Page 130 of Cooking Up My Comeback
As we turn off the lights and lock up our restaurant—our successful, packed, celebrated restaurant—I realize something important.
We’re not afraid anymore. Not of Chad, not of failure, not of the future.
We’ve got something stronger than fear or doubt or outside pressure.
We’ve got each other. And after tonight, that feels like everything.
TWENTY-NINE
AMBER
Standing in Hazel’s master bedroom on May fifteenth, surrounded by my closest friends, I should be focused on perfecting my best friend’s wedding day hair and makeup. Instead, I’m obsessing over the fact that Brett’s been acting weird for three days.
Not bad weird. Careful weird. Tiptoeing around me when we literally just stood up to Chad together and won. We’re supposed to be in the victory lap phase of our relationship, not the walking-on-eggshells phase.
“Hold still,” I tell Hazel, carefully working a section of her hair around the curling iron. “You’re going to make me mess up, and then you’ll have lopsided curls in your wedding photos.”
“Sorry. I’m nervous.”
“About marrying Jack?” Michelle asks. “The manwho renovated your house with you and thinks your rubbery scrambled eggs are ‘charming’?”
“About whether I remembered to tell the caterers that Uncle Bob is allergic to shellfish. And whether Ellen will actually walk down the aisle or decide to chase butterflies instead. And whether the flowers will hold up in this humidity and?—”
“Hazel.” Jessica sets down the mascara and takes her hands. “Breathe. You’ve planned this wedding down to the last detail. It’s going to be perfect.”
“What if it’s not?”
“Then it’ll still be your wedding day, and Jack will still be waiting for you at the altar appearing as though he won the lottery,” Michelle says.
Hazel takes a deep breath and nods. “You’re right.” She turns to me. “Okay, finish making me beautiful.”
“You’re already beautiful. I’m just enhancing what’s already there,” I say.
I go back to work on her hair, sectioning and curling each piece with careful precision, but my mind keeps wandering to Brett’s careful distance and way he’s been texting before coming over instead of appearing unannounced and how he asked permission before kissing me goodnight yesterday, as though it was presumptuous.
Just as I’m hair spraying the finished look, Ellen’s voice carries up from the family room down the hall: “Lucas! The flower girl basket is broken!”
“Define broken,” Lucas’s voice responds with thepatience of a man who’s learned that four-year-old emergencies rarely require actual emergency services.
“The handle came off and all the petals fell out and now they’re mixed up with Scout’s dog treats!”
A pause. Then Lucas speaks in a slightly strained voice. “Scout ate the flower petals?”
“No, Lucas. The flower petals ate Scout.”
Preschooler logic remains bulletproof.
Michelle and I exchange glances.
“I should probably—” Hazel starts.
“Stay. You’re not dealing with flower emergencies on your wedding day. We’ve got this.”
“You guys go ahead,” Jessica says. “I’ll stay with the bride.”
Michelle and I head down the hall to the family room to find Hazel’s middle brother, Lucas, standing there, fully dressed in his groomsman tux except for one missing cufflink, staring at what appears to be the aftermath of a floral explosion. Rose petals cover every surface, Ellen sits in the middle of the mess appearing simultaneously guilty and proud, and Scout wags his tail beside a basket that’s definitely seen better days.
“What happened?” I ask.
