Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 107454 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 537(@200wpm)___ 430(@250wpm)___ 358(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107454 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 537(@200wpm)___ 430(@250wpm)___ 358(@300wpm)
I hadn’t known that. When I’d asked Flip if he needed any help with the wedding, he’d just said Hannah’s got it. You already did your thing by getting us this house, man. But I wouldn’t say no to some good cigars.
And it turns out Mark’s been stepping up all the way as the best man to the bride. Got to admire his devotion.
“She knows I’m all in,” he continues. “But I need this wedding to be perfect for her. She needs a better start than . . .”
“Than what?” I prod.
“Than I got.” He waves a hand dismissively. “Never mind.”
“Never mind?” Like I could let that go? “Banks, tell me. Did you have a wedding disaster? Is that it? The tent collapsed, or the caterer poisoned everyone?” Maybe his own wedding was like one of those BuzzFeed lists of everything that can go wrong.
It would explain the hell out of this spreadsheet.
“Not exactly,” he says in a low voice. “I got married at the City Clerk’s office. Bridget’s parents were our witnesses. Then we all went out for pizza because Bridget craved carbs the entire time she was pregnant.”
“Pizza,” I repeat stupidly. “That sounds grim.”
“It was actually really good pizza. Serafina on the Upper East Side? Have you been?”
“Oh, that place. Yeah. Everyone who works there is model-hot too.” I chuckle. “But don’t distract me, Banks. I want to hear the rest of this story.”
He sighs. “It was grim. Not the pizza—the occasion. I got my college girlfriend pregnant during my senior year—her junior year. We had no money and plenty of student loans, of course. We got married. I finished school, but she didn’t. Rosie was born during finals week. I started my finance training program two weeks later.”
“Damn.” That’s some drama. “And now you’re divorced.”
“Yup. I spent the last six years trying to make it work. Trying to do the right thing. And then last year she said—I’m in love with my boss, and I want a divorce.”
“Whoa.” We sit quietly for a moment while I absorb this truth bomb. No wonder Mark has been prickly. His life is blowing up.
And now I get it. “You think Hannah and Flip are just going to repeat your disaster, right? That Flip is going to bail on her?”
“I have PTSD, I guess. It’s nothing against Flip. Not really.” His voice drops. “Those two were different from the start. More in love. More ready to make big decisions. But would it have killed them to take it a little slower?”
I grin up at the ceiling. “Yeah, I’ve got some whiplash too. It feels like only last week that Flip was saying, I met a girl.” I’d be a liar if I said their whirlwind romance hasn’t ever given me pause. A year ago, we were planning our next clubbing trip to Ibiza. Now Flip is looking at paint chips for the nursery.
The flight attendant reappears. “Gentlemen, can I bring you a slice of quiche, and some breakfast pastries?”
“Yes please,” we both say simultaneously. “And I’ll take one of those mimosas too,” Mark adds, sounding sheepish. “If that’s still on offer.”
“Of course, sir. One moment.”
I pull Mark’s laptop off his tray table and onto my lap. “Okay. I think I get it. This wedding has got to be perfect for Hannah and Flip. They need some good juju.”
“You probably think it sounds dumb,” Mark grumbles. “But everyone looked at my marriage as a huge risk. Like they were waiting for us to fail. My mom cried when I invited her to come to my civil ceremony. And they weren’t happy tears.”
“Did she say you were ruining your life or some shit?” I got this speech myself when I chose art school in Spain over a degree from Cambridge.
“Well, no. She was mostly upset that she didn’t get to make her ham and noodle casserole with potato chip topping for the reception. But she wanted a traditional wedding, not at City Hall. Oh, and my father cited this statistic about young marriages failing more frequently.” He’s quiet for a beat. “Guess he called that one.”
Mark sounds resigned, but I need to address something more pertinent first.
“I’m still stuck on the casserole,” I admit. “Did you say potato chips?” I try to keep the horror out of my voice.
But I fail.
“It’s less disgusting than it sounds,” he insists. “My parents are super traditional. They don’t understand why Hannah and I like New York. Not a day goes by when my mother doesn’t warn me with some big-city crime stats. They honestly think everyone should be happy in the suburbs of Ohio.”
Yikes. “They’ll love me then. The queer guy who’s going to ask the caterer if we can add ceviche to the menu.” I’m craving all of Miami’s delights. Sue me.
Mark snorts. “The queer thing would be no problem for them, but the ceviche would be a deal-breaker. Hannah made sure to add pigs in blankets to the cocktail menu, because my mom thinks you can’t have a party without those.”