Page 21 of How to Ruin a Wedding

The muffled noise tears my throat as I release it, trying to let go of this choking bundle of emotions lodged within it. I only stop when I feel my phone vibrating in my back pocket.

I snatch it from my jeans to answer on the fifth ring. “Hello?”

“Lucinda?”

I sit up so fast that the room spins. “Hello?” I say again, checking the screen, but I don’t have the number saved as a contact. “Who is this?” But my subconscious recognizes the voice now that time has passed and I’m completely sober.

“Ah,” he says into the speaker. “You didn’t save my number. Understandable since we were supposed to be perfect strangers, but I saved yours, sorry.” When I don’t say anything, he adds, “It’s Anders.”

“I know,” I say, then slap my forehead. “I mean, hi. Well. Why are you calling me?”

I haven’t thought too much about him because I’ve been preoccupied with my glaring unemployment, eviction, and the brother-in-law who hates me. The last time I saw him was when I ruined the wrong wedding.

His first love’s wedding.

Oh shit. I hadn’t thought ofthatdetail in particular. Is he happy with me? Angry that I wrecked the special moment between two people he still weirdly cares about? Confused by me? All of the above?

His answering chuckle, even muffled by a phone speaker, sends a quick zing of awareness down my spine. “How are you? When I tried looking for you after the almost-wedding, I heard you already left.”

How are you?This was not the first question I thought he’d ask me—not that I thought he’d ask me anything. I never thought we’d have another interaction in my life.

I’ve already trauma dumped on him once and don’t think it’s why he’s calling me now, so I go with, “I’m fine.”

“You live in New York, right? That’s what you told me,” he says, and he meansYou may or may not have given me the wrong name, and you wrecked a wedding, and you have a track record of being a complete weirdo, so I’m not sure if you were telling the truth about your place of residence.

But I don’t feel like admitting that I now live with my little sister, so I tell him, “Yes.”

“Perfect. I’m in the city for work this week, our offices are based here, and I was hoping we could grab coffee.”

“Why?”

I don’t mean to sound so short, but I’m too confused about him reaching out and on the tail end of misery from speaking with Mathew to think of anything other than single-word responses.

He only chuckles again. “I’d like to see you. Talk. And, honestly, I have something to ask.”

“You can ask me now,” I point out, trying not to sound like I was screaming into the couch cushion only moments ago.

“I’d rather do it in person.”

Curiosity tickles my spine straight. Though I only remember bits and pieces of our night together, the small bundles of memories among the black spots are all pleasant. He was charming and never creepy, comforting but not too soft.

And, of course, whenever our hands brushed or our shoulders knocked into each other as we stumbled around the hotel in search of snacks, an arrow of heat shot between my legs.

My fingers dance along my lap. I could say no, but there’s no real reason to, just like there’s no reason to say yes. But an excuse to get out of the house seems more appealing than flinching at the creak of every footstep I hear whenever Mathew walks along the kitchen floor above.

It’ll take me another two hours to get back into the city, but at least the drive will help me clear my head. Or, if I want to drink, I can take the train.

“Make it dinner tonight, and I’ll say yes.”

“Dinner,” he repeats without hesitation, “tonight, so say yes.”

“Yes.”

6.

Anders sent over the restaurant and time without being asked, so I didn’t have to wonder if my linen pants and sleeveless top were appropriate attire for the dimly lit bistro stuffed between high-rise buildings downtown.

He sits at a table in a far corner, overlooking the other diners clinking glasses and laughing while a slightly too loud indie-folk playlist surrounds us.