wedding favors

one

I'm not surprised when Dad proposes to Charlotte.

She's young, but not too young. Beautiful, but comfortable in it--not showy. She is smart and ambitious and she has a good heart. This is what I've come to know of her over the last two years, and so when my Dad asks for my permission, I say yes.

My mom would say yes, too. I felt it around us when he held my hands as he asked, when we both looked at her portrait and she was there and smiling down on us.

The ring is a simple affair. Dad had asked me if he should bother with the four-karat, pavé studded band, but Charlotte has never seemed like the type for a big ring to me. She wears jeans and pastel sneakers, loves pretty sweaters and her beach-salted waves. To make it easier on him, I simply asked her what kind of ring she'd like.

When he finally popped the question, Charlotte had been so pleased with the dainty gold thing that I'm still currently riding off of the thank-you gifts she left for me in the kitchen.

Right now, Dad and Charlotte are on a half business trip, half vacation to celebrate their engagement. I'm home alone while they are in London.

Brenton and Carleigh both feel bad for me, but won't say it, so they have been coming over every day after school with a new excuse.

"Lauren, I need you to bake me some cookies," Brenton says today, smooth and undemanding. A strand of his hair falls out of its regularly swept-back style, making him look more like a young, very blond Brad Pitt and less like a 30 year old bank executive. "My mom forgot to buy more flour," he adds.

"Your mom doesn't do your grocery shopping," I reply, "Constance does." Carleigh giggles beside me, preheating the oven before I get to it. With a dramatic sigh, I say, "But I guess whatever Brenton wants, Brenton gets."

Brenton van der Waal, the only heir to a huge banking empire, and my best friend. We met in the third grade, when my father invited his to a big Christmas marketing party. When I saw his little bow tie next to the tulle bow on my dress, I figured we matched and were therefore meant to be.

I'm not sure when we picked up Carleigh along the way, to be honest. It was like we blinked, and there she was in our lives. It's hard to imagine a time without her. I hear her laughter when I go to bed sometimes, and it always makes me giggle to myself.

Carleigh's coppery hair is pulled into a bun at the nape of her neck as she leans over a cutting board and starts chopping chocolate chunks. Her purple blouse is pulled up to her elbows, and her kitchen skills are almost effortless. Brenton simply watches, half occupied by his phone.

"I couldn't imagine being all alone in a house like this," Carleigh says with a sigh. Since my mom's passing, it's just been me and Dad here. 

As much as I like Charlotte, my dad's current absence only reminds me of how normal it feels. I'm glad to have Carleigh and Brenton here for pretty much every waking moment of their vacation. Carleigh has a semi-regular staff, and Brenton's family has Constance, but my dad likes our big, shell house just as it is.

When I look back from the fridge, where I've started gathering my cold ingredients, Brenton has already pulled more dry ingredients from the pantry. He sits at one of our bar stools, with one long leg crossed over the other.

A poorly hidden smile breaks onto his lips. "Well, are you going to bake, or what?"

***

Two months later, I am at my father's wedding reception, surrounded yet painfully alone. My only friends are being whisked around by their parents while I'm forgotten for my new twenty-six year old stepmother. Not that I mind the stepmother, because she's quite nice. My dad is the problem — getting married the weekend of his daughter's seventeenth birthday while his fiancée is left baking a cake with said daughter in an empty mansion, hours before her bachelorette party.

I hope Monaco was worth it, I think somewhat bitterly, swirling my drink around in the glass. I stand in the middle of the room, in a pale pink slip dress that reaches my ankles. Charlotte told me I didn't have to be a bridesmaid, but she did want me to match the bridal party. I appreciate the color choice—it's pretty and warm, like cheeks with a rosy blush. The shoes I'm wearing are digging into my ankles a bit, but they are also a good style choice, and so I take a deep breath and deal. My brown hair is curled and swept half up and it makes me feel like I'm at prom.

Across from the big ballroom, Carleigh is being introduced to the boy her parents want her to marry, and she definitely knows it. Her long, sage green dress is sparkly and compliments her tan. I can tell the guy she's talking to is into it, too. A small frown comes across my face and I notice the cup of lemonade in Carleigh's hand.

A drink sounds nice, I realize. Carleigh's is probably spiked, though, and though it sounds like a saving grace, I can't do that tonight. Brenton probably has some that I could sip out of. Getting it myself would mean going to the drink table right next to the bride and groom's table, which would most definitely involve my father, the man of the night. I find Brenton, tall and tousled, near the dessert table.

He's standing just far enough from his dad for people to recognize the similarities but to not have to engage them both in conversation. Today the van der Waals are matching: they are both wearing dark gray suits, perfectly tailored to their tall frames, with a pink tie (as per the bride's wishes). There's no mistake of who they are and what their relationship to my family is. Brenton's eyebrows rise when he sees me come up beside him. He lowers his voice to a whisper, trying to keep anyone from hearing him ask, "Are you okay?"

I only smile at him. "I will be when you give me a sip of whatever's in your glass."

Brenton smiles back at me, wide and unreserved - the way he rarely does unless it's with me. "Just take it. It's strawberry lemonade."

"That sounds so good," I whisper back. I take a large gulp of the drink, face scrunching for a brief second as it slides down my throat. "Thanks, Bee," I say, foIlowed by a small kiss on the cheek.

"Any time, Laur." He gives my shoulder a squeeze before he disappears into the crowd, off to charm yet another person.

I turn to go back to my table, but come face to face with a tray of macarons instead. My heart beats fast, and I'm already thinking of how bad I'd feel if I ended up causing a scene here. I look up sheepishly at the waiter's face, only to freeze when I get to his eyes.

He's gorgeous, I think. All the waiters are wearing these almost-tacky tuxedos, but on him it looks purposeful. He has this thick, barely styled brown hair and the clearest, warm brown eyes. They're almost green in some places, like the lake my dad loves to talk about growing up next to.

I'm sure that to most, this waiter would be the handsomest young person in the room by far - well, paralleled by Brenton, maybe.

His eyes widen and bends his head down to apologize.

I scramble with words. "I- no- it's- I'm totally fine. It was my fault, please don't be sorry. I'm sorry." I feel a drizzling warmth creep down my face, and hope it just looks like makeup.

"You shouldn't be sorry either," he says. "It was an avoided accident." He smiles, but is clearly still jarred. "Enjoy the rest of the reception."

I know boys. For one, I can read Carleigh's brother, James, as clear as day, have shaken him off my tail for years. I am no stranger to boys who think they are men. For once, I want to know this one. I don't know what to do when he starts to turn away. So far, our conversation - if you could even call it that - has already made some of the most pleasant moments at this incredibly boring event.

"Wait."

He waits.

"Do you mind if I tag along.. with you? For the night?"

He looks around. He looks to the kitchen door, where I can see a tall, angry looking man shouting orders. "I don't know..."

"My dad's the groom, and he won't even notice. Or care."

He takes another glance at the door, trying to see if anyone's watching. I hope that he can sense my despair. "Okay, then. I guess you can."

I beam at him, and my chest warms when he grins back. "I'm Lauren, by the way."

"Reed." He stops briefly to offer Charlotte a macaron, and I flash her a quick smile. I was right. Dad doesn't even notice.