Too Good to Be True. Kristan Higgins
ago, at Cousin Kitty’s second wedding, Andrew had come as my date. We’d been together for a while, and when it was bouquet toss time then, I’d gone up more or less happily, pretending to be embarrassed but with the smug contentment of a steady boyfriend. I didn’t catch the bouquet, and when I left the dance floor, Andrew had slung his arm around my shoulder. “I thought you could’ve worked a little harder out there,” he’d said, and I remembered the thrilling rush those words had caused.
Now he was here with his new girlfriend. Natalie of the long, straight, blond hair. Natalie of the legs that went on forever. Natalie the architect.
Natalie, my much adored younger sister, who was understandably lying low at this wedding.
Kitty tossed the bouquet. Her sister, my cousin Anne, caught it as planned and rehearsed, no doubt. Torture time over. But, no. Kitty spied me, picked up her skirts and hustled over. “It will be your turn soon, Grace,” she announced loudly. “You holding up okay?”
“Sure,” I said. “It’s déjà vu all over again, Kitty! Another spring, another one of your weddings.”
“You poor thing.” She gave my arm a firm squeeze, smug sympathy dripping out of her, glanced at my bangs (yes, they’d grown out in the fifteen years that had passed since she’d cut them) and went back to her groom and the three kids from her first two marriages.
THIRTY-THREE MINUTES LATER, I decided I’d been brave long enough. Kitty’s reception was in full swing, and while the music was lively and my feet were itching to get out there and show the crowd what a rumba was supposed to look like, I decided to head for home. If there was a single, good-looking, financially secure, emotionally stable man here, he was hiding under a table. One quick pit stop and I’d be on my way.
I pushed open the door, took a quick and horrifying look in the mirror—even I didn’t even know it was possible for my hair to frizz that much, holy guacamole, it was nearly horizontal—and started to push open a stall door when I heard a small noise. A sad noise. I peeked under the door. Nice shoes. Strappy, high heels, blue patent leather.
“Um…is everything okay?” I asked, frowning. Those shoes looked familiar.
“Grace?” came a small voice. No wonder the shoes looked familiar. My younger sister and I had bought them together, last winter.
“Nat? Honey, are you okay?”
There was a rustle of material; then my sister pushed open the door. She tried to smile, but her clear blue eyes were wet with silvery tears. I noted her mascara didn’t deign to run. She looked tragic and gorgeous, Ilsa saying goodbye to Rick at the Casablanca airport. “What’s wrong, Nat?” I asked. “Oh, it’s nothing….” Her mouth wobbled. “It’s fine.” I paused. “Is it something to do with Andrew?” Natalie’s good front faltered. “Um… well… I don’t think it’s going to work between us,” she said, her voice cracking a little, giving her away. She bit her lip and looked down.
“Why?” I asked. Relief and concern battled in my heart. Granted, it sure wouldn’t kill me if Nat and Andrew didn’t work out, but it wasn’t like Natalie to be melodramatic. In fact, the last time I’d seen her cry was when I’d left for college twelve years ago.
“Um… it’s just a bad idea,” she whispered. “But it’s fine.” “What happened?” I asked. The urge to strangle Andrew flared in my gut. “What did he do?”
“Nothing,” she assured me hastily. “It’s just… um…” “What?” I asked again, more forcefully this time. She wouldn’t look at me. Ah, dang it all. “Is it because of me, Nat?”
She didn’t answer.
I sighed. “Nattie. Please answer me.”
Her eyes darted at me, then dropped to the floor again.
“You’re not over him, are you?” she whispered. “Even though you said you were… I saw your face out there, at the bouquet toss, and oh, Grace, I’m so sorry. I should never have tried—”
“Natalie,” I interrupted, “I’m over him. I am. I promise.”
She gave me a look loaded with such guilt and misery and genuine anguish that the next words came out of my mouth without my being fully aware of them. “The truth is, Nat, I’m seeing someone.”
Oops. Hadn’t really planned on saying that, but it worked like a charm. Natalie blinked up at me, two more tears slipping down her petal-pink cheeks, hope dawning on her face, her eyes widening. “You are?” she said.
“Yes,” I lied, snatching a tissue to dab her face. “For a few weeks now.”
Nat’s tragic expression was fading. “Why didn’t you bring him tonight?” she asked.
“Oh, you know. Weddings. Everyone gets all excited if you come with someone.”
“You didn’t tell me,” she said, a slight frown creasing her forehead.
“Well, I didn’t want to say anything until I knew it would be worth mentioning.” I smiled again, warming to the idea—just like old times—and this time, Nat smiled back.
“What’s his name?” she asked.
I paused for the briefest second. “Wyatt,” I answered, remembering my tire-changing fantasy. “He’s a doctor.”
CHAPTER TWO
LET ME JUST SAY THAT THE REST of the night went a lot better for everyone. Natalie towed me back to the table where the rest of our family sat, insisting that we hang out together a little, as she had been too nervous to actually speak to me yet this day.
“Grace has been seeing someone!” she announced softly, eyes shining. Margaret, who had been painfully listening to Mémé describe her nasal polyps, snapped to attention. Mom and Dad stopped mid-bicker to pelt me with questions, but I stuck with my “it’s still a little early to talk about it” story. Margaret raised an eyebrow but didn’t say anything. Out of the corner of my eye, I scanned for Andrew—he and Natalie had been keeping a bit of a distance from each other out of concern for my tender feelings. He wasn’t in range.
“And just what does this person do for a living?” Mémé demanded. “He’s not one of those impoverished teachers, is he? Your sisters managed to find jobs that pay a decent wage, Grace. I don’t know why you can’t.”
“He’s a doctor,” I said, taking a sip of the gin and tonic the waiter brought over.
“What kind, Pudding?” Dad asked.
“A pediatric surgeon,” I answered smoothly. Sip, sip. Hopefully, the flush on my face could be attributed to my cocktail and not lying.
“Ooh,” Nat sighed, her face breaking into an angelic smile. “Oh, Grace.”
“Wonderful,” Dad said. “Hold on to this one, Grace.” “She doesn’t need to hold on to anything, Jim,” Mom snapped. “Honestly, you’re her father! Do you really need to undermine her this way?” Then they were off and running in another argument. How nice that Poor Grace was finally off the list of things to worry about!
I TOOK A CAB HOME, claiming a misplaced cell phone and a pressing need to call my wonderful doctor boyfriend. I also managed to avoid speaking directly with Andrew. Pushing Natalie and Andrew out of my head à la Scarlett O’Hara—I’ll think about that tomorrow—I focused instead on my new imaginary boyfriend. Good thing my tire had blown out a few weeks ago, or I wouldn’t have been nearly so quick on my feet.
How nice it would’ve been if Wyatt, pediatric surgeon, were a real guy. If he’d been a good dancer, too, even if it was just a little turning box step. If he could’ve charmed Mémé and asked Mom about her sculptures and not cringed when she described them. If he was a golfer like Stuart and the two guys made plans for a morning on the links. If he just happened to know a little bit about the Civil War. If he occasionally