Dater's Handbook. Cara Lockwood
at me from across the table, and in that small gesture lay a novel’s worth of commentary. I realized in that moment, that it was true. No one had ever asked me when I was going to take it “to the next step” with Peter. Most people just plastered neutral smiles on their faces when I even mentioned Peter—which, come to think of it, wasn’t that often. And the idea of actually taking the next step—whatever that might mean—with Peter… Well, did I even want to do that?
He grinned at me. “They don’t ask about us because we avoid those types of situations. See? It all works.” He clapped me on the back almost like I was a teammate, not his girlfriend. An uncomfortable silence descended on our little table, which Peter, of course, failed to notice. Peter glanced up and eyed the cute girls in the Rockies jerseys across the bar once more, but then his attention settled back on me.
“Hey, I’ll get you some more wings,” Peter said, backing away from our table. “Ah! But this time…no honey.” He aimed a finger gun at me, and I managed a weak smile.
“Ah! Now who’s thinking?” Michael piped in, pointing at Peter as if he’d just hit a home run. Once Peter ambled out of earshot, Michael leaned over the table to my sister. “Are they a couple or not?” he asked in the loudest whisper I’d ever heard.
“I’m right here,” I said, glancing down at the enormous plate of honey-doused wings at the center of the table. Well, on the bright side, I guessed Dana officially had her answer about my RSVP: no plus-one for me.
Three
I hardly thought about Peter the next day as I sat through the wedding ceremony, a truly touching exchange of vows beneath the white chuppah, as Dana Abrams officially became Mrs. Dana Schmointz. Now I understood what people meant by the phrase “beaming with happiness” because afterward, Dana looked like she could light up the night sky with her smile. The guests gathered in the immense ballroom of the swanky hotel in downtown Denver as we all dutifully plucked our seating cards from the table where they were arranged. I glanced around the beautifully decorated reception, my attention lingering on the dessert table, where the impressive three-layer cake towered over other smaller slices of vanilla and chocolate goodness. My inner sweets monster reared its head, and I had to fight it back down. In good time, I told it. In good time.
I searched for my seat at number five, but when I found it, I wished I hadn’t. It was, quite literally, the kids’ table. I recognized the flower girl and ring bearer from the ceremony, but I didn’t know the other children. I saw two empty chairs and had a horrifying thought: what if Dana had left that spot open? What if it was just going to be me and a bunch of kids who could barely be called tweens?
Before I could descend into full-blown panic mode, I glanced up and saw a man in a gray suit and lavender tie approach. Clean-cut and attractive, he wore his dark hair swept back and bore a cocksure grin on his face. He hadn’t noticed me yet. He focused on the flower girl in the pale pink dress.
“Uh-oh,” he said, standing near one of two empty chairs. “Table five? Just the best table in the entire place, am I right?” The man slid into the empty seat next to the flower girl. “Are you kids ready to get this party started? First thing we’re going to do is order a full round of Shirley Temples, on me. Who’s with me?”
He offered the flower girl a high five, and she smacked his palm. A cheer went up from the group. He had quite obviously won over the mini crowd. He was so sweet, I couldn’t help but be impressed. I knew Peter wouldn’t have even tried. He didn’t like kids and made his dislike known on a regular basis.
“You’re one cool dude,” the flower girl said, echoing my thoughts. The stranger looked up then and caught my eye. I held the card for table five in my hand, and he smiled at me. I felt a warm little glow in the pit of my stomach. Maybe this reception wouldn’t be a disaster, after all. I scooted over to the empty chair. He pushed it back for me and I took a seat.
“Hello,” he said. “Welcome to table five, the best table at the wedding. Would you like to join us in a round of Shirley Temples? Miss…” He glanced at the place card in my hand. “Miss Cassandra Brand?”
“Uh…Cass, actually, and that sounds lovely, Mr…” He held up his card and I read it. “Mr. Zappia.”
“Robert Zappia.” He offered his hand and I shook it, the warmth of his big palm covering mine. Strong hands, I thought, suddenly enjoying a little jolt at the connection. He had puppy-dog brown eyes that never left mine.
“Make it a double, Mr. Zappia,” I joked, and he laughed, a warm, gooey laugh that I almost felt in the tips of my toes. Robert’s eyes grew big, and he made faces at the children at the table.
“She’s going crazy, kids!” he declared and some of them giggled.
Upbeat accordion music began playing, and the groom, Jim, came to tap Robert on the shoulder. “Time to dance,” he told Robert, and Dana motioned me up, too. People stood and began clapping along to the traditional Horah dance as we all formed circles on the dance floor. The flower girl, I noticed, slipped right beside Robert but he reached out for me, clasping my hand.
I had to admit, I didn’t mind the contact. His hand pressed against mine, warm and protective. He smiled at me once more, brown eyes sparkling, as we danced our way in a circle to the beat. Groomsmen brought chairs, and suddenly, the crowd lifted the bride high in the air as Robert and I moved to the side. We still kept time, clapping with the beat, but even the music couldn’t drown out Dana’s glee as they raised her up and she declared, “Can you believe it? I’m married! I’m officially Mrs. Dana Schmointz!” Then she let out a long, joyful shout that people probably heard in Idaho.
Robert glanced down at me, eyebrow raised. “Can you believe it?” he murmured, imitating Dana. I had to laugh as I let out a high-pitched squeal of my own, and Robert did, too, as a waiter came by and offered us flutes of champagne.
Oh, I liked Robert more by the minute.
I took a glass of bubbly and then made my way back to the table, a little out of breath from dancing in heels. Robert followed me, and we sat in our seats, the chairs around us mostly empty, the kids off somewhere else.
“You dance a mean Horah,” Robert told me, clinking his champagne flute against mine. I laughed.
“Well, thank you. You dance a pretty mean Horah yourself, Mr. Zappia.” Despite only knowing him a hot five minutes, I felt relaxed with him. There was something conspiratorial in the way he looked at me, something I liked.
The waiters came and served dinner, and as we ate, we chatted. He’d met the happy couple in college, and he told me how meeting Dana had changed Jim’s life for the better. I told him about Dana, and how Jim had changed her life, as well—and everybody else’s in the office, since we’d all been subject to the high-pitched squeals of happiness since they’d gotten engaged.
A few more couples whirled on the dance floor.
“They look like they’re having fun,” he said, taking a sip of his champagne.
“It’s great, but dancing is only the second-best part of a wedding.”
“What, pray tell, is the first-best thing?” Robert leaned in, and I became hyper aware of how broad his shoulders were, how low his voice. I leaned in, too, and I inhaled the scent of his aftershave, something spicy and sweet with just the hint of vanilla. The man smelled good.
“The cake—clearly!” I’d been eyeing that beautifully frosted beast from across the room since I’d gotten here. I eyed a waiter that delivered a piece of that deliciousness to the table next to us. When was it our turn?
“Speaking of cake…” Robert turned to our left, and we saw Dana and her new husband feeding each other frosted bites. Lucky ducks. “They really are the perfect couple.”
It was obvious how happy they were—sickeningly happy. I thought of my parents for a moment, back when Mom and