Chapter Thirty-Two

Julia

Most people know at least a few wedding day superstitions.

Rain is a good omen, despite how it can royally fuck with anything from the venue to the bride's updo.

Borrowing an item from a happily married woman and wearing it the day of is good luck.

Finding a spider in your clothing, while totally creepy if you aren't into arachnids, is supposed to be a portent of good health and happiness.

You're not supposed to see your betrothed before the ceremony.

You get it. You know.

The truth I've learned from working countless weddings over the last five years, is that every single thing can go right on the big day and the marriage can still fall apart after. Maybe weeks, months, years, it doesn't matter. The only omen that truly makes a difference is the love that passes between the couple.

Marriage isn't luck.

It's meaningful work.

Millie's eyes tell me she's ready. Sean's tears are a display incongruent with the jock I know he likes to play, since he isn't one deep down inside. Cash Kim, whose hair has been carefully styled to cover the patch of raw, blistered skin on his forehead, openly weeps, and both Banks and Tucker hold on for dear life as they all turn to man puddles right in front of my eyes.

Natalie is pristine, holding the bridesmaids' line at attention. They are all gorgeous—way less weepy than the dudes. Coco is the only one with a lip wobble. Piper, stoic as ever in the face of true love, hasn't flinched since she took her place. But when the bride and groom begin their vows, there's not a dry eye in the house. I'm overwhelmed with confidence that these two—with the support of the family and friends who found their way out to this desert oasis to bear witness—will have a life full of love and a marriage that stands the tests time always offers.

My eyes drift to the back row, where Kit sits. From here, I can't see her face or tell if she's tearing up. All I can see are her shoulders, bare in her strapless jumpsuit. All I can think about is the way her face would look up close to mine as she said the words I do .

A future with anyone didn't always feel like a safe bet.

First, because—though I do experience the occasional attraction toward someone of the nonfemme variety—the vast majority of my relationships are with women. When I came out, I had a feeling that my preference would be for women. Most of the people I liked were female identifying. At the time, same-sex marriage wasn't recognized nationwide. The happily ever after Kit is always going on about wasn't for everyone.

It's outdated now, like I said to Kit before we kissed yesterday, but back then I wasn't sure how I could have the family I longed for if I loved a woman and wanted to spend the rest of my life with her.

The norm made my desires seem unattainable.

Later on, after a few relationships—and subsequent breakups—I started to lose hope that I would ever find someone I wanted to make a go of it with. My eyes drift momentarily back to Piper, and I let myself cringe at past me for her foolishness. I wanted Piper to love me the way I loved her, and once I gave that up it became impossible to imagine a future together.

I want to believe that with time, Kit and I can create the kind of relationship that weathers storms, wants the best, embodies more than the vows couples say on their wedding day—embodies the two of us with all our imperfections and scars.

I want to believe it. I'm just not sure yet that I can trust that and just let go.

Let it happen.

The recessional begins to play and the whole audience rises to their feet to observe Millie and Sean as they leave. Healer Arynne stands at the geometric altar, her giant eyes misty, her job completed without any final obstructions to the wedding weekend. I should be watching, looking out for possible missteps. I should have gone ahead of them to the staging room, checked the champagne was chilled to perfection and had it ready and waiting for when they arrived. Those few minutes of alone time after the ceremony are critical to most brides and grooms.

I should be doing a lot of things, but instead I'm watching Kit press the back of her hand to her tearstained cheek, dabbing gently. I'm walking over to tuck up behind her chair. I'm relieved when she leans into me, tilting her head to rest against mine.

"Nothing but good vibes for these two," she says.

"For us, too," I reply. It's almost a question.

She doesn't say no. She just squeezes tighter, leans a little harder, says yes with her body, and I trust that her heart will follow.

Kit is fully in her element.

The showmanship is the best of the weekend so far. I haven't watched any of her YouTube videos yet, or googled that Kardashian episode Zoe informed me was "a big deal" in gaining her followers. I don't know if she's at her best, or if she can do better, but I don't want to miss a moment.

She gives Healer Arynne a three-card reading that makes my stomach hurt from holding in a deep belly laugh. There's a story playing out in the cards that Healer Arynne can't stand seeing in such exact terms. The Five of Swords followed by the Five of Pentacles and then the Hierophant (also a five), which even I know can't be good.

"Well, fives are curveballs. Where normally reversals are read more negatively, fives flip that on its head." All of her fives are upright. My skin sizzles with satisfaction as I watch Healer Arynne rebuke Kit's reading.

"Energetically this isn't feeling right to me," she spits. "Your deck needs a cleanse."

"I cleansed it before you stepped up," Kit says, calm and cool, but her smile threatens to crack and ruin it all.

"It didn't work, now did it?" Healer Arynne replies, shoving the cards out of order and turning away from Kit's table. I don't know, it seems pretty damn accurate to me.

I chuckle, grabbing a champagne flute from one of the passing trays.

Then Piper steps into my path.

Blocking out my view of Kit. Blocking my way forward.

Cunt-blocking me, hopefully for the last time.

She's got two glasses of champagne in hand. "I was going to offer—"

"I'm covered," I say, trying to step past her. She moves into my way.

"Truce, please," she says. She places one glass on the nearby table, and raises the other in surrender. "Just want to chat and then I swear, you can go back to…" She clears her throat. "Whatever it is that you're doing."

I should not take her up on the offer. Even just a chat with Piper can turn into a mindfuck of labyrinthine design. Our last few months together felt like being in an endless bad dream. Like following the exit signs in a parking garage but never getting out. We would have the same fights over and over, just with different set dressing, and every time I would walk out of them thinking that this time would be the time she finally understood my perspective. This time she would choose to respect me.

That time never came.

"Fine," I say, because I would rather keep her placated with a few minutes of my time than have to keep dodging her all night. "Let's chat."

I follow her out of the reception, winding back toward the main building.

I don't owe her anything, and in a few hours, I will no longer be working the Hayden-Morgan wedding. I will be off duty, and hopefully getting up to something naughty with Kit in her outdoor bathtub. In a few hours, I will not have to think about what Piper Cunningham wants from me again.

"Are you taking me off somewhere to murder me?" I quip, making sure to add a chuckle to keep the mood light—if you can ever really keep it light when murder is mentioned.

She walks us into one of the alcove seating areas. This one has an outdoor couch and a few funky bamboo chairs all situated beside a mini bocce ball court. She stops beside one of the stray balls, picking it up with her free hand.

Okay, so, murder isn't totally off the table, I see.

"The wedding was beautiful," she begins. Mundane small talk. Piper is great at it. She's had years of practicing surface-level chitchat. "Every detail felt tailored to the two of them."

"That's usually the goal of a wedding planner," I reply, defenses up. Her eyes land on mine, steady and serious. I control my urge to swallow, but not the way my nerves spike, making the thrum of my pulse pound in my ears.

"This is my first chance to see one of your weddings in real time," she says, rolling the ball in the palm of her hand. "It makes me proud."

"Pride that is totally unwarranted."

She rolls her eyes, her Cheshire-Cat smile faltering. "Come on, I can take a little credit." She looks me up and down. I'm wearing a suit vest and pants that she bought me. Dark green Versace. One of the most expensive items I own and a gift from her . I packed in a robotic state. Checking off items on my list and not really thinking about choices.

I can't believe I picked this ensemble when I already knew she would be here.

Fuck my overextended brain.

"I'm donating this as soon as I get back to LA," I reply. I wish I could rend it to rags right here, but that would probably cross a professional boundary. Nudity at work is definitely frowned upon.

"It's designer. At least sell it on Poshmark or something." She's smirking.

"And what, send you half the profits?" I reply, trying not to smile. Never smile. Never show weakness or compassion or care with her.

"I'd settle for a dinner," she says. "On you."

My stomach sours. "I've made my position clear this whole weekend. I've told you I want nothing but the best for you, but that doesn't include having me in your life." Fuck my wobbling chin and my feelings.

"The tarot hottie isn't a reason to cut me out—"

Tarot hottie. She uses her nickname for Kit as a way to undercut her as a valid choice. My temper flares. "You're a narcissistic prick!" The words burst from me like an explosion. " That's why I am cutting you out. That's why I don't want anything to do with you."

Her jaw clenches. She steps forward, whipping out her phone.

I refuse to concede ground, so even though she's too close for comfort, I don't back up. She swipes the screen open to show me Kit's Instagram feed. In the corner, I see that she's signed in to one of her secret accounts. She's got a few, on all different platforms, that she uses to lurk/stalk everyone from potential interview subjects to friends she secretly hates.

"Do you follow her?" I ask, but I don't know why I would be surprised if she does. Keeping tabs on her competition is one of her trademarks. Her eyes darken, the color chilling. She's been caught and she hates that. I tense my jaw. "How long have you been following her?"

"That doesn't matter—" she starts.

"Since you got here? Since you saw her?" Her brow edges up ever so slightly. Fuck. "Oh, no, you've been following her since I told you her name."

"I just wanted to know what was so special about her."

"You're deranged, you see that, right?"

She shoves her phone in my face, ignoring the accusation. "She just broke up with a man she'd been living with for months."

Admittedly, I hadn't given the dude much thought. Kit didn't seem very concerned about her breakup, so I wasn't too worried about fallout. Her freak-out that led her to bail to the desert for this job was her parents' split, not her own.

"And?" is the reply I go with.

"She's not out, Julia."

"You weren't out for years, that's not a reason to break up." I can tell this stings. In her mind that is the only valid point I made when I ended things. The rest of my argument, about how she treated me and how suffocatingly miserable my life had become with her, was debatable at best, inconsequential at worst.

"Admit it," she continues. "A part of you is afraid that this is nothing but a desert-induced, wedding-influenced curiosity ." Her eyes blaze, a triumphant, prideful expression working its way across her face. This is her final flaming dart, but it doesn't hit its mark.

I know what I have with Kit is the beginning of something great. I know that because I feel more like myself than I have in a long time. Freer and ready for anything. Willing to let go. Trying to trust that I can.

I'm focusing on that. Not whatever her Instagram feed would have me believe.

"I don't have to explain myself to you," I say, ready to walk away. "You can't win 'em all, and you definitely aren't winning this one."

I turn to walk away, but she grabs my bicep to hold me in place.

"Don't," she pleads.

"Let go," I reply.

But she doesn't. Her grip tightens and I have to break it. I yank my arm away and hiss, "We are never, ever getting back together," storming off with Taylor Swift's iconic breakup song playing in my brain like a soundtrack.