sentence in his eyes. “I don’t know if I want kids.”
And there it is, the ugly truth my sister has forced us to reveal to each other sooner rather than later. The San Andreas fault might as well have opened in the middle of our table, putting us on separate ridges, because we’ve never been so far apart.
“Okay,” I say, swallowing a glob of sorrow. Then I shrug in a “So what?” way. “Guess we’ll have to stick to the plan, then, and say goodbye on Sunday.”
I’ve lost all appetite, and the idea of riding back to the resort on Archie’s bike makes my stomach churn even more. I throw my napkin on the table and get up, saying, “I need to use the restroom.”
Instead, I walk out of the restaurant and call a cab. Once I’m safely inside and out of Archie’s reach, I text him.
Sorry, I couldn’t stay
This was a mistake
Archie never texts back.
***
I spend half the afternoon crying while taking a bath, and the other half crying while watching a marathon of One Tree Hill on TV. The teen show with its high emotions helps me mourn my own love story that will never be.
I want to be with Archie; every fiber in my body yearns for it.
But he’s not relationship material.
No, that’s not true or fair. The only problem here is that the man isn’t playing for keeps, because if he were, he’d be a fantastic boyfriend. Archie is kind and attentive when the situation calls for it, but also knows how to lighten the mood with a joke when things aren’t that serious. He has had many women, but I bet that if he picked one as his forever and ever, he’d be loyal till the end of times. As a partner, he’d be solid, generous, reassuring, frigging hot, fun to be with, interesting, challenging, protective, but not asphyxiating, full of life, amazing in bed.
Archie would make an exceptional father, too. I could picture him being his kids’ hero. Being the kind of dad who builds a treehouse in our backyard. Because we’d be the kind of family with the white fenced house, the cat, and three kids, two boys and a girl.
And I’ve crashed into fantasyland again. I’d better rein in my imagination. No part of this dream of mine will ever happen. Maybe five, ten years from now when he’ll be ready. But that won’t happen by Sunday, not with me.
Wrong timing.
Story of my life.
I hate it.
Eighteen
Summer
Tomorrow’s lunch will be held on the beautiful lawn behind the estate, but tonight is too cold to dine outside, so the rehearsal dinner has been moved indoors.
Standing signs engraved with Spencer & Knowles Rehearsal Dinner point to a spacious room I haven’t seen yet. This must be the space the resort uses for indoor receptions when it rains or is too cold. The salon is next to the breakfast hall and mirrors it, two halves of the same pie. A nice choice for indoor events. The faraway glass wall provides a beautiful view of the lit vineyards even at night, and the outside patio is decorated with strung fairy lights, adding even more romance to the atmosphere. The only thing I wouldn’t necessarily like for a wedding is the carpeted floor. Its intricate leaves and flowers pattern is not bad per se, but it’s a strong reminder we’re in a hotel and not a magical place lost in a fable somewhere.
I’m so absorbed in my observations, I don’t notice Archie coming my way until he’s standing right in front of me.
“Can we talk?” he asks.
I’m not ready for the ambush, and I’m tempted to flee again but can’t see a way out. Instead, I use attack as the best defense.
“There’s nothing left to say.”
His eyes widen. “Are you mad at me?”
“Yes, I’m mad at you. And I don’t want to talk to you, especially not where everybody can hear.”
Archie purses his lips. “Let’s move somewhere else, then, but we’re going to talk now.”
I oblige him, mostly because other guests are streaming into the room and I want to avoid making a scene.
He pushes the patio doors open and I follow him outside.
We walk away from the French windows so the people inside won’t be able to spot us, and, as soon as we turn the corner, Archie crowds my personal space. “Explain to me how in this scenario you get to be mad at me.”
“You didn’t text me back,” I reply, irrationally mad.
“I didn’t text—” He