go get cheeseburgers right now?”

  “Already planning on it.”

  She closed the door, and I pictured all those magazines I collected when I was little. How pretty I thought those dresses were, how lovely were the bouquets. All the aesthetics, the things, the texture of weddings felt bright and happy to me.

  But Roxy knew she only needed Edward.

  “I know you’re talking to Max by the way,” Roxy called over.

  “Who, me?” My voice squeaked.

  Do you even realize you’re still flirting? Or are you just getting it out of your system? I texted. Trying to get myself back on the solid ground of contracts and timelines.

  His reply put literal stars in my eyes, confirming that he was neither problem nor temptation but trouble.

  I was flirting with you on purpose. You, and only you.

  I was so distracted I didn’t hear Roxy come out. Not until she was standing over me with a triumphant grin and her hands on her hips. “You sure change out of funeral lace fast.”

  She pinched me.

  “Ow.”

  “I know you’re texting Max because I have never, ever seen a man make you smile the way you have this whole time.”

  I put my phone down. “We’re planning a concert together, thank you. We need to stay in contact.”

  She grabbed one of the black veils and dropped it on her head, examined her profile in the mirror. “Sure,” she said. “Plan that concert together. But I’m pretty fucking sure you’ve been hit by a hurricane, Fi.”

  18

  Max

  An hour into working on Mateo’s 1982 Sportster, and I happily slid into a state of utter bliss. The garage was small and cramped, but the rolling door was pulled
open to let in the evening light and spring air. And I had Led Zeppelin on the speakers and a machine under my hands.

  Being a mechanic was one of those things that came quickly and easily to me—the way parts of a bike fit together to make what was essentially a steel bullet that humans could ride. For the most part, bikes were puzzles that you could always complete, which I liked. There weren’t a lot of contradictions or hurt feelings or disappointments. A guy brought his motorcycle in to my shop. I got the parts to fix it. Then I fixed it.

  It made life on the road easy because I was only loyal to whatever machine I was working on at the moment. Shops and bosses and coworkers were temporary. And I was upfront in every job interview, just as I was upfront with every woman I was about to take home and fuck all night long. Hanging around ain’t my thing. But I’ll work hard while you’ve got me.

  The issue being that mentality didn’t translate to the people I loved back home. Hanging around was kind of the point of friendship and family, even if you weren’t physically in the same place. But Mateo was hurt by my actions when I thought you couldn’t really get hurt by honesty.

  “Looking good, hermanito,” Mateo said, slipping beneath the garage door with an arm full of rolled canvas.

  I grinned, sitting up from my prone position and working a rag between my dirty fingers. “I can’t really take credit. This baby’s a stone-cold fox, and she’s gonna sing for you once you get her out on that highway.”

  Mateo set the canvas down and sat in a metal chair. “I agree. But I wasn’t talking about the bike. I was talking about seeing you back in my house again.”

  I ran a hand through my hair and kept my tone easy. “It hasn’t changed, has it?”

  “Why change perfection?” Mateo smiled. “And after you’re done, Mom wants you upstairs to wash up for a late dinner. She cooked arroz con gandules just for you.”

  I clutched my heart. Then reached out for the beer Mateo cracked open from the small fridge. “She’s too kind. And I am ready for a verbal thrashing.”

  “I told her to go a little easy on you.” He held his fingers an inch apart. “But only a little. She’s convinced you’ll get engaged and married while you’re out gallivanting around, and she’ll never know.”