“Mom and Dad are on their way,” Derek says. “Haven’s with her mom this weekend.”
“I saved us a table.” I point across the expansive community hall. This is where most people have wedding receptions in Rixton Falls. There’s a stage, a dozen sparkling chandeliers, a parquet dance floor, and a catering-quality kitchen in the back.
“You’re not sitting with Brenda?” Derek scratches his temple.
“There aren’t assigned seats. This isn’t a wedding.”
Derek laughs.
“Sweetheart, now that the guests are mostly here, we’ll be making a speech in a moment. Stick with me, please.” Brenda’s voice in my ear sends a wicked zing down my spine.
“A speech?” I whip around to face her. “You didn’t say anything about a speech.”
“Just a few lines, dear. Speak from your heart. Tell the guests how you feel about my son, and how excited you are for your future together. How the money we raised will allow you to stay home and care for him as he recovers. They came all this way. You at least owe them that.”
Brenda’s sweet eyes darken for a second, but her smile remains relentlessly unshaken.
“I’m going to look for Mom and Dad,” Derek says, “and tell them where we’re sitting.”
So much for my quick appearance tonight.
I had no idea this was some kind of event-planned production, complete with a PA system and an open bar.
Rarely have I held a bad thought about Brenda, but in this moment, I resent her for turning her son’s tragic accident into a three-ring circus.
I untether myself from Brenda with an excuse about using the ladies’ room. She tells me to be quick, and I promise I’ll try. As soon as I’m inside, I shut myself in a stall and take out my phone.
I can’t wing a speech.
I barely passed speech class in college.
Had to take an Ativan before each one just to survive.
Stick me in front of a classroom of five and six year olds, and I’m golden. But public speech? In front of thousands?
My heart gallops in my chest, refusing to calm down.
And speaking about Brooks from my heart?
I highly doubt they want me to do that right now.
With eyes closed, I pull in three deep breaths and try not to choke on the cheap bathroom air freshener that invades my lungs. I try to focus on happier times. If I do that, maybe I can bullshit this enough to come out alive on the other end.
The beginning was good.
That boy swept me off my feet like no one’s business.
Those shiny blonde waves, swept into an expensive haircut. Those glimmering green eyes that took my breath away. That cocky smile that made all the girls in the campus dining hall do a double-take.
I was sitting alone, minding my own business in the cafeteria when Brooks took the seat across from me. He asked me for a napkin, saying please and thank you, and our fingers brushed.
He was so clean-cut. Neat around the edges. Preppy. Well-mannered.
He wore khakis and polos and boat shoes like they were his uniform.
He was studying finance and minoring in international business. He listened to NPR and stayed current on world news.
He could be charming and influential on his best of days, and at the time, he seemed safe.
Brooks Abbott was the anti-Royal Lockhart.
And maybe that was the best thing about him.
My broken heart was sold the first time I saw him, and I was convinced those green eyes were going to mend my broken heart.
“Ma’am, you about done in there? There’s a line.” A woman’s voice precedes a knock on my stall door. I’m occupying one of only three, and I’m sure Brenda’s outside freaking out that I’m not there when we’re about to take the podium.
“Coming right out,” I call back.
I wash up and stare in the mirror. My lipstick has faded, most of it left on Royal’s mouth after that earth-shaking kiss in the foyer. I rub them together, trying to redistribute the color, and head out.
The lights have been lowered, and a spotlight is pointed at the stage. A man in a gray suit is fussing with a microphone behind a wooden lectern.
And I still don’t know what I’m going to say.
The room has grown louder. There are easily a couple of thousand people here, and it sounds like they’re all talking at once.
If I listen closely enough, I can pick out Brenda saying, “Where’s Demi? I need Demi.”
A cool sweat glazes my forehead, and my fingers go numb at my sides. I can’t stand up there, in front of all these people, and feed them some bullshit about the miracle of love and how I always knew Brooks would pull through and how I can’t wait to spend the rest of my life with that amazing man.
I’m not a bullshitter. Never have been. Never will be.