Free Borrow-A-Bridesmaid by Anne Wagener Page B

reception hall.

    I’m not sure how much time passes. I feel like I’m in an Acme cartoon tussle where the characters fight in a giant cloud—every now and then a fist or foot or elbow emerges. With Charlie, I’m in a passion cloud, and every now and then I become especially aware of a specific part of his or my anatomy. Tongue! Lips! Hands! Ass! But even in the passion cloud, Rational Piper is there, hands on her hips, reminding me that Charlie is California-bound. That this lovely moment must end.
    And then it does—the back door of the reception barn cracks open and we pull apart, dazed. Charlie’s hair is all over the place. I adjust my dress and put my feet back in the horrible heels.
    Charlie’s gangly teenage cousin Josh is making his way toward us, hands shoved in his pockets and face redder than raspberry cake filling. He clears his throat. “Uh, sorry—it’s just—I’m supposed to tell you that you have to, like, take Aunt Bea, Aunt Margie, and Aunt Dorothea home to Gaithersburg. Chris was going to do it, but, um, they kind of found him passed out behind the chocolate fountain. I’d do it, but I only have my learner’s.”
    Charlie nods. “It’s all good, Josh. Tell them I’ll be right there.”
    â€œOkay, so, yeah. Later.” Josh turns abruptly and walks back toward the barn.
    Charlie runs his hands through his hair. “I better go. Can I call you? I want to see you again before—” He can’t seem to make himself say it.
    â€œYes,” I say, not wanting him to say it, either.
    â€œI’ll e-mail you my screenplay if you send me some of your stories in return. We could have a writing date. A proper date, where we won’t be interrupted. If—if you want.”
    â€œYes, I want! I mean—I will.” My poor lips are disoriented. Nothing’s coming out right.
    I hand him a page from the tiny notebook with my number and e-mail scrawled on it. We give each other a last look, and he cups my face in his hands. He gives me one more kiss, this one softer and more deliberate than the others. “Good night, Piper.”
    He retreats toward the barn. I sit on the step and pull the notebook back out of my purse, along with the small blue pen. The moment might be over, but I’m going to transcribe it in ink.

Eight

    T orture. Pure torture, standing in front of a bookcase full of two-dimensional couples embracing. All I can think about is Charlie, but I literally have to shelve my desire. An entire book cart of it.
    Sal stands behind me, supervising and prattling. “Our numbers are up, and we’re really starting to get the attention of corporate.”
    â€œMmm.” I take a few more books off the cart and try to ignore his Mountain Dew breath. A little cloud of it is trapped in the corner where “Romance A–N” meets “Romance O–Z.” I could use some caffeine myself; it’s going to be a long night. But working alone in the store means I won’t be able to sneak over to the newsstand for my usual Coke and Mr. Goodbar. I wonder if I could get the United-booth guy to make a carb and caffeine run for me.
    What I do have is that small blue notebook: a snack for the soul. That alone is enough to get me through tonight’s shift. That and my sense memories of Charlie—I touch my index finger to my lower lip and enjoy the mild soreness. I can’t wait to read his screenplay. I’m hoping his writing is magic-carpet awesome.
    Sal’s still talking behind me. He never really asks for input, so it usually suffices to nod or make a somewhat affirmative noise. Hearing a natural break in his speech, I insert an “mm-hmm” and pull the next book off the cart. The stud on the cover is pulling a faint-kneed beauty onto a steed. I smile a goofy boogie-woogie smile. And then, because Sal is watching, I carefully shelve the book.
    â€œI know tonight might