Happily Never After

I DIDN’T RECOGNIZE her at first.

I was sitting at a table by the window, waiting for Sophie, when the blonde walked in. She was looking at her phone and wearing the standard “casual” Friday uniform for this corporate part of town; jeans (“good” jeans, not “garage cleaning” jeans), flat (designer) shoes, white T-shirt, and the requisite perfectly tailored black blazer.

It screamed, I’m not dressed up today but still willing to schedule a shit ton of meetings at the drop of a hat, and I knew at a glance that the woman used the shit out of that Apple Watch on her wrist.

Her hair was shoulder length, light and wavy with razored ends, and she wore a large pair of black glasses that managed to make her look hot and smart all at the same time, like she could calculate quadratic equations and forecast an annual budget without ever ruining her lipstick.

I picked up my cup and looked away from her, out the window. The last thing I needed was for Miss iPhone to look over and think I was checking her out. Still . . . my eyes went back. There was just something about the way she charged the counter without looking up from her device that made me watch, half waiting for a collision and half intrigued to see whether or not she could order and get her drink while never raising her eyes from her phone.

But when she reached the front of the line, she dropped the phone into her jacket pocket and ordered—Venti Americano with a splash of cream—with a smile in her voice.

Holy shit—her voice.

It was her.

The blonde was Sophie.

I pictured her long, dark hair and lacy wedding gown, and couldn’t quite believe it.

As if hearing my thoughts, she glanced around the coffee shop, then leveled me with eye contact.

I raised my cup and an eyebrow, which made her frown and turn back to the coffee counter.

Oh-kay.

But when she finally came over, she gave me a small smile. “So hi.”

“So hi.” My eyes ran over her face and hair. “Wow. You look, um, different.”

She quirked an eyebrow, encouraging me to expand.

“Shorter,” I corrected, which made her smile grow as she sat down in the chair across from me.

“I’ve been working hard on my height,” she said, pulling the stopper out of the lid and setting it on the table, “so this pleases me.”

“Naturally,” I muttered, and we shared a quiet smile.

I found it hard to believe that this was that bride. The night of her botched wedding, she’d been drunk and silly, hurling fucking Twinkies with mascara-rimmed eyes.

I couldn’t quite reconcile that hot mess with this measured person in front of me.

Blond Sophie looked like she subscribed to the Wall Street Journal, whereas the bride had looked like she subscribed to Vogue.

And maybe People.

“Why, um, why did you want to meet?” She tucked one side of her hair behind her ear and said, “I have to admit that your text shocked the hell out of me.”

She was definitely more tense when she was sober, which wasn’t a total surprise, and she seemed suspicious of me.

“Yeah, well, the last time we spoke—”

“The only time,” she corrected in a clipped tone.

“You expressed an interest in becoming an ‘objectress.’ ”

She’d been raising the cup to her lips, and at my words, she froze. She blinked, but that was the only move she made.

“So this is me calling on you for help,” I said, “public servant.”

Wheels were turning as her eyes moved all over my face, like she was taking in all the data.

What was she thinking?

“Listen.” She rubbed her lips together, and I could tell she was turning me down. “I don’t think—”

“Has your opinion on love changed?” I interrupted, trying to poke the tiger. Not only did I want her to do this, but I kind of wanted to see a glimmer of the girl who’d done cartwheels down the hotel hallway. “Are you now a hopeless romantic?”

“God, no.” That question shook her right out of indecision, and she looked at me like I was a moron for suggesting it. “But that doesn’t mean I want to insert myself into someone else’s drama.”

Fuck. She was going to say no, and TJ was going to be screwed. I picked up my coffee and said, “What if I’d said that about your wedding?”

She paused, tilted her head, and muttered, “That’s not fair.”

“True, though.” I rubbed a hand over my chin and said, “So you owe me.”

Her eyes narrowed, and I knew I’d made a mistake. This was not a woman to be pressured. She lowered her voice and said, “We paid you for your services.”

“Your friend’s check bounced,” I lied, waiting for her reaction. “So it was a gift. From me.”

“Freaking Asha,” she muttered, rolling her eyes as if this was Asha’s standard MO. “How much do I owe you?”

“As I said, it was a gift,” I repeated, trying not to smile but fairly certain I was smirking. “A gift that spared you from a lifetime of being Mrs. Sophie . . . what was ol’ Stu’s last name?”

She blinked and took in a deep breath through her nose, and for a second I thought she wasn’t going to tell me. Then she said, quietly, “Lauren.”

“Oh, dear Lord,” I said, unable to keep the laugh from escaping. “You were going to be Sophie Lauren? Like the Italian film star but with an e instead of an a? Sophie. Lauren. Thank God I showed up and stopped things before you spent your entire life listening to people ask you if you’ve ever seen the movie Houseboat.”

“Cary Grant was a dream in that flick,” she said, shocking the hell out of me both by knowing the classic film and for finally—finally—sounding a little like the bride I’d rescued.

“Sophia Loren was the dream,” I corrected, then added, “At least tell me you would’ve kept your name if Stewie had managed to put a ring on it.”

“Of course I would keep my name,” she said, making a face that told me she was keeping her name no matter whom she married.

“Which is . . . ?” I prodded.

“Steinbeck.” She lifted her chin, daring me to make a comment about the famous author.

And yes, I wanted to because it was low-hanging fruit, but I wanted her help even more.

“So are you scared? Of objecting?” I asked casually, leaning back in my chair and crossing my arms. “Is that it?”

“Kind of,” she admitted, taking the lid off her cup. She had three twinkling bands on her middle finger—silver, yellow gold, rose gold—that caught the light when she moved her hand. “I don’t like conflict, and this is conflict to the nth degree. But it also just seems like a terrible idea on so many levels.”

“Let me tell you the situation before you say no.” I cleared my throat. “Okay?”

She sighed again and said, “Fine, but don’t expect to change my mind.”

“Hey, Soph?” I asked, lowering my voice and trying to remind her of our hours-long friendship in that hotel room.

Her eyes looked a little wider all of a sudden, a little softer as she said, “Yeah?”

“Try and remember the way you felt the morning of your wedding while I tell you this, okay?”

A storm crossed her face as her forehead creased and she swallowed. She said nothing, but looked at me expectantly.

“So TJ is a kindergarten teacher with a heart of gold. When he was deployed with the National Guard for six months, his girlfriend, Callie, cheated on him, but he forgave her and ultimately proposed a year later.”

“Fool,” she said, raising her coffee to her mouth.

“Agreed,” I replied. “Fast-forward to last weekend. He’s at his bachelor party, and one of his groomsmen goes to the washroom and leaves his phone on the table. TJ accidentally sees a text from Callie.”

“Ohmigod, she’s cheating on him with a groomsman?” Sophie said, disgusted. “Seriously?”

“Nope. The groomsman is her brother. But the text says to keep TJ out late because she wants to have a goodbye with Ronnie—the guy she cheated with. Not only that, but she says, ‘Try and get a pic of TJ with the stripper so I have something to hold over him. Buy him a lap dance.’ ”

“Noooo,” Sophie said, her mouth dropping open. “That bitch.”

I could tell I was reaching her. Do it, do it, do it.

“So TJ says he’s sick and bails, getting home in time to log in to her iPad and see all of her texts with Ronnie. Nightmarish explicit content—”

“Gross,” she murmured.

“But in addition to the cheating, they totally mock him in their conversations. Laugh at what a fool he is, refer to him by a nickname—nasty stuff.”

“What’s the nickname?” she asked, and I noticed her mask of measuredness was gone. She looked fully immersed in the drama of the story, kind of adorably wide-eyed.

“The Kindergartener,” I replied, and just saying it made my gut hurt. Poor fucking TJ.

We’d been friends since junior high even though we went to different schools, and while I opted to avoid relationships entirely, he’d always thrown himself into one girlfriend after another, desperate to find his happily-ever-after.

Sophie didn’t comment but just gave a nod, and I could tell that part bothered her. She suddenly looked sad, and I didn’t like it, but I kept going.

I really wanted her to save TJ.

“TJ is devastated, but what can he do? Callie’s three older brothers are scary redneck cops in their small town, her uncle is the sheriff, and her dad holds the mortgage on TJ’s house.”

She shook her head and said, “Is this real? This cannot be real.”

“Right?” If I didn’t know TJ, I wouldn’t believe it myself. “If TJ throws her over, his life in that town is destroyed.”

“Damn,” she said, slowly shaking her head.

“But if someone else airs the dirty laundry, it won’t be on him. I’d help if I could, but I think a guy inserting himself in the situation is just asking to visit the hospital.”

“Lovely,” she said, blinking fast.

“The good thing for you is that these macho pricks and their redneck town have an antiquated sense of chivalry, so they would never hit a woman.”

“Extraordinary news,” she said dryly.

“He needs your help.”

She sighed, and for the first time since she’d sat down, I felt like she was actually considering it. She dragged a hand through her hair and nibbled on the corner of her bottom lip.

“Did I mention TJ fosters rescue animals?”

“Stop,” she said, pointing at me with a red-tipped index finger. “You can’t manipulate me with—”

“One is a cat that has wheels for back feet,” I interrupted, “and when he runs, they squeak like—”

“Shut up,” she demanded, but exhaled a tiny laugh as she shook her head again.

“The other one is blind—”

“It is not,” she cried, looking defeated.

“With bald spots from his feline anxiety, which I totally think they should call fanxiety because it makes him sound like a badass vampire cat—”

“Fine!” Sophie interrupted, gritting her teeth and holding up a hand. “I’ll consider it, but you have to go with me if I do it.”

“What?” I hadn’t expected that.

“Yes,” she said, lifting her chin and narrowing her eyes as her brain went to work. “I’m too chicken and I have no idea what I’m doing. If I go, you go.”

What? “What the hell will I do while you object?”

She shrugged. “Appear to be my date, I guess.”

I hadn’t considered going with her, but I also couldn’t come up with a reason why that wasn’t a good idea. Most people brought dates to weddings, so it checked out, and TJ really needed her help. “That’s . . . not a terrible idea, actually.”

“Gee, thanks,” she quipped. “When and where is this wedding, by the way? I can’t do anything local because of my job.”

“Totally understand. Yours was the only local wedding I’ve ever done.” I hoped reminding her of my service would help. “And it’s at a country chapel out by Murdock.”

I cleared my throat and scratched my eyebrow. “The wedding’s tomorrow.”

“Of course it’s tomorrow,” she muttered, shaking her head but not freaking out like I’d expected.

“So thirtyish minutes away?” Sophie pulled out her phone and went straight for the calendar. “What time? Do we need to go early? Do you have a standard speech you can forward so I can practice?”

Whoa. The switch had been flipped, and Sophie was all business.

“We don’t have to go early, and I can pick you up if that’s easiest. But I’ll get the details—including dress code—and text them to you later this morning, along with a general idea of my SOP.”

She looked up from the phone. “Dress code? Is it different from normal wedding attire?”

I didn’t want to lose her on this detail, so I was very casual when I said, “It might’ve said something about casual dress, so I’ll confirm and let you know.”

It actually said, “Jeans and boots only—no dress clothes will be allowed,” because Callie surrounded herself with rednecks, but I’d wait until Sophie confirmed before I tossed out that gem.

“Okay,” she replied, still looking concerned as she shut down her phone and returned it to her pocket. “I should probably get to work now.”

“Same.”

We stood and headed for the door, and as I held it open for her, she asked, “You don’t think I’ll get punched, do you?”

“Nah,” I said, stepping out into the crisp spring morning. “What usually happens is that the bride and groom start fighting about the accusations and no one notices me as I exit.”

“Except at my wedding,” she said, glancing at me out of the corner of her eye. “I seem to recall a punch.”

“For the record, it was like a closed-fist slap.” I reached into my jacket and grabbed my sunglasses, putting them on as I said, “I barely even felt it.”

“Someone sounds defensive.”

“I’m not defensive, but it wasn’t a punch.”

“Says the punchee,” she murmured, pulling her keys out of her blazer pocket.

“Punchee isn’t even a word,” I corrected, “and no one is going to come after a girl who’s barely five feet tall and speaking the truth.”

“I’m five four, for the record,” she said, and then gestured to the left. “My car is down by the park, so I have to go that way. It was nice seeing you again, and I look forward to your further instructions as I quake in fear and question my decisions.”

“My truck is also down by the park,” I said, “so we can discuss your decisions for a few more moments.”

“Such a lucky day,” she said, her mouth in a smart-ass smirk, and started walking.

“The luckiest.” I caught a whiff of her perfume, something light and fruity, and I was curious to see what kind of car she drove. My bet was a very practical Honda CRV, or perhaps an Audi sedan. “So tell me about your life, post–shitshow wedding. Are you seeing anyone?”

She looked over at me like I’d sprouted a second head. “Seriously? That’s your question, Mom?”

“I’m not asking for any reason other than I found your take on relationships to be interesting,” I said, unsure why I had even asked the question. “Settle your ass down.”

She made a noise in her throat and slid her hands into her pockets. “I am not seeing anyone, and that makes me ridiculously happy. Since the wedding I’ve purchased a new car, adopted two cats, totally redecorated my apartment, and there is no man in my life telling me why he doesn’t like my choices.”

I wholly believed that she drank her own Kool-Aid regarding love, but it also sounded like she was trying a little too hard to sound happy. “Names, please.”

“What?”

“I’m going to need your cats’ names. It’s my job, as a man, to let you know my opinion on your decision.”

“That is your job, isn’t it?” The wind blew her hair across her face—she really looked good with that haircut—and she said, “Their names are Karen and Joanne.”

“Um,” I said, surprised by her boring choices. “Huh.”

“Huh? That’s your response?” She turned a little, grinning, and walked sideways so she could look at me when she said, “Come at me, Max. Let me have that manly opinion.”

“Well,” I started, clueless as to why anyone would choose such ordinary names. “Did you name them posthumously after people?”

She shook her head. “Nope.”

“Was it a random choice, like you were selecting the first two names when you searched ‘mom haircuts’?”

“Nope again,” she replied in a singsong voice.

“Well, whatever the reason is, I think you selected the most vanilla, boring cat names I’ve ever heard.”

“Exactly,” she said, sounding victorious.

“And was there a reason for this?”

“There was, in fact. I named them to irritate my mother.”

“Oh, please share this story.”

Her entire face lit up as she grinned and said, “My mom’s best friends are named Karen and Joanne, and they are gossipy, judgmental harpies. And even though she knows I don’t like them, she will call me and go on and on about whatever drama those two are embroiled in at book club or golf league. ‘Karen and Joanne ordered deviled eggs and were beside themselves when the caterer brought a cheese tray instead’—inane crap like that, right?”

I laughed as I realized where this was going. “Right.”

“So now every time she has a Karen-Joanne story, I share my own Karen-Joanne story, things like ‘Karen coughed up a hair ball in the kitchen this morning, and Joanne tried eating it.’ ”

“You,” I said around my laugh, “are a horrible child.”

“But it gets me off the phone with her.” Her face was soft and amused as she pointed to a car that was parallel parked next to a street meter. “This is me.”

I looked at the shiny black car, then back at her. No fucking way. “You’re kidding, right?”

“Nope.” She pulled out her keys and put them in the driver’s side door lock. “You gonna share your man opinion on this, too?”

I wasn’t really a car guy, aside from knowing which cars I liked, which cars hauled ass, and which cars were asinine. But her car—holy shit. “You drive a ’69 Camaro?”

She beamed, almost like she was proud of me for recognizing it. “I do. His name is Nick, he’s a Sagittarius, and he makes me feel things I’ve never felt for another man.”

I couldn’t wrap my head around it. “Is this your weekend car?”

She blinked. “It’s my only car.”

“What do you drive on snowy days?” I asked.

“Nick.”

No way. “How many miles does he have?”

“Eight thousand,” she said, pulling open the door.

“A hundred and eight thousand?” I asked.

“No.” She rubbed her lips together. “Eight thousand.”

“Are you telling me,” I said, confident I was missing something while suspecting I wasn’t, “that you have a ’69 Camaro with only eight thousand miles on it and you drive it every day? As your primary source of transportation?”

She raised an eyebrow. “Do I hear judgment in your voice?”

“Jealousy, maybe, but not judgment.” I shook my head. “You have to know how much you can get for it if it stays in this shape, though, right?”

She tilted her head. “You think I’m an idiot for not babying it because it’s worth a small fortune.”

Yup. “Idiot’s a strong word.”

“What if I tell you that Nick wants to live a full life?” she asked, and I could tell she was only half joking. “He doesn’t want to sit in a temperature-controlled garage all day, underneath a protective cover. He was born to be reckless and go fast and probably get in a fender bender or two.”

Why did she make sense when she was talking about her car like it was a person?

“I bought it from a sweet lady whose husband had been obsessed with it. He bought it new in ’69, he died in ’72, and then it sat in her garage until a few months ago when she sold it to me. She said she regretted never taking it out and she made me promise to drive it into the ground. She said she wanted me to put a hundred thousand miles on it and let some snow pile up on the hood every now and then. And I intend to keep my promise.”

How could I not smile at that? I realized as I looked down at her that I had no idea who she was. Wild bride, serious professional, hopeless car romantic; which one was the real her? “You’re very weird, Sophie.”

“I know,” she said, lifting her chin just a little, daring me to pass judgment.

“I like it,” I added, meaning that. There was something about her that . . . shit, that I liked.

Her eyes moved over my face for a minute, like she was taking in all the details in order to form her own opinion, and then she just said, “Now my life is complete. Text me all the details about tomorrow, okay?”

I flipped her off before turning in the direction of my car, and I heard the familiar sound of her laugh as I walked away.