Page 1 of The Fun Part
1
Mackenzie
My cousin and I engage in a small wrestling match.Oof.Ow!Hopefully no one witnesses this. We’re standing right outside the venue of the Clover Park Valentine’s Day dance in the freezing cold of a Connecticut winter.
Harper’s fingers are like talons gripping my upper arms. I’ve got her by the upper arms, too, as we wiggle back and forth, fairly matched in strength and size.
If it weren’t for these three-inch heels, I could take her.
She’s blocking the door!
“Just listen!” Harper exclaims, twisting her arms out from under my grip and grabbing me by the shoulders.
“What!”
“How long has it been for you? Really.”
I huff. This is her way of saying we should bail on the dance. I get her point, but it’s too late to back out now. Her objection is that it’s mostly family and friends we grew up with in there. Translation: no eligible single guys.
I shake off her grip. “Not relevant.”
“Very relevant.”
I pull my thin white coat tighter around me. “I’m freezing. Can we please go in?”
If brute strength doesn’t work, try being polite. Good manners are part of Lady 101, drilled into me since birth by my former-beauty-queen mom.
I narrow my eyes at Harper. This outfit isn’t enough coverage for a prolonged outdoor wrestling match, but it was the only coat that looked right with my short red dress, which I had to wear to go with my metallic-red, strappy, spiked heels. The shoes were a Valentine’s gift to myself.
I debate shoving her out of the way versus the risk of damage to my new heels. Harper’s a fighter. Ask me how I know. We grew up together, born only three months apart. I’m the older, more mature one at twenty-six. Our dads are identical twins, so we resemble each other—medium height, straight brown hair, a nose that turns up a little at the end. Only I have blue eyes, and hers are hazel.
Harper shakes her head. “You need this more than I do. I had an awesome hookup two short months ago.”
Brag, brag, brag. So what if it’s been a teensy bit over eight months for me? I’ve been busy with work and stuff.
“We’re not bailing,” I insist. “Dad’s restaurant catered it, and everyone’s expecting us. It’s Mason and May’s engagement party, provided she said yes. And they could be here any minute!”
She gives me a hard look, which I return, setting my jaw in determination. It’s too late to back out, and no way am I showing up single to a couples’ event without her. I’ve been a single bridesmaid at enough weddings to know my limits.
She lets out an exasperated sigh. “Don’t you want to meet someone tall, dark, and handsome?”
I scoff. “Tall, dark, and handsome? You’ve been watching too many old black-and-white movies.” This is a new thing with her. I don’t get it. She used to be as practical as I am.
Her eyes flash. “Those old movies have something we’re missing nowadays. Sparks flying, slow burn, passionate love. Just let me have my fantasy.”
Fantasy is right. She and Mom have become two peas in a pod. Mom is Hailey Campbell, Clover Park’s premier wedding planner and matchmaker extraordinaire (her words). She lives and breathes the fantasy of romance. Me, I’m a realist. Learned that the hard way with a cheating ex and one too many surprise setups from Mom. Oh, the humiliation. The awkwardness. The seething rage.
For a while Mom was low key. Just a few comments here and there. “Rick has a great sense of humor,” she’d say. “Very important in a partner.” Or, “You can tell a lot by the way a guy treats his sisters. Matthew has four younger sisters who seem to really like him.” Or, for one of my many bridesmaid stints, “If you need a wedding date, I’ve got the perfect guy.” All stuff I could nod and smile and move on from. That changed after my first big relationship at twenty-three.
Shawn was my only serious boyfriend. The first guy to make my heart race seeing him across the room. He was affectionate, funny, and smart. Then I discovered Shawn had a longtime girlfriend in his hometownwhile he was seeing me. They’re married now. I wish him all theworst.
Now I live by the mottoall fun; no expectations. Why put myself through the heartache?
Mom had other ideas. When I turned twenty-four, she invited a surprise guest to my birthday party who sang me a birthday song. Blaise was a prematurely bald guy in his late twenties wearing a red bowtie and suspenders. With that outfit, I thought he was a singing telegram performer until the songturned into a weird serenade:Mackenzie’s turning twenty-four, even though we’ve never met before, she’s smart, she’s beautiful, and soon I hope she’ll explore some time with me-e-e-e.
Uh, no.
When my twenty-fifth birthday rolled around, I was wary, but nothing happened. A week later, while Dad was on a camping trip with the guys, Mom asked me to dress nice for our usual Sunday family dinner. I know, that should’ve been a red flag, but she’s a fashionista with an incredible wardrobe she rarely gets to wear, so I thought she was just trying to level up Sunday dinner. Dad’s more a flannel and jeans kind of man.
