Man of My Dreams (18 page)

Grace and Whitney come over to the table with a tray of shots. Grace hands them out and makes an impromptu toast. “To my best friend, Mia and the man of her dreams, Declan. Mia, you know I love you like a sister and Declan, now that you’re marrying her I guess I’m gaining a brother.” She reaches up and tugs on his ear, a very little sister type thing to do. “This girl deserves a prince and she’s found him in you. And I’m kinda starting to get desperate so I’m hoping Connor is over eighteen now. But all kidding aside, I wish the two of you nothing but happiness together and I can’t wait to witness every last second of it.
Salude
!” She finishes with the word I’ve heard her dad use after raising his glass.

Declan and I kiss and then the group of us down our shots of
Jagermeister
. I struggle to get it down, but everyone else, including tiny Grace and timid Whitney, wipes their mouths with the backs of their hands. Carl and Declan are engaged in some kind of cryptic handshake and I sip the rest of the disgusting licorice-like liquid before I get Grace alone to thank her.

“So, you up for the task of Maid of Honor?”

Her eyes grow wide, but instead of the ear piercing squeal I thought she’d produce, her fingers are in the air motioning the bartender for another round of shots. “This round’s on your Maid of Honor.” She jumps into my arms, nearly strangling me in her embrace. “Holy shit, Mia. You’re engaged! I mean I knew he was going to do it and all, but still, I just can’t actually believe it.” She takes my left hand in her grip and examines my ring finger with a genuine smile. There is no jealousy or suspicion in my best friend’s eyes. She is as happy as I am right now. Everyone deserves a best friend like her.

“So you think you’ll get married right away? Or are you going to wait until after you both graduate? Oh my God, there’s so much to do…dresses, flowers, a cake. I never thought we’d be planning a wedding while we were both away at college.” Her eyes go a little crazy, glazed over and spinning with way too many possibilities.

I’ve been engaged for three minutes; I’m going to need a little more time before I start booking a hall and shopping for a gown. “Whoa, whoa! Slow down, Grace. Let’s just enjoy tonight.”

Declan eyes me from across the booth, recognizing my need for saving. “Grace, are you harassing my fiancé about girly wedding stuff already?”

He said fiancé. I’m pretty sure I’m about to melt from hearing the sound of that word coming from his lips. At the risk of sounding like an evil bitch, I hope Grace isn’t planning on spending the night in my dorm. I want to hear Declan say that word some more while in a few compromising positions.

“Not harassing, Dec. Just asking the obvious. You two are going to wait until after you’ve graduated, right?” Her eyes ping-pong back and forth between the two of us for an answer.

I look at Declan for some help. He merely shrugs. “It’s up to you, babe. I would marry you tomorrow, right here on campus in Professor Maloney’s psych class, but I want whatever you want so the rest is up to you.”

Wow, so now the power rests with me. I’m scared if I say I want to wait he’ll think I’m not happy and I’m scared if we don’t wait we’ll be setting ourselves up for disaster. We need to have level heads about this. We need to discuss it with our parents.

I pull Declan close to me, wishing body language could do all the talking. But I know actual words are needed. “You just called me your fiancé and it sent shivers down my spine. I want to hear you call me that a few more times before I’m your wife. Let’s live in this moment and share our happiness with our family next week and then we’ll take it from there. Okay?”

He kisses the tip of my nose and I feel myself dissolving into him. “Whatever makes my
fiancé
happy.” This time he grabs my ass when he says it, sparking the desire deeper.

I giggle, resting my face in the crook of his neck. “If you say it like that one more time I’m going to drag you into the bathroom for our first time as an engaged couple.”

His lips brush against my earlobe and he whispers in the most seductive voice I’ve ever heard, “Fiancé, fiancé, fiancé.”

Empty threats are not my thing and I’ve never been one to go back on my word.

I can’t stop fiddling with my wedding rings as I walk into the Westmount Country Club. I’ve been doing a lot of that since Declan left for Hong Kong. The more time apart, the more I fiddle, and the more I fiddle, the more I wonder.

At the airport he promised to call, email or text every day—and he did, religiously, for the entire first week. The time difference was a killer, but he made it a point to call before bedtime to talk to the girls as I tucked them in. And then he would contact me again when he knew we’d have alone time. He told me how he missed me and couldn’t wait to get home to continue where we left off that night. Everything seemed to be going perfectly; the way things were
before.

Until now.

The phone calls have become fewer and his loving words sparse. I remember those other words he used—strained, distanced—in the months prior to the
incident
. While our love making that night brought us steps closer to getting back to good, this trip catapulted us way too many steps in another direction. The connection we shared when he came back home is fizzling with each passing day. And I’m left wondering—is he having the same reservations about us that I’m starting to have? Is he getting used to this separation? Is he sure our marriage will make it through this?

How can he be? I know I’m not. This unsettling feeling has taken over me, turning me into a ticking time bomb. And I don’t want to walk into my ten year reunion ticking. I’d be unrecognizable to my old friends and classmates this way. They knew me as a free-spirited, happy-go-lucky soul. That’s how I want to be remembered. Not as a twenty-eight year old who doesn’t have control over her mess of a life.

I crack my knuckles, releasing the desire to swivel my rings around my finger any longer. With my hands free of the worrisome fidgeting, I smooth down my little black dress and take a deep breath as a white-gloved maitre d opens the glass paned French doors to the ballroom. When I step inside it’s like I’m abandoning the present and walking right back in to 1997.

I recognize Daniel Miller immediately. Apparently Westmont’s star soccer goalie has turned into the real life version of the
Wedding Singer
. Except in this case he’s more like the
Wedding Deejay
and instead of a mane of frizzy, ‘80s, Adam Sandler hair, he has none. And the hair’s not the worst part; his athletic physique is replaced by a bulging beer belly. These last ten years have not been good to him. Right away I worry that people will think the same about me.

He’s hunched over; one half of a large set of earphones wedged between his ear and his shoulder, his hands mixing records. The track that plays during my entrance into this time warp is one of my all time favorites,
Bittersweet Symphony.
The movie
Cruel Intentions
and my fascination with Ryan Phillipe kept me playing this song on repeat. At one point I swore it would be the song I walked down the aisle to at my wedding. But this will suffice. If I had to pick a song to accompany me and announce my arrival, this would be it.

I heard once that the two things guaranteed to stir up old memories are a familiar scent and a song. This beat feeds me a dose of some powerful nostalgia. I decide to go with it, letting it course through my veins. Tonight I want a break from worrying about Declan, my marriage, the path my life is headed on. In high school my path was undetermined and I was fine with it, taking each day as it came. I’m entitled to live like that again, even if only for one damn night.

Behind me I hear a hasty clicking of skinny stilettos, followed by a familiar hand on my shoulder. Before I can turn around to see who it is, Lisa squeezes my middle, pushing my already over-exposed breasts into my neck. “Mia, my love, you made it!”

I pry her little hands off my waist, spin around and readjust the amount of visible cleavage back to tasteful. I give my tiny old friend a once over, pleased by how stunning she looks seven months into her second pregnancy. “You, my dear, are one hot mama! Stilettos, Li? You’re as insane as you always were.”

“You got that right. I’m not letting kids cramp my style. And obviously neither are you. I’m not sure how you do it, girl, but you look even
better
than you did back then. I can’t believe your husband let you out like that. Noah Matheson is going to be sorry he didn’t snatch you up when he had the chance.”

I giggle, loving the compliment almost as much as the idea of Noah thinking about me in that way. I can lie to myself and say that I haven’t been thinking about whether or not Noah will be here tonight. But I can’t stop wondering when and if he’ll walk through those doors. The heart-thumping anticipation brings me right back to ten years ago, at Lisa’s party.

We set our bags down on a table situated right in the center of the room, claiming it as ours. Then we make our way over to the reunion committee for our “Hello My Name Is” sticker tags. I doubt most of us will need them. It hasn’t been
that
long. I’m certain I haven’t forgotten a single one of these faces, or their names. Our graduating class was small. Everyone knew each other, whether they were a nerd, a jock, a cheerleader or a freak. And even though I lucked out by landing myself in the popular crowd, I was friendly and polite to everyone. I hadn’t been voted Miss Congeniality at Homecoming for nothing.

I’d kept in touch with a few of the girls and bumped into familiar faces now and again around town. Lisa, Kristen and I got together with the kids a few times a year. I regret not remaining as close as we were in high school, but now it never went further than a superficial phone call about a fellow classmate or the latest best-selling must-read novel. Lisa had no idea what was going on with Declan and I wasn’t about to pour my heart out to her now.

Together we collect our name tags from the heads of the reunion committee, Tiffany Stillwell and Kyle Anderson. The two of them chaired every committee together back in the day...yearbook committee, prom committee, save the goddamn whales committee. They were geeks in their own right, but in all their geeky glory they were also the heart and soul of Westmont’s student body. They were quite an influential couple. But from the looks of their name tags these high school sweethearts did not end up getting married like everyone thought they would. Tiffany is now Tiffany Ventura and I can’t help noticing that Kyle looks miserable sitting next to her with a bare ring finger.

Tiffany stands and greets me with a warm hug. “Oh my goodness, Mia Page! Tonight would not have been the same without you.” She scribbles something under my name with a Sharpie marker.

When I take it from her I smile when I see the honorary title, remembering the cheers that echoed throughout the school’s gym when they gave me the sash with
Miss Congeniality
embroidered in pink lettering.

“Hi, Tiff! What a nice thing to say, but tonight wouldn’t be possible if it weren’t for you. You guys did an amazing job capturing our youth. This whole scene is so...” I don’t even have a word to describe it.

“I know, isn’t it just surreal? Can you believe it’s been ten years? I can’t. I remember certain things so vividly. As if they happened yesterday. My husband thinks I’m stuck in the past. I tell him if I could do those four years over and over again on repeat I would.”

I know what she means. I hate getting old. High school was the time of my life, but then again—Declan, my little girls—I couldn’t imagine life without them. I listen as Tiffany babbles about a far off memory about our senior retreat as I catch a glimpse of Kyle out of the corner of my eye. He’s hanging on every word she says. If I were a betting woman I’d put my money on a bathroom stall or a nearby hotel room with these two as its occupants. Tiffany’s living in the past and unlike her husband, Kyle doesn’t mind one bit. There may have been a method to the ‘no spouses’ stipulation after all.

On our way to the bar for her sparkling water and my glass of wine, Lisa and I mingle with the people who used be our friends. Lila Peters still looks like a Barbie doll, Frank Fusco remains adorably goofy and Patrick Mulligan is no longer scrawny and pimply, but drop dead gorgeous.

We sit down at our table, smiling at the others who have joined us. Then, it’s like a scene from
She’s All That.
Cue slow motion, forced wind, and cheesy music.

He walks in.

At this moment I wish I shared some kind of mental telepathy with deejay Daniel. My choice of song for Noah is
Sex and Candy
by Marcy Playground. The sexy, velvety melody matches everything about him. That should be playing in the background as he saunters into this room, eyeing up the joint as if he doesn’t have a care in the world.

My world stops, and the sight of him makes me momentarily dizzy. He’s everything I’ve seen in all those crazy dreams.
Oh my God! Those crazy dreams!
My cheeks are flushed, my knees bouncing up and down uncontrollably underneath this table. I gaze down at my hands, fiddling with my damn rings again, hoping he’ll pass me by and leave me to my irrational musings.