Page 104 of The Grump Next Door
“Yes, I did.” The words come out rougher than intended.
“I was handling it.” Her voice wavers slightly.
“You were being polite. That’s different.” I cross my arms to keep from reaching for her.
She mirrors my posture, chin lifted. “I don’t need you to—”
“Poppy.” I step closer, close enough to catch a hint of her perfume, lowering my voice so only she can hear. “You’ve been handling everything all week. Let someone else be the asshole for once.”
Something flickers in her eyes—surprise, maybe. Gratitude. “Why do you care?”
Because you look exhausted. Because you’re trying so hard to keep it together. Because watching you stress makes my chest feel tight in a way I hate.
“It’s my brother’s wedding,” I say instead, the lie tasting bitter.
“Right.” She looks away, her jaw tightening. “Of course.”
The manager returns, sweating through his shirt. “We can set up a private section for the other group. Your group can move into the private room now.”
“Thank you,” Poppy says quickly, already moving, already back in professional mode.
She walks away before I can say anything else. I watch her go, the sway of that green dress, and curse under my breath.
The dinner goes fine. Mason stands to make a speech, glass raised, and I realize I’ve never seen him like this—open, vulnerable. He’s more emotional than I would have expected. I’ve only seen my brother cry a handful of times, and all of them were before he turned 11, but right now, he looks dangerously close.
“When I first knew I loved Ivy, it was while I watched her work in her kitchen, trying to recreate her grandmother’swonton recipe for a video. It was a total disaster. Flour everywhere. She’d been at it for six hours.” He looks at her with that dopey love face, his voice cracking. “That’s when I knew. Anyone who cares that much about getting it right—about honoring the people they love—that’s someone worth keeping.”
Ivy cries, mascara running. Everyone claps. Mason kisses his fiancée with tears in his eyes, and something twists in my gut—envy, maybe. Or grief for the part of me that used to believe in moments like this.
My parents behave themselves. Mostly.
But I keep watching Poppy.
She’s everywhere and nowhere, adjusting flowers with quick, efficient movements. Checking with servers, clipboard tucked under one arm, making sure everyone has drinks, that smile never faltering. Never stopping. Never sitting.
Never eating.
“She’s good at this,” Gloria appears beside me like some kind of mystic ninja, silent despite all those bangles.
“Mm.” I take a sip, my eyes tracking Poppy as she laughs at something my uncle says.
“Takes care of everyone but herself, that one.” Gloria’s voice is gentle and knowing.
I say nothing, my jaw working.
“Bit like someone else I’ve been observing tonight.”
I turn to meet her gaze. “Meaning?”
“You’ve been watching her all evening, making sure she’s okay.” She smiles, her crow’s feet deepening. “It’s sweet.”
“It’s practical. Can’t have the wedding planner collapsing from exhaustion.” But my voice lacks conviction.
“Mhmm. Keep telling yourself that, dear.” She pats my arm before strolling away, leaving me with the uncomfortable truth.
But she’s not wrong. I’ve been nursing this same whiskey for an hour, watching Poppy work the room. She has a way of making everyone feel like the most important person alive—touching arms, remembering names, laughing at terrible jokes. Her whole body lights up with each interaction, genuine warmth radiating from her.
Professional. Polished. Perfect.
