Page 77 of Forever Then

What’s he worked up about now?

This wedding is definitely Reagan’s dog and pony show. Translation: Drew is hyper-focused on making sure none of us—his family and friends—do anythingto mess it up.

Gretchen

He just barreled into my room and threw a toddler tantrum over me not being ready yet. Lol.

Apparently walking to the restaurant ACROSS THE STREET could take more than thirty seconds. *insert eye roll emoji*

Me

You could just use the emoji you know?

Gretchen

Connor. We’ve talked about this.

It’s funnier this way.

Nerves of anticipation coil in knots in my belly. Every text and phone call and FaceTime chat has led to this weekend and all I can think about is that I’ll finally get to see her—to pull her into my arms and hug her.

That summer she turned sixteen—three years ago—flipped my world on a dime. For obvious reasons, I kept my distance after her brother and I moved to Chicago. Gretchen and I had almost zero contact other than when she and her parents would visit Drew occasionally on the weekends. I’d see them in passing, but I mostly tried to make myself scarce to give the Fishers the space they needed for family time.

Everything changed when Gretchen turned eighteen and her parents lifted their social media ban. One little notification in my inbox and I didn’t think twice before accepting her follow request. The moment I opened her page and saw the first picture—cap and gown, goofy grin spread wide across her face, holding up a peace sign, head cocked to one shoulder—I think I was done for right then and there.

She messaged me. I messaged back. Eventually we exchanged phone numbers, which led to texting. Texting Gretchen became an all day, every day, best parts of my day occurrence. By Christmas we were FaceTiming almost every night.

While our conversations have been friendly and only slightly verging on flirtatious, I haven’t been interested in anyone else. Not since the day that follow request notification popped up. Not for the past twelve months, two weeks and three days.

I’m several years older than her and that’s never going to change. But the more time Gretchen and I spend getting to know each other, the less time I spend thinking about her brother and his warning three years ago.

Drew and I are still best friends, but seasons of life change. He moved in with Reagan a couple months before I ever reconnected with his sister and I’ve been living alone ever since. Between he and Reagan navigating their last year of law school and planning their wedding, Drew and I’s social meetups have become significantly less frequent.

His bachelor party last month was as close to our shared playboy days as I can remember. We barhopped through Chicago with a few buddies. Several of them picked up some ladies along the way, everyone playing wingman for someone else. Except me. I did my best man duty, making sure Drew stayed out of trouble and didn’t gettoowasted. He tried to get me to flirt back with one such cute bartender who came on very strong when she swiped my phone and put in her contact information without my consent. Little did he know, I planned to FaceTime his little sister as soon as I got home.

I want to see Gretchen face to face, find out if she feels for me what I’m feeling for her. My hopes are up—sky high. Every last one of them, up as high as I can throw them, helium balloons floating up and away.

If she’s willing to giveusa try, I don’t care if I have to hop on a plane every weekend to see her. I’ll do it. I’ll come clean to Drew and make him a new promise: a promise to never hurt her.

The dimly litrestaurant hosting the rehearsal dinner boasts three long tables. Adorned with a runner of candles and flower arrangements, each table seats at least twenty-five people down its length.

Nearly everyone has arrived, except for the guests of honor and their families. A group of my old frat brothers and myself catch up by the bar as we wait for Drew and Reagan to make their big entrance. All my thoughts are about seeing Gretchen walk through that door, though. My hands shake with nerves. I clutch a glass of Woodford Reserve in one hand and stuff the other in my pocket to steady them.

At last, the front door swings open and the place erupts in cheers when the bride and groom step inside. Quickly swarmed by guests, I can’t make out the family that follows behind them.

A couple minutes later, the happy couple breaks from the crowd. Drew hoofs it straight toward me and the other groomsmen at the bar. “I need a drink.”

“Take it easy tonight, babe,” Reagan says with a sweet finger to Drew’s chest.

I reach past my glowering best friend to plant a kiss on his fiancée’s cheek. “You look lovely tonight, Reagan.”

“Thank you, Connor.”

Drew secures a beer for himself and a glass of white wine for Reagan before she gets pulled into a circle with her bridesmaids. I’m still scanning the room for Gretchen, but the low lighting and tight clusters of people scattered everywhere leave me coming up empty. The hand in my pocket fidgets with my keys, nervous energy still buzzing.

Our friend, Mav, chimes in. “Fashionably late to your own rehearsal dinner, Fisher?”

Drew scoffs. “Apparently, only a very specific pair of diamond earrings were acceptable to wear tonight.” His tone is exhausted but has no real disdain behind it because the guy can’t stop sneaking lovesick looks at his bride across the room.

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