Page 5 of Almost Enough

“I still can’t believe you’re marrying your high school crush. You manifested a romance novel, and now I’m just supposed to pick linen colors like this isn’t insane?”

She flicks a color swatch at me. “You’re just jealous because I’m living my happily ever after while you’re still pretending to hate romance.”

“I’m not pretending. I genuinely do hate it. Big difference.” I pick up one of her wedding magazines, flipping through pictures of beaming brides. “Besides, not all of us have a tattooed God show up at our door declaring he’s been in love with us since puberty. Some of us get ghosted after two dates and an enthusiastic blow job.”

Violet snorts into her coffee. “You’re so dramatic.”

“Thank you. I pride myself on my consistency.”

The truth is, I used to love this kind of stuff. The idea of someone choosing you, staying, showing up with their heart in their hands and saying, I picked you. It’s always been you. I used to believe in that a long time ago, before I learned that some people only stay long enough to see the shiny parts and leave once they realize there’s a little rust underneath.

So now I roll my eyes at wedding dresses and pretend vows make me itchy. It’s easier that way. Easier than wanting something I don’t even believe exists.

And even if I did, I wouldn’t know what to do with it. I’m loud, impulsive, emotionally messy—everything love isn’t supposed to be.

“So…” I look around the kitchen and living room. “Where’s Rowan this morning?”

She nods in the direction of the back window. “He’s out with the horses.”

I glance outside to see Rowan leading one of Violet’s chestnut mares through the paddock. “You’ve won the lottery of life. I hope you know that.”

“I do,” she says softly.

I turn away from the window quickly, because I’m starting to feel like I’m looking at something I’m not supposed to be seeing—something too perfect, too stable. The sooner I stop comparing myself to it, the better.

I refocus on the wedding prep. My hands immediately start fidgeting with the corner of the magazine in front of me. “So, lay it on me. Maid of honor at your service. What do you need me to do? What’s left to plan?”

Violet sets her coffee down, and I immediately recognize the look on her face. It’s the same expression she wore in college when she wanted me to call the asshat she’d been on one date with and tell him she didn’t want to see him again.

“Well,” she starts, suddenly very interested in adjusting the color swatches in perfect alignment. “There’s actually something specific I need your help with.”

“Okay…am I hiding a body or something? Why are you all fidgety?”

She takes a deep breath. “The resort in Colorado needs someone to arrive early to coordinate with the vendors, check the venue setup, and make sure everything’s perfect before the rest of the wedding party gets there.”

“That’s all? Of course I’ll go. That’s what I’m here for. You say jump, I’ll book the flight.”

She winces. “Beau’s going, too.”

Ah. There it is.

I force my expression to stay neutral, like hearing his name doesn’t make my brain short-circuit.

Beau.

The world’s grumpiest fella. Rowan’s best man. The guy who went to high school with Violet and Rowan. The guy who’s the human equivalent of a locked door I can’t stop rattling, even though it’s very clear no one plans on answering from the other side.

Now that Violet and Rowan are together, Beau and I always end up in the same room. We’ve never actually spent more than five consecutive minutes together, though. There’s always Rowan between us, or Violet dragging me into another conversation, or a dozen other people filling the silence before it can become awkward.

Unless you count the time Beau and I were cleaning up after Violet and Rowan’s New Year’s Eve engagement party, when he tried to correct the way I was stacking chairs.

“Those’ll fall,” he said.

I waved him off. “They’re fine.”

“They’re not,” he grumbled.

“You’re being dramatic.”