The driver turned right and climbed slowly up to the club. Lark had spent the morning there getting ready. Soon, a team would arrive at the house to set the stage for their return that evening. Rose petals leading the way from the driveway to the master suite. Candles on the staircase. A bottle of champagne chilling in hand-chipped ice. When he texted from the road, someone would light the candles and get the hell out.
The limo pulled up in front of the club. More cars than he expected.
The driver opened the door, and Trip got out, blinking at the sun. Then the driver put an envelope in his hand.
“You’ve been served, sir.”
The man’s face was expressionless behind his sunglasses, but Trip heard a fuck you in his voice. He stared at the envelope. His name was handwritten on the front. A return address from Eerdman, Fellowes, Mancini, and Shulman in Chicago.
“What is this?”
“You’ve been served, sir,” he repeated.
He tried to give it back, but the chauffeur raised his hands like he was innocent. Trip threw the envelope at him, but it fluttered in the breeze like a leaf and landed on the asphalt.
The limo rolled away.
A grinning, tuxedoed flunky appeared at his side. “You must be the groom! Please come inside.”
Trip bent over and picked up the envelope, ripped it open, and scanned the first page.
Divorce. Holly.
Trip put the letter back in the envelope with shaking hands, folded it in half, and shoved it into the breast pocket of his suit.
“Let’s get out of this fucking heat,” he said. “And get me a glass of champagne.”
“Right away, sir.”
It was dark, cool, and empty inside. The lackey literally summoned a glass of champagne by snapping his fingers three times. The sound was so crisp Trip felt envious. Wasn’t that the goal, to simply snap your fingers for what you wanted?
The champagne was cold and good. He drained the glass without removing it from his lips.
“Where is everybody?” he asked.
“Outside, Mr. Wright. They’re waiting for you.”
“Am I late?”
“Of course not.”
Alone, he passed through the cool, dark interior of the 1920s Mediterranean-style building, where the tables were already set for dinner, and through the doors to the lanai overlooking the ocean. A little like that place in Mexico. Neat rows of white chairs flanked the aisle, all of them full. Maybe fifty people in all. A lot more than he’d been expecting. In the back row, one of the guests turned and saw him. It took Trip a moment to place the face, but then he remembered the guitar and the candle on the steps outside Lark’s apartment.
Dylan.
Dylan?
Why she was wasting Trip’s money on her loser ex was utterly beyond him, but maybe she just wanted to let the chump see firsthand she was truly off the market. Probably the least weird thing that had happened today.
Lark was standing under a green trellis, the buzz-cut minister waiting just off to the side. As a string quartet launched into one of the mopey millennial songs she was constantly playing, he wished he’d had a moment to wash his face or at least take a piss. Fortunately, he’d already put his phone on vibrate.
Lark smiled. People began to turn around. He stood up straight, threw his shoulders back, and pasted a shit-eating grin on his face.
He gave Dylan a consoling pat on the shoulder as he went past.
As he walked, he studied faces. Lark’s parents. A trio of hot women Lark’s age. Callie, following him with her phone to capture his every move.
Why was he the one walking up the aisle, anyway? Wasn’t he supposed to be up front while she made the stroll? Was this a feminist thing?
Then it was just the two of them. Lark looked so good it almost outweighed every shitty thing that had happened so far that day. She was wearing a formfitting sheath dress that must have cost twenty bucks per square inch. Her hair was elegantly curled, and she was holding a small bouquet of tropical flowers. She looked . . . what was the cliché? Radiant.
“You look fucking awesome,” he whispered.
“I know,” she said.
Lark turned to face the audience, so he did, too. For some reason, the butchy-looking minister remained off to the side.
Then Trip saw who was sitting in the front row.
Holly. Her parents, Walt and Charlotte.
Jessica.
And his own mom and dad. Who he’d told Lark were dead. Who could tell her he had never had a brother named Mike or Matt or anything else. If they hadn’t told her already.
He couldn’t breathe. His heart was pounding so hard he thought it would break his rib cage.
Was he hallucinating? He hadn’t seen his parents in years, but here they were, his simpleminded mom sitting there proudly like the queen of the ball, his dad looking back at him like somehow Trip had disappointed him once again.
It made no sense at all.
“I need to sit down,” he told Lark.
“You’ll be okay,” she said sweetly as Callie held up her phone even higher. “Smile. This will all be over with in a moment.”
Trip knew he was totally fucked when the minister stepped forward, opened her bible, and said, “We are gathered here today in the sight of God and the presence of friends to celebrate one of life’s greatest moments—in this case, our beloved Lark’s decision to not get married.”
Chapter Forty-Eight
LARK
I’ve made enough mistakes for all of us. Trust me.
—“How I Lied about My Name and Discovered My Truth,” a TED Talk by Jon M. Wright
Hotel bars still were not Lark’s scene. Over the past few years, however, she had logged so many thousands of miles of business travel that hotel rooms, lobbies, business centers, conference rooms, and even bars had lost all novelty to become spaces she passed through without a second thought. Now, as she rewarded herself for a job well done with a vodka martini in the lobby of the undulating Radisson Blu Aqua Hotel, she felt so
