Page 116 of How to Ruin a Wedding

“You’re the worst,” I mutter to myself, dropping my forehead onto the table once, twice, several times in punishment.

Something soft blocks my headbutt, and his words make my body pulse with warmth as he says, “Are the tables here upsetting you? I’ve seen you bump into several.”

I move my face back from his palm, and when I turn, my nose is pressed against his; he’s so close. Every part of me stills, and my heart races hard enough that the vibration reverberates throughout my rib cage.

“You’ve seen me all this time?”

“I, well, yes,” he admits, pulling away to stand, and my body instinctively misses his proximity. “I wasn’t sure if you wanted to talk to me or if I kept catching you trying to avoid me, so I thought I’d just ask you directly.”

Too desperate to have dignity, the words tumble out of me. “I don’t want to avoid you.”

Finally, a glimpse of Anders appears. His dimples press into his cheeks as his smile slowly takes over his face. “That’s good to know.”

“I also didn’t want to avoid you yesterday,” I explain, “but I was—you caught me at an inopportune time—I wanted to, I don’t know, not look ridiculous.”

“You were as beautiful then as you are now.”

I frown at him. “You’ve become a better liar.”

His smile falters—maybe the reminder of the time we spent apart upsets him as much as it upsets me.

“Can we talk?” We ask at the same time, mirroring each other’s smiles.

Anders holds out a hand as the band plays a slow couples’ dance. I take it, and he leads me to the dance floor. His hands snake around my waist, and I press my palms to his chest, let my hand feel his heartbeat, and notice its rhythm speeding to match mine.

He leads me through the first half of the song, and I lay my head on his chest, letting myself get lost in the moment without any baggage or hurt or anything in between. Just the comfort of Anders, of us.

Anders breaks the silence. “Why did you leave?” he asks. “And why did you ignore me when I reached out?”

I tilt my head back to face him. “I wanted to stay with you, but I didn’t want to either,” I answer. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

“Then make it,” he says softly.

I suck in a breath. “I think I was worried that what Mathew said was right. That everything I touch gets ruined. That somewhere deep in my subconscious, there was someone who used people, and if I was using you, then I couldn’t do it anymore. I didn’t want to. But then I wanted to be with you so much, so badly, and wished that it was all real, of course, but if it was and I ruined it, how could I forgive myself? And after what I did, I wondered if you could forgive me at all anyway?”

He doesn’t falter as the melody changes to another slow ballad, but his hand travels to my face as he cups my cheek. The act is sweet, tender, but his words are hot. “That pisses me off,” he says, “that you thoughthe was right, that you assumed how I would feel without coming to me first.”

I try to look down, but he pulls my face toward his.

“I thought,” I explain, “it was better not to know than to risk finding out that you couldn’t forgive me. That it would hurt less if I left it all open instead of letting you shut the door between us.”

“But that’s not everything,” he notes.

“No. I needed some time to try to figure myself out. To try to heal a little of what I didn’t even know was broken. Honestly, I’m not sure if I fully have. I’m probably still a little broken right now. So maybe it’s wrong to be here with you, like this. You’re supposed to love yourself first before anyone can love you, right?”

“Even if you haven’t figured out how to love yourself fully,” Anders says, “I have fallen in love with you easily and fully, so no, you don’t have to love yourself for someone to love you. I already do.” When my legs buckle, he wraps his arms around me and leans down. “But I’d like for you to see yourself the way I do.”

“Anders, wait”—I hold out my hands—“this is not what I was planning. This is not my vision. We’re skipping steps. I need to say sorry, and then also make a humiliating mention of how many times I stopped myself from reaching out to you, how I called you to hear your voice. Then I was hoping, you know, you had some equally, if not worse, embarrassing moments for me, so that way I don’t feel like such a moron for not just reaching out. We can equally just realize that—”

“Please”—Anders grips my face with both hands—“take a breath, Lucinda.”

He’s so focused on me that we bump into a couple of dancers nearby. Anders pulls away, one hand remaining on my waist as he apologizes.

This close, I see it’s the blond man Anders was talking to earlier. Then, a bulb flickers so bright in my head it burns. I hold out a finger toward him. “You’re the sexy plumber!”

“Excuse me?” both he and Anders say at the same time, the latter very much annoyed by the statement.

I wave him off, then push the finger to Anders’s chest. “You know him?”