Page 3 of Bridesmaid to Bride

“Thank you. You were so right.” That’s not surprising—the two of them get me.

He nods, clearly uncomfortable. “Um, can I hug you?”

Ugh—we used to fall straight into a bear hug and seamlessly jump in right where we left off, but clearly, we’re not past the weirdness. “Of course!” We go in for one, but he’s stiff and keeps his distance from me, like we’re assigned seventh-grade dance partners. I pat his back but then wonder if that was too intimate, so I pull away.

His Apple watch gets tangled in my hair, and he mumbles, “Whoops, sorry,” as he tugs his wrist.

It stays stuck, hurting as he pulls. I grab his hand to stop it from taking out a patch of hair as I say, “It’s okay, but hold on.” He stops moving while I undo the strands wrapped around his band’s enclosure hook.

When my hair is free, he backs up, and now we’re standing face to face—again. “So.” He puffs out a huge breath of air. “That sucked.”

I laugh. “It did. How about we try again?”

“Definitely.”

This time he goes for it, pulling me in tight, and I’m thrilled to let him linger as his warm breath tickles the point right below my earlobe. When the tip of his nose brushes the side of my neck, it takes every bit of my resolve not to purr. I rub his back, and he squeezes tighter, so close I can feel every inch of his well-defined pecs. He’s so much more toned than he used to be, which means he’s been working out, because he spends his days sitting in front of a computer. This time, when he pulls away, he kisses the top of my head, and my skin goes tingly.

So he got the text? And maybe I meant it?

Or maybe it was trauma induced. After all, everyone around me is crying, laughing, and kissing the ground. I step away then immediately want to leap back into his arms, but I stop myself.

He exhales. “Much better. So—scared on the plane again?”

“No, no, no. You don’t understand. This time it was bad. Legit.”

So, he didn’t get the text?

He flashes me a sly smile. “I’m sure it was a close one, Manhattan,” he says with a wink, his tone now playful. West nicknamed me Manhattan after I asked where the neighborhood bodega was. Apparently, they’re called convenience stores everywhere besides New York.

Things are normalizing, thank God, but I can’t take not knowing anymore. As I’m about to ask whether he got the text, he says, “So, here’s my face.”

I blink. Okie doke. He got it, then. Shit.

“Huh?” Yes, I’m playing dumb to buy myself time.

“Here’s my face—if you want to kiss it off.” He winks.

I let out a squawkish laugh. “I typed, ‘kiss?’ It was supposed to be ‘I want to diss your face off. You know, like, ‘A salad dresses better than you.’”

Ugh, good one, Eva.

West laughs. “Oh, okay, gotcha. Well, you must’ve been born on a highway because that’s where most accidents happen.”

This time, we both bust up.

Then his face goes serious. “But I still think you want to kiss my face off.”

I just shrug.

Oh my God. Does that mean I actually want to kiss him?

I think it does.

I don’t know. I really don’t know. This is all happening too fast! I mean, we just had to re-do a hug. I need time to think and process this very new, very raw realization, and see if it’s real. Everything is so weird between us now. Is there such a thing as waiting too long to have a snog with a friend?

Trying to switch subjects, I blurt, “I was hoping we could stop for a bagel on the way out of the airport. I’m starved.”

He reaches into his computer bag and pulls one out. “One sesame seed bagel with double cream cheese and cucumbers—right here.”

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