A Long Time Coming

“Morning,” Brian says through the phone. “Just wanted to remind you that we have lunch with my mom this afternoon.”

I lift my cup of coffee and say, “Yup, don’t worry, I’ll be there fifteen minutes early so she doesn’t have to comment on how I’m there only five minutes early.”

“Be nice,” he says.

“I’m . . . I’m—”

“So did you tell him about us last night?”

I stare down at the engagement ring sitting on my dresser. No, I didn’t tell him. Brian is not a fan of Breaker’s. “Not yet. It wasn’t a good time last night.”

“Lia, how could it not be a good time to tell your best friend you’re engaged?”

“He has some really bad things happening at work right now. Like . . . inimical circumstances. He found out about it last night. I didn’t think it was appropriate to just spring it on him.”

“What’s going on?”

“Confidential things,” I answer because even though Brian is my fiancé, Breaker is my best friend and deserves his privacy, especially regarding his business. “Anyway, I’ll tell him soon.”

“Okay.” He pauses and then says, “You’re not avoiding telling him for a reason, are you?”

“What does that mean?” I ask as I move toward my desk. Luckily, I get to work from home since I do contract work for my clients, which means I have my own hours and my own space. I’m not exactly a people person.

“It means I just want to make sure you’re happy about being engaged. It’s been a week, Lia, and you haven’t said anything to him.”

“Because he’s been out of town. I’m not about to tell him over the phone. It’s something I want to do in person.”

“Okay . . .” he says softly, and I can tell he’s not happy.

“Brian, I’m going to tell him. I just want it to be a celebration, not something I say in passing or when he’s in a bad mood or out of town. He’ll be happy for us.”

“Are you sure?”

“Why wouldn’t he?”

“I don’t know. You’ve just been weird since I proposed.”

“Weird, how?” I ask as I take a seat on my desk chair and slowly start to spin around in circles.

“Well, for one, we’ve only seen each other twice this past week, and I don’t know, I would think that since we’ve been engaged, we’d see each other more. And your texting has been sporadic. That’s why I called this morning because I wanted to make sure you were going to show up for lunch.”

“Brian, of course I’d show up.”

“I just don’t know, Lia. Seems like you don’t want to be engaged to me.”

“Stop,” I say, growing frustrated. “This is all just so . . . new, okay? I’m taking it one day at a time.” I pause as I try to word what’s been spinning through my mind over the last seven days. “I may not talk about them as much anymore, but I miss my parents, Brian. They were my world. They should be here with me celebrating. Planning. Being goofy and happy with . . . for me. But . . . they’re not here anymore, and that’s just so hard. So if I’m acting strange, it’s because I’m feeling . . . I don’t know . . . sad.”

“Oh.” He’s silent again. “I’m sorry, Lia. I didn’t think about it that way. I just assumed, you know, since you’re so close with Breaker, that maybe something was going on there.”

“Brian,” I groan while pressing my hand over my eyes. “I’ve told you time and time again, nothing is going on with Breaker and me. Please, please don’t make this a thing. I don’t want to have to keep saying this to you over and over. You should know me well enough that when I say something, I mean it.”

“I know, sorry. Fuck, Lia . . .” He blows out a heavy breath. “It’s just been a weird week. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. But hey, I should open my computer and get some work done before lunch.”

“Okay. I love you. I’ll see you later.”

“Love you, too,” I answer before hanging up and setting my phone on my desk. I stare at it for a moment, my mind racing.

Brian is right. I have been off. However, I was caught off guard.

I wasn’t expecting Brian to propose. We hadn’t even talked about it. It felt sort of out of the blue. He took me out on a boat for a sunset cruise, dropped down on one knee, and asked me to marry him. I said yes. It was a beautiful proposal.

The ring is huge.

Bigger than anything I would ever need in my life, and even though it’s stunning, it doesn’t feel right sitting on my finger. None of it feels right, and I don’t know if it’s because I’m struggling with my parents not being around for one of the most significant moments of my life or if I’m struggling because even though everything about the proposal was magical, it wasn’t quite me, or because I’m struggling to find the words to tell Breaker.

Ever since last year, he and Brian haven’t really gotten along. They’ve been cordial and friendly to each other when we’re all in the same room, but the friendship they used to have doesn’t quite exist anymore. And it’s Brian’s fault, yet he hasn’t taken the blame, and I refuse to insert myself in the middle. I tried once, and that exploded in my face because Brian was mad that I was defending Breaker.

But . . . Breaker didn’t do anything wrong.

Brian works in investments. He actually works with some very wealthy clients. One night, we were all having dinner together, and Brian was looking for some . . . information. He was trying to get some clues as to what was happening with some stocks Breaker and his brothers owned. Valuable shares in renewable energy. It was all sort of . . . skeezy the way Brian went about it, crossing the lines of insider trading. And when Breaker didn’t break and hand over the information Brian was looking for, Brian got angry. It blew up from there.

I’ve tried my best to mull it over, but Brian is a prideful man, descending from a family of wealth. He’s held to a very high standard by his parents. If he’s not climbing the ladder, then he’s not worth his parents’ time. I think he was trying to land some big scores for his clients to benefit them and prove to his parents he has value.

I could not imagine living a life where you have to prove yourself to your parents day in and day out because their love is conditional at best.

Either way, they don’t get along well, and I just don’t know what Breaker is going to say when I tell him. I’m not sure if he’ll be happy, upset . . . if he tries to talk me out of it, I have no clue. And that’s mainly because we haven’t spoken about Brian much. We kind of just . . . forget that he’s a thing in my life whenever we hang out. It’s better that way.

But now . . . now I don’t know what the hell we’re going to do.

My phone chirps with a text, and I glance down to read it.

Breaker: Cronuts coming your way. I have a meeting with our lawyer this morning, or else I’d join you.

Smiling, I text him back.

Lia: Cronuts for what?

Breaker: For ruining our night last night. I tried to pull it together, but I couldn’t quite get there. Sorry, Lia.

Lia: No need to apologize. What are friends for? Can I get a rain check, though? These glass dice are calling my name.

Breaker: What do you have going on tonight? I’m free.

I give it some thought. Technically, I should probably go hang out with Brian tonight, but I’ll see him at lunch, and he does want me to tell Breaker, so maybe tonight would be a good idea.

Lia: Bring tacos. See you tonight.

Breaker: You know if I bring tacos, they’ll be the pickle-flavored ones.

Lia: Uh, yeah, that’s what I expect from you.

Breaker: I’ve broken you in.

Lia: Like a comfy pair of jeans.

I set my phone back down and smile to myself. As it always has been, texting Breaker—hanging out with Breaker—is so damn easy. And he gets that I need cronuts.

Okay, time to get some work done.

I HATE the dress I’m wearing.

Absolutely hate it.

Brian got it for me maybe a month ago. He told me we were going out for some fun, and he took me shopping. Wanted to celebrate a check he’d just received by buying me some new dresses.

For one, I’m not a huge fan of dresses, especially dresses that conform to every inch of my body, leaving very little room to breathe or walk in. Also, this dress has flowers all over it, and I’m not against flowers, it’s just . . . these are little flowers, and it reminds me of something a teenager from the nineties would wear. And thirdly, it’s short. By God, is it short. The wind blows right up the bottom, giving me Marilyn Monroe vibes with every step.

But Brian bought it for me and asked if I would wear it, so here I am.

“Lia, wow,” Brian says as he walks up from behind. “You look stunning.”

I turn just in time for him to pull me into a hug, his hand falling to my lower back as he squeezes me.

His signature cologne—fresh and woodsy—surrounds me first, followed by his tight grip, and then the subtle hint of his lips pressed against my cheek.

When I pull away, I smile up at his handsome face.

I remember the first time I met him. I was out having drinks with my friend Tanya, who doesn’t get out much because she’s a mother of twins. She told me there was a guy who couldn’t seem to take his eyes off me, sitting directly behind me. When I turned around to look, Brian was sitting in a booth, beer in hand, his gaze on me. Our eyes locked, and he took that moment to come up to me. He saw that I was hanging out with my friend, so he didn’t want to intrude. Instead, he had me put my phone number in his phone so he could text me to get a cup of coffee.

He texted me the next day.

And that was that.

After a year and a half of being together, he’s still as handsome as ever.

“You look really good,” I say, tugging on the black suit he paired with a dark-blue button-up shirt.

“Thank you.” His hand clutches mine, and he says, “You ready for this? Mother is very excited.”

Yup. Mother. That’s what he calls his mom. It’s so formal. When he first used the term, I laughed because I thought it was a joke, but it wasn’t. Mother and Father are his parents. To me, they’re Mr. and Mrs. Beaver.

Brian Manchester Beaver.

Quite the name.

If I decide to hyphenate his name, I would be Ophelia Fairweather-Fern-Beaver.

Taking the last name Beaver doesn’t really scream something I want to do, but I also know that I would insult Brian if I didn’t. I don’t know. It’s a conundrum I’m trying not to think about too much.

I smile up at Brian. “Very ready.”

He lifts my hand and kisses the engagement ring I made sure to put on before I left my apartment. “This looks so good on you.”

Does it?

Or does it look like I’m opening my own personal attack of Misfit Toys for the wintertime?

“Come on.”

He tugs me toward the doors of The Pier 1905 Club. Situated on the cliffs of Malibu, it’s a historic club known only to the rich and famous. The first time I was here, I was so intimidated that I told Brian I wasn’t feeling well and bolted early. After the fifth time I met with Brian and his parents here, I’ve grown accustomed to the heavy snobbery in the air. Hence the dress I squeezed into, the nail polish that miraculously dried before I arrived, and the heels I’m wearing with little straps that cling around my ankles. If Breaker saw me right now, I’m pretty sure he’d barely recognize me.

The gold-plated doors part for us by silent doormen, bringing us into the opulent lobby shrouded in light-blue linens and gold and white marble tiles. The theme of the entire club is rich beach. That’s all I need to say.

“Mr. Beaver, your mother is expecting you,” the host says as we turn toward the dining area.

“She has to get here at least half an hour early,” I mutter under my breath.

Brian chuckles. “She always likes to be the first to arrive.”

That much is obvious. She wants to be the first to arrive so she can dish out backhanded jabs about time management—despite being fifteen minutes early.

“Right this way,” the host says as he guides us through the dining room.

Just like every other time we’ve met with Mother, we’re guided to the back of the dining area and out to the balcony, where Mrs. Beaver always occupies a corner table.

And just like every other time, she sits in a white floppy hat, staring directly at the entrance. In addition to her hands crossed in front of her, her internal scowl matches her disapproving lips.

I love Brian. So much.

But his mom, pretty sure she’s the devil incarnate on a pair of four-inch heels.

When we reach the table, she doesn’t bother standing. Instead, Brian bends and places a kiss on her cheek. “Mother, you look beautiful.”

“Thank you,” she says, her voice dripping with hundred-dollar bills.

You know when someone talks like they’re rich—clenched throat, tight lips, disapproving tone in every word? Well, that is Mrs. Beaver, even when she’s happy.

When Brian steps to the side, I move forward and offer a curt nod—the way she likes it—and say, “Hello, Mrs. Beaver. It’s so nice seeing you today.”

Her gaze falls to my shoes first. I thank God I got a pedicure the other day so she doesn’t comment about how dry my feet look. Then she works all the way up my dress to my face. With a gentle tug of her lips—that’s her way of smiling—she says, “Ophelia, it’s nice to see you. Please take a seat. We have much to talk about.”

Looks like she approves of the dress because there was no pop of her forehead vein or subtle clamp of her jaw. Finally, I got it right.

Brian pulls out a chair for me, and I sit before picking up my napkin from the table and folding it across my lap.

“It’s a beautiful day,” I say as Mrs. Beaver lifts my hand and examines my ring.

“Brian, dear, did you get insurance on this?”

“Yes, Mother. As well as a monthly cleaning.”

Mrs. Beaver nods in approval. “Good.” And then she drops my hand before adjusting the napkin on her lap. “I took the liberty of ordering all of us the salmon salad.”

Ugh . . . salmon. I had it once, and now that’s all she orders.

“I didn’t want to waste any time looking over a menu. We have a lot to talk about, a lot of planning to do.”

“Planning?” I ask, confused.

“Yes, Ophelia. You’re an engaged woman now. That means we need to start planning the wedding.”

“Oh, so soon?”

Her sharp gaze snaps up to me. “What do you mean, so soon? Ophelia, we only have one month until the end of summer. The club has a spot open on a Saturday night in five weeks, so yes, so soon.”

“Wait, you want us to get married in five weeks?” I ask, my eyes nearly bugging out.

Brian’s hand slides over my hand in reassurance. “Mother, that does seem rather quick.”

Mrs. Beaver now glances toward her son, her steely eyes wilting my fiancé right in his seat. “Brian, do you expect to wait a whole year? The Beavers only get married in the summer. You know this, it’s tradition, and since you proposed late, we only have about five weeks to work with.”

“What’s wrong with waiting a year?” I ask, respectively. “That will give us time to make sure everything is perfect.”

“Brian’s niece will be far too tall to be the flower girl a year from now. You must think about the pictures, Ophelia.”

Ah, yes, the pictures. Heaven forbid a tall flower girl show up and ruin everything.

“The wedding must be this year and must be in five weeks. That’s our only option.” She lifts her water glass to her pursed lips, letting us know the decision is final.

“Five weeks, well . . . I guess we can make it work,” Brian says, folding like a cheap lawn chair. “It will be fun, right, Ophelia?” He only uses my full name around his mother, and I hate it because it sounds weird coming from his mouth. The only person I’ve ever liked using my full name was Breaker because he uses it when it’s a special moment, not because his mother forces him.

Mother and son both stare me down. They’re waiting for an answer, one that is hard to come up with, given how my throat seems to be squeezing tight on me.

“Uh, sorry.” I take a deep breath. “This whole wedding thing is just hard, you know? I thought I’d be doing this with my parents by my side.”

“Oh, dear,” Mrs. Beaver says as she coldly taps my hand. “That’s what you have me for. Now.” She snaps her finger behind her, beckoning whatever butler waits in the depths of the wall for her to summon. The butler appears with a thick, leather-bound folder and gently places it in front of Mrs. Beaver. “This will be your planning book,” she says, turning it toward me. “It has everything in it that needs to be chosen. Of course, given that your parents are no longer with us, I’ve taken it upon myself to give you a few options for the type of weddings to choose from.”

She flips open the folder and pushes it toward me.

“The venue is obviously the club. Our family has had receptions here for years. That will not change.”

Great, glad to have a say in that.

“As for the flowers, colors, and theme, there’s some leeway in those decisions.”

“Leeway?” I ask, my voice coming off more irritated than anything.

Getting married in five weeks is a little much, but being only granted a little leeway? Now that’s something I don’t know if I’m cool with.

“Yes, well, we do have some very powerful people attending. We need to keep up appearances for that reason alone.”

“But what about what Brian and I want?” I ask. “This is our wedding, after all.”

Mrs. Beaver’s jaw grows tight as she sharpens her smile, turning it into a razor blade, ready to cut down any dream with a smart-witted remark. “Ophelia, you must understand the importance of marrying into the Beaver family. This isn’t some ordinary wedding; this is a show of status. This is a way for our family to exhibit the many accomplishments we’ve made to gain the status we have. Every intricate detail will be chosen based on obtaining our place in our circle. I understand you come from humble beginnings, but you will be a Beaver soon, and certain expectations are to be upheld.”

Leaning toward me, Brian says, “It’s just a party, Ophelia. What does it really matter what kind of flowers are picked out?”

“It matters to me,” I say, feeling myself growing emotional. And let me tell you, the Beavers do not do emotions.

“Now, now.” Mrs. Beaver pats my hand again. “No need to cause a scene.” She flips the folder closed. “I can see you have some thoughts about the wedding, and I don’t want to steamroll your special day. How about this . . . we take it one decision at a time? We can meet, explore options, and you can choose from there.”

“That’s really kind of you, Mother,” Brian says. I almost didn’t hear him from how far up his mother’s ass he is.

“Well, if anything, I’m an understanding woman,” Mrs. Beaver says. “I don’t want your bride to be upset with her new family. So what do you say, Ophelia? Think you can manage meetings with me? Make some decisions?”

I swallow down the tightness of my throat and nod my head because what option do I really have? Mrs. Beaver wants the wedding in five weeks. Brian is not going to stand up for us because he’s still suckling at the teat of approval, so it seems I don’t have any other option than to go along with this plan.

“Yes,” I answer. “I think that would be nice.”

“Wonderful,” Mrs. Beaver says without an ounce of excitement. She snaps her finger again in an instant, and salads are placed in front of us. “Now, let’s eat.”

She lifts her fork and gently cuts into her salmon while Brian holds my hand and smiles brightly at me.

The things we do for love.

“THANK YOU AGAIN, LIA,” Brian says as he walks me up to my apartment. After a prolonged time at the club, we spent another two hours walking around the venue while a wedding planner showed us the spaces. As expected, Mrs. Beaver took the lead. She had her own opinion on the reception and where the cocktail hour needed to be, as well as the dinner. The dance floor would be modest, with just enough room for people to slow dance—according to her, there would be no bumping and grinding at our wedding—and then she pointed out the bride’s room where I would be making dress changes.

When I asked how many dresses she planned on me changing into, she said at least three, as if it was the most preposterous question she’s ever heard.

Three dresses? How does one person even have the bandwidth to pick three different wedding dresses? Mrs. Beaver pointed out there’s the ceremony dress, the reception dress, and then of course the parting dress—the dress I put on just to leave the building. So many useless expenses. By the time we left, it was past five, and I was rushing to get back home.

I took an Uber to the club because Brian always likes to drive me, and as I figured, he wanted to drive me today.

“Thank you for what?” I ask him as I reach my door and turn toward him.

“I know the big wedding thing isn’t what you were probably looking for, but it’s important to my mother.”

“Yeah, I could tell.” I press my lips together. Tugging on the lapel of his suit jacket, I say, “Are you sure this is all necessary? Do we really have to have such a grandiose wedding? Maybe we can elope or something?”

He snorts. “Lia, my mother would absolutely kill me. I’m her baby boy, the last one to get married out of her children. She will not allow me to elope.”

“You know, Brian,” I say in a seductive voice while moving my hand up his chest. “The great thing about being an adult is that you can make your own decisions.”

He lightly presses me against my door and smooths his hand up my thigh. “Yes, but when the decision doesn’t really bother me, I’m not going to put up a fight about it.”

“But don’t I matter?” I ask.

He cups my cheek. “Of course you matter, Lia. But I also know that wedding stuff isn’t that important to you.”

“It should be important to us both, as it’s our day.”

He brings his lips to mine and presses a few short kisses before pulling away and saying, “We have the rest of our lives to do things the way we want. This is one day, Lia. And it’s going to be beautiful, you know my mother wouldn’t have it any other way. Trust her, okay? You might feel that what she thinks is perfect.”

I sigh just as I hear the elevator ding. I glance over Brian’s shoulder just in time to see the elevator doors part and Breaker’s face come into view.

Panic rises up, and I quickly pull Brian’s attention as I whisper, “Breaker just got here. I’m telling him tonight about the engagement. Please don’t say anything.” The words fly out of my mouth so fast that I almost don’t understand them myself.

“Tonight?” he asks. “But I thought we could go into your place, and you know . . . celebrate.”

Yeah, that won’t be happening. The only time I “celebrate” with Brian in my apartment is when Breaker is out of town. The last thing I need is for my best friend to hear that through the wall we share. Also, weirdly, the only time Brian isn’t too tired to “celebrate” is when he’s at my place.

“I’m sorry, but I promised we could hang out tonight. I’ll make it up to you. I’ll bring an overnight bag Friday and spend the whole weekend with you. Okay?”

He grows stiff with irritation and releases me.

“Brian, please, don’t be mad.”

“No, I get it.” He straightens his jacket. “But you’re mine this weekend.”

“Promise,” I say as I loop my hand around the back of his neck and pull him in for a kiss. Of course I intend a peck, but Brian goes in for the kill, adding tongue, making a show of it. When he pulls away, Breaker is standing a few feet away, patiently waiting with our take-out food.

Brian turns and smiles at Breaker. “Good to see you, man. How was New York?”

“Good,” Breaker says, looking like the good guy he is, not showing an ounce of how much he dislikes Brian. He’s never said it to my face, but I can tell when Breaker enjoys being around someone and when he doesn’t. He creates this fake smile, where only the right side of his mouth tilts up. That’s the smile Brian gets all the time. “Glad to be back. I prefer the West Coast.”

“I don’t know. There’s something the city has to offer that you just don’t get here. Who knows, maybe we’ll make our way over to the Big Apple one day, right, Lia?”

Uh, what now?

Breaker’s eyes fall to mine, questions in them as to what he means by that, and frankly, I have no clue. Instead of trying to play middleman, I say, “Well, I’ll see you this weekend, okay?”

Brian nods and kisses me one more time. “Call me tonight. I want to talk about this weekend and our plans.”

“Okay.”

“Love you.”

“Love you.” I wave, and Brian takes off toward the elevator, where he presses the down button and sticks his hand in his pocket.

When he’s firmly in the elevator, I turn to Breaker, who has his eyebrow raised. “Are you moving to New York?” he asks.

“What?” I nearly shout. “No!” I shake my head. “No. I don’t know what he was talking about.”

“Are you sure? Because you’re looking sort of fidgety right now.”

That’s because I’m trying to hide the giant ice rink on my finger.

“I’m sure. I think that was just some offhand comment. We’re not moving.” I turn toward my door, unlock it, and then let us both in.

“Okay, because that would not settle well with me. I mean, I would make the move, but I like it here on the West Coast.”

“I do too.”

He sets the food down on my kitchen counter and pulls out the to-go boxes while I set my things down. “You look nice, by the way.” I feel his eyes on me, and I want to slither away in this dress.

“The dress is not me. Too short.”

“It might not be you, but it still looks good. What was the occasion?”

I face him and place my hands behind my back. “Uh, lunch with The Beave.”

We came up with the nickname after my first interaction with her. I’m careful when I use it because I don’t want to accidentally address Brian’s mother as The Beave in front of him. I’m pretty sure that would earn me a hefty scowl, a long lecture, and copious apologies. The man loves his mother. Nothing wrong with that. You just have to be conscious of what not to do.

“Ah . . . at the club?” Breaker asks in a snooty voice while raising his pinky.

Breaker is a billionaire. He has more than enough money to put the Beavers to shame, yet he doesn’t act like he has money. Sure, he might wear the most perfectly tailored suits with the richest fabric, his watches are more like expensive jewelry, and his haircuts cost way more than they should, but he lives modestly in an apartment next to mine because this is what I can afford. He could live in the Flats with his brothers. He could have a beach house out in Malibu, and he could even have a penthouse downtown, but he chose to live here.

“Yes, at the club.”

“Get the salmon salad again?”

“Yes, and it was as dreadful as the first, second, third, fourth, and fifth time I’ve had it.”

He chuckles lightly. “Next time, excuse yourself after you order and tell the waitstaff to bring you a burger instead.”

I clutch my chest in horror. “And risk the waitstaff being snapped at? No, thank you. I’d rather suffer through the salmon.”

“You’re a real Joan of Arc, you know that?”

“I try. Okay, I’m going to change real quick because I can’t sit comfortably in this without flashing you my underwear.”

“Not that I haven’t been flashed countless times before.”

“By accident! You make me sound like a philandering woman.”

“Halloween, five years ago, you wore that maid outfit. I think I saw your underwear more times that night than all the years we’ve known each other.”

“Uh, excuse me, sir. I wore that maid outfit because I lost a bet to you, and that’s what you chose. If it was my choice, I would have gone as a piece of toast with melted butter. You know how much I love dressing up as food.”

“Yeah, but the maid costume was more fun.”

“For you . . . you pervert.”

He rolls his eyes dramatically. “For the last time, it wasn’t because I was being pervy. It was because I knew you would hate it.”

“Wow, you’re such a great best friend.”

He smiles broadly. “I know.”

Chuckling, I go to my bedroom, where I quickly strip out of the dress and the heels and trade them out for fluffy black slippers, a pair of cotton shorts, and a murder mystery shirt. I toss my hair up in a bun, then stare down at my engagement ring. Should I wear it out there, or should I tell him first?

I nibble on my bottom lip as I try to figure it out. Five weeks, that’s so quick. Like lightning-fast quick, and sure, of course I want to marry Brian, I love him, but five weeks? I’m barely able to wrap my head around the fact I’m getting married.

I tug on the ring and pull it off my finger. I think it’s best that I don’t go rushing into the kitchen with the ring but rather ease the idea into conversation.

I set my ring on the dresser, then walk back into the kitchen, where Breaker has set up two place settings on the table with drinks and lots of napkins. We’re going to need them.

The tacos Breaker gets are from a local food truck around the corner. They make tacos de birria, and they are so good that I would probably get them every night if I didn’t have self-control. But because they come with a dipping sauce that the meat was cooked in, we need tons of napkins because things get messy.

“Ugh, they smell so good.”

“Yeah, they do, so hurry your ass on over here so I can dig in.”

I take a seat across from him. “You could have started without me.”

“You know I never do. If anything, I’m a gentleman and will always wait.”

“You didn’t wait two months ago when I brought over cheesecake.”

“Ah, cheesecake.”

“Very true. All sweets are your downfall.” I pick up a taco, and he does too, and like every other time we’ve purchased these tacos, we “clink” them as a toast to the meal and then dip them in the sauce. I take a very large bite and chew.

After a few seconds, he asks, “So how was lunch?”

I swallow and answer, “Oh, you know, same old, same old.”

He pauses his taco halfway to his mouth, sauce dripping from the crispy, grilled tortilla. “Why do I feel like you’re hiding something from me?”

“What? Hiding? Ha! No, I don’t hide things.” I push up my purple-rimmed glasses and chuckle. “Why would I hide something from you? That seems pointless. I tell you everything.”

“You’re babbling.”

“Uh, no, I’m not. I’m defending myself. Because why would I hide something from you?”

He sets his taco down and straightens up. “You’re definitely hiding something.”

“I don’t like your accusatory glare.”

“And I don’t like that you’re prolonging the inevitable of actually telling me what’s going on.” He nods at me. “Go ahead, spill.”

Ugh, he knows me too well. There’s no point, he will go all night like this, so I set my taco down and look him in the eyes.

“Something has developed in my life.”

“Oh-kay,” he drags out.

“Something that will change things a bit.”

His brow creases. “You are moving to New York, aren’t you?”

“Noooooo! I’m not moving, I’m just . . . changing my relationship status.”

His brow rises. “You’re breaking up with Brian? Thank—”

“No, he proposed, and we’re getting married.”

Breaker’s mouth falls open right before he says, “Married?”

“In five weeks.” I wince.

“Five weeks?” he asks. “Like in . . . five weeks?”

“Yes.”

He pushes back, his expression completely shocked. Yeah, I get it. I’m surprised too.

“I know it’s coming on quick, but The Beave wants us to get married at the club, and there’s an opening, and his family always gets married in the summer, and next year won’t work because his niece will be too tall. So yeah, five weeks.”

“Wow.” He rubs a napkin over his face and tosses it on the table. “That’s . . . a lot of information. Did he just propose today?” His eyes fall to my hand. “Where’s the ring? He got you a ring, right?”

“Yeah, it’s in my bedroom.”

“Why?”

“I didn’t want to shock you, and he proposed a week ago. I wanted to tell you in person. Are you mad?” I wince again, my heart beating a mile a minute.

“Why would I be mad?”

“Because, you know, it happened a week ago, and I haven’t told you, and I know that Brian isn’t really your favorite person.”

“But he’s your favorite person, so, therefore, I like him,” Breaker says, but the lie falls flat. There’s just about zero excitement in the inflection of his voice. He swallows, almost as if he’s swallowing pain, and says, “Show me the ring.”

“You want to see it?” I ask, feeling an awkward tension falling between us.

I know he’s not actually happy for me. I know this is all coming out of the blue—just like it did for me. But he’s putting on a smile, and he’s trying, which only seems to make it feel . . . worse.

“Yeah, show me your ring.”

“Okay.” I grab the ring from my room, and then hand it to Breaker once I’m back in the dining area. I don’t slip it on my finger but rather just hand it to him.

“Wow, that’s nice,” he says as he lifts his eyes up to me, probably trying to gauge my reaction. “Put it on.”

He hands it back to me, and I slip it on my finger.

“It looks great on you, Lia,” he says softly. And there he is, my best friend. He will say just about anything to make sure I feel comfortable, even though he probably knows that I’m anything but comfortable wearing this ring.

“It’s different than what I would have picked out,” I admit.

“Doesn’t make it any less beautiful.” He smiles and stands. “Come here.”

I stand, and he pulls me into a hug, his strong arms wrapping around me as I rest my head on his chest. I don’t know if it’s because everything is happening so fast or because he’s being so nice, but my emotions get the best of me, and my eyes start to water, so I squeeze him tighter.

“I’m happy for you, Lia.” He kisses the top of my head. “Five weeks is quick, but I’m sure it will be great.”

My throat tightens, my tears ready to drip down my cheeks. I don’t want him to see me crying. I don’t like being emotional in front of anyone, let alone Breaker, but it doesn’t seem to be something I can stop from happening.

A light sob escapes me, and the moment Breaker hears it, he puts a touch of space between us and bends at the knees to get a look at my face. I swipe my eyes under my glasses, but it’s too late.

“Hey,” he says quietly. “Why are you crying?”

“I . . . I think it’s all too much for me right now.”

“Come here,” he says, taking my hand and walking me over to the couch. We both take a seat, facing each other. “Talk to me. What’s going on? Do you not want to get married?”

“No, I mean . . . I do. I just, I wasn’t expecting it. Brian and I hadn’t ever talked about marriage, so I was caught off guard when he proposed. Then at lunch today, it felt like everything was moving at warp speed. The Beave wants me to wear at least three dresses, which I think is a waste of money. Brian won’t stand up to his mom, and the ring is just . . . wow, it’s big, and I always sort of wanted one of those past, present, and future rings with the three diamonds, and then there’s you. I was so afraid of telling you because I know Brian is not your favorite person—”

“Let me stop you right there,” Breaker says in a calming tone. “You don’t need to worry about me or how I feel in any of this, okay? My feelings, my thoughts, my opinions don’t matter. All that matters is how you feel and what you want.” He squeezes my hand. “So how do you feel?”

“Scared,” I admit. “Sad. Not . . . right. And it’s not because I don’t love Brian, because I do, but I just think this is all weird. I used to talk about this day with my parents, and they won’t be there. Things are happening fast, I don’t know. I expected to feel different when I was proposed to.”

“Maybe it hasn’t sunk in yet,” he says. “It might just take you a moment to comprehend what’s happening.”

“Maybe.” I circle my finger over the couch fabric as I stare down. “You’re not mad?”

“Lia.” He tilts my chin up so I’m forced to look at his crystal-blue eyes. “If I were mad at you, then I wouldn’t be a very good friend, now, would I?”

“I guess not.”

“This is exciting, okay? Brian proposed, and you’re getting married. Let me see a smile.”

Tears drip down my cheeks as I attempt a pathetic smile.

He chuckles. “Well, that’s just sad.”

“I’m trying. I think I was doing okay about the news, just waiting to tell you, but at lunch today, I felt like I was getting steamrolled left and right by The Beave. I know the wedding is important to their family because of their social status, and it’s all about keeping up with appearances when it comes to them, but I should have a say in all this, shouldn’t I?”

“Uh, yes, Lia. This is your wedding. You should have a say in what happens at it.”

“I just become a doormat when she’s around. It’s hard to get my opinion in, you know?”

“It’s hard to overcome strong personalities, and I get that. I deal with my brothers every day.”

“And I was already steamrolled about the date, and where the reception will be held, I attempted to challenge the decision but fell short. I think I’m going to just end up resenting this whole thing because I’m going to be pushed around, and that’s taking the excitement out of it.”

“That’s understandable. Can you make the decisions without The Beave?”

I give him a look. “That would never happen. She already has appointments made.”

“Well then . . . take me with you,” Breaker says, the suggestion making me laugh.

“Come on, Breaker, be serious.”

“I’m being serious,” he says. “I can go with you. It’s not like I have anything going on right now. I have to stay away from work. This might give me something to do to keep me busy.” He smirks. “Maybe I can be your wedding planner.”

“Oh my God, stop.” I push at him.

“Or your maid of honor . . . ooo, your man of honor. Or, better yet, man in waiting.”

“Can you stop being ridiculous?”

His brows tilt down. “Uh, do you have another best friend I don’t know about that would take the title of maid of honor?”

I pause and give it some thought. “Uh, not really, no. But I guess I never really thought about it.”

“I’m your best friend, correct?”

“You are,” I answer.

“And best friends always claim the title as best man or maid of honor, correct?”

“Yessss,” I drag out.

“Therefore, by process of elimination, I’m your man of honor, but I believe man in waiting has a better ring to it, don’t you think?”

“You’re not being serious, are you?”

“Of course I am,” he says with all sincerity. “Listen, Lia. I know this is going to be tough without your parents. Losing them was so hard, and they wouldn’t want you to do this alone. I have the time, and even if I didn’t, I would make the time for you. I can help. I can be your backup, your wingman, your bodyguard, your bruiser.”

“Bodyguard? Do you really think I need protection from The Beave?”

“I’ve met her before. Her stare alone is terrifying, let alone the manipulation. Trust me, you will need a bodyguard, and I’m your man.”

“But what about Brian?”

“What about him?”

“You guys don’t get along.”

Breaker shifts on the couch and then offers me a smile. “Well, he’s going to be your husband. Better late than never to build on that relationship because I won’t let any hard feelings or awkward tension with your future husband get between you and me, got it?”

As I listen to him and his words of affirmation, my emotions tighten again, causing more tears to fall.

“What’s going on?” he asks, concerned.

“Just . . .” I look him in the eyes. “I’m so glad I told you. You looked like a pervert with your mustache so many years ago, but I’m lucky to have you in my life.”

He lightly chuckles and says, “You know, if you’re lucky, I could bring back the mustache for your wedding.”

I push at his face. “Don’t even think about it.”