Page 17 of He Has It All (Boston Brawlers Hockey)
We’ve been next-door neighbors or roommates since we were born and my chest contracts at the idea of her not being there. Ryan’s right, we have been like conjoined twins all our lives—except for that one year I went abroad for the Olympics.
One sucky year. I can admit this to myself now, after trying to rationalize and do the glass-half-full thing for the past four years. But I’ve never admitted how difficult a year it was to another soul because it was supposed to be a wonderful experience, because everyone—especially my mother—wants to hear that itwasa wonderful experience.
“You’re not that far. We can meet for lunch in town every day, right?” Damn the threatening tears. I’m not a crier. Okay, yes I am, but that doesn’t mean I’m not tough. I need to suck it up right now because Maggs deserves to have a blissfully happy wedding weekend.
“Don’t you dare cry, you big baby,” she says, her voice breaking, and she leans over, reaching out to hug me across the gap between our pedicure chairs. It’s a dangerous maneuver because the gap is a little too wide and the chairs are a little too high, but I manage to come half out of my seat and meet her more than halfway because I’m tall enough and limber enough to manage it.
We have our hug without any incident of bodily harm and we both end up swiping at our eyes and then laughing at our ridiculous girlie selves.
“We still have the hockey games too,” she says. “But you need to start bringing a date—or I can start bringing an extra guy for you to meet.”
Nodding, because hockey season is months away and I can afford to be agreeable now, I say, “Sure, why not?” Then she gets a pensive look.
“Why wait? Levi has a few single friends from work coming to the wedding—”
“No.”
Maggie’s eyebrows shoot up, and I modify my lack of enthusiasm. “Never mind my love life. It should be the last thing you’re thinking of this weekend.”
She shrugs and her face goes all dreamy so I know she’s thinking of her husband-to-be.
We finish the mani-pedis and leave the spa with Allie Pink and the other four women all buffed, polished, and pretty and race back to our rooms at the inn to change. We’re all wearing summer dresses in various shades of sherbet, but mine is mostly white with pink trim including skinny straps over my otherwise bare shoulders. The sea breeze makes it a less than practical choice, but Allie throws a pink shawl over my shoulder.
“Don’t you want this for yourself?” I ask. She shrugs.
“I don’t want to be cliché.” She’s wearing a pastel floral print dress with a portrait collar and short sleeves. She must have got it at a vintage shop. And pearls.
“Pearls?”
“I’m going for the tea party throwback look.” She waves a hand across the expanse of the sitting room that also serves as the lobby and says, “That’s what this whole place reminds me of, all of Nantucket. Maggie’s wedding is so storybook, in a quaint old-fashioned way. I adore it and I want to fit into the picture.”
“You’re right,” Maggs says, “I feel like we’re all in a picture, like in Mary Poppins.”
“Well then we better get going before Levi turns into a chimney sweep,” I say, chills breaking out all over me, but not from the cold. From the sheer bliss of the moment we’re sharing, of this weekend being the picture of a true happily-ever-after story. It makes me teary again and I heave a sigh, deciding I need a stiff drink.
“We all have our bathing suits too, right?” Maggs says and the girls chorus a response as we parade outside to the two cars that are supposed to fit the seven of us and all our bags. “Only one bag each,” she says. “I told you not to pack towels. They have plenty of towels there.” Maggie doesn’t sound as exasperated as she would be at any other time, and she takes charge like only she knows how to do.
“I’m riding shotgun,” I say and get into the front seat, throwing my beach bag under the dashboard where my feet are supposed to go. “Lucky thing it’s a short ride,” I say as two other women pile into the back seat from the driver’s side because there’s no back door in Maggie’s new Mustang. She gets in and starts it up and lurches the car into the street. My pulse races and my gut bubbles but it isn’t her driving that has me excited.
It’s round two with Ryan O’Rourke and imagining him bare-chested in swim trunks that’s pumping me up.Quit it, Chelsea Wilde. No drooling, no mooning. No spoiling the storybook wedding of your best friend in the world. I need to get my mind to behave and that means getting through lunch without undressing him in my head.
“Did I mention the Browns are setting up a volleyball net for a game to showcase your Olympian talent? I think they’re having the videographer record it.”
“What?” My mouth disconnects from my brain like it’s short-circuited. “What the hell? You know how out of shape I am.”
“Are you kidding? Didn’t you go running just this morning?”
“That’s not the same thing,” I say and before the annoyance takes root on her face, the uncertainty, I realize I need to change my tune. Waving my hand, I say, “Never mind. I forget I’m not playing the Russian national team or the Swedes here, so I should be able to rock it.” I turn to the back seat and say, “You’ll all make me look like a superstar, right?”
“No choice. You’re a foot taller than me.”
“Are you kidding? I’m the girl who skipped gym class.”
Maggs laughs and I put my momentary anxiety about a volleyball exhibition aside. This is not the Olympics. Not remotely.
“The only one who’ll give you a run for your money is Ryan,” Maggs says.
“Shit.”
