Sixteen days. They’ve been the longest sixteen days of my life. My usual wedding and final checklists have kept me busy, but my mind keeps pushing him forward through the hectic and even the chaotic moments of my week. He’s just there, constantly burning a hole in my mind.
I am lost. I can’t even find the joy that I usually find in the weddings. Every task is just that, another task that needs to be performed, but this time it’s without any of the emotion behind it. I’m drained and empty on the subject matter, having fallen in love with him. I know it because I don’t recognize my restlessness and unwillingness to forgive him.
Aran called a few days back to confirm some things for the guest list. We got together to review her invitations that arrived and had a good laugh about my ankle. Although I didn’t tell her who I was with at the time, just that I was hiking. She explained how she and Kyle met with a special emphasis on her own ankle story. We declared ourselves ankle injury sisters. It’s nice to have a sister to confide in and laugh with. Their love story simply confirms that love, in the beginning, is tough, but communication is key to help it prevail.
Frank is unwilling to communicate. Too many years have passed for him to set his demons free. Instead, he lets them eat tiny little holes in his soul so that it can’t hold any love at all. I poured my heart out in the letter that I left on the piano, and he hasn’t responded.
There have been so many men in my life that I don’t think I could count them all. Not one of them has left a distinguishing mark on me like he has. His troubled lonely soul calls to me. I don’t want to fix him, just understand him and maybe help tame the sadness that emanates from him.
Frank is a manly man’s gentleman, knowing exactly what he wants and he isn’t willing to bargain for less, but he uses finesse to get what he wants. He isn’t too pushy or overbearing, but simply uses his mind and negotiating skills to make people see his plan is the right one. It’s been sixteen days, and I don’t get anything from him to explain what happened. I guess I’m not worth bargaining for.
My alarm goes off and I snooze it for a few more minutes. I have a wedding to get through, and I’m happy for the distraction to my thoughts. My ankle strain is healed, but today will be the true test— I’m going to wear my heels for the first time. I just pray I remain upright and don’t wobble or fall on anyone.
My phone vibrates on the nightstand and I look to see who it is, but it’s an unknown number. I swipe across the screen. I should let it go to voicemail, but I hate checking it.
“Hello, Isabella Asante,” I say.
“Oh, Hi, Isabella. I expected to get your voicemail this early. I’m sorry if I woke you. This is Jenna Bailey, Aran’s sister-in-law and matron of honor,” she says. “I apologize for calling so early but I have to make phone calls before my children’s screaming and incessant questions start for the day.”
“It’s no problem. I’ve been up. I have a wedding to run today,” I respond.
“Oh, okay. Well, I wanted to double check with you since I haven’t heard from you. I sent out an invitation to Aran’s bridal shower for next Sunday at the Beer and Brood, but you haven’t confirmed attendance. She will be very upset if you don’t come,” she confides. “She loves you like a sister and adores your friendship. Please say you are coming.”
I sit up further on the bed, fully awake at this point. The Beer and Brood. Why does it have to be there? I sigh heavily. Because it’s Knightsen and small towns are just that, wrung dry of usable facilities for parties so they recycle. “I’m sorry, but I don’t remember getting it. My assistant could have it, but yes, I’ll be there. What time is it scheduled for?” I ask.
“Uncle Frank gave us the back deck from 3:00 - 5:00 pm as a private party. Is that okay?” she asks earnestly.
“Absolutely, I’ll be there. No worries,” I promise.
“Yay, just come in through the back deck entrance. There’s no need to walk all the way through the bar,” she instructs.
“Perfect. I’ll see you all then,” I say before hanging up. The price of friendship will be the ruination of my heart.
My alarm rings again, reminding me that I am pushing time and letting it get away from me. I throw back the covers to start my day, but first things first...I need coffee.
Thank God today’s wedding is in the city. I love to travel for my weddings, but it can be exhausting. Hopefully, parking is the only trouble I run into today. Downtown San Francisco and parking for several hundred guests at a time do not play nicely together, especially on a Saturday in the middle of summer and peak tourism.
Today’s event is the Tomzir wedding, and both the wedding and reception are being held at The Bentley Reserve, the historic Federal Reserve Building. It’s a beautifully unique building with great lighting and always makes for a gorgeous wedding. The event coordinator for The Bentley, Melissa Frazier, and I have successfully hosted several weddings together, and we get along very well. Today should be fairly easy— from my lips to God’s ears.
We set the guest and bridal party chairs last night, as well as the altar area for the officiant, bride, and groom. I love the color schematic for this wedding: copper, peach, and ivory. It matches the interior of The Bentley perfectly.
I text Melissa that I’m outside parking and within minutes, she meets me on the front steps.
“Are you excited about another Mel and Bell collaboration?’ she squeals, hugging me and chuckling at her joke.
“Yeah,” I reply, beaming my smile at her and readjusting my bags hanging from my shoulders.
“What’s wrong?” she asks. “That sounded dull. You didn’t convince me like you normally do. Have you lost your fire for this crazy business?”
“Nah, I didn’t lose it. It was more like some man stole it,” I grumble.
“Ooh. That sounds like an interesting story that I’d love to hear,” she teases. “I knew you’d get bit by the love bug some day.” She hugs me again, and wraps her arm around my shoulder, escorting me inside the building.
We both pull the heavy doors open and enter the main banking hall. I drop my bags off my shoulders and stand in awe. The morning sun is filtering through the skylight windows, casting yellow rays on the citrine-colored marbled walls. It’s breathtaking.
“C’mon. We have work to do,” Melissa pulls on my arm bringing me out of my admiration for this old building. I gather my bags again and walk to her office. She hangs my suit in the closet and we begin the final stages of preparation for the Tomzir’s wedding.
Within a few hours, every vendor has completed their tasks, and the bridal party and groomsmen have arrived. Both are getting comfortable in separate boardrooms on opposite sides of the banking hall. Melissa and I get ready and then sneak up to the Mezzanine where the caterers are preparing the bar and cocktails. This is where the guests will come before the main reception occurs, and while the banking hall is being transformed for eating and dancing.
The bartender fixes us two white wine spritzers, and we take a seat overlooking the Embarcadero. It’s a gorgeous day for a wedding.
“So have you had this man arrested for stealing your joy?” she asks very seriously, making me laugh.
“No, the ball is in his court. It’s his turn to serve, while I wait patiently,” I lie. Patiently is not how this is playing out. I’m ready to throw a temper tantrum any three-year-old could take lessons from.
“And that’s the hardest part, I know,” she confides, sipping her drink. “I don’t understand men. The vast majority of women feel, then think, and maybe act depending on their personality. While men either think, act and then feel or others act, think and never feel, or at least never communicate their feelings if they have them.”
“Right. Don’t they know the feelings come first?” I ask in return. “I can’t be with someone if I don’t have feelings for them. There has to be at least a connection and that usually starts with a feeling.”
“It’s like it’s too hard to say ‘I like you’ or ‘I want to spend more time with you’” she blurts out.
“Or ‘I have a bad history with relationships since my fiance died, but I want to work on that with you’,” I add. Suddenly, the space between us goes silent. It’s like the universe is listening to our conversation.
“Ooh, ouch. Shit,” she says, shaking her head in disbelief. “That sucks. So that’s his problem?”
“Yeah,” I reply. “It’s not an easy one. We were intimate and he called me her name, telling me how amazing she was.”
“How long has she been gone?” she asks sincerely. “Maybe it’s just too soon, but he misses the intimacy. I think any sane person would.”
“Twenty-two years,” I huff in frustration.
“Fuck me,” she screeches. “Get out. But he’s had other relationships since then, right?”
“Nope,” I shake my head. “He says I am his first in a very long time, and when I asked how long, he told me twenty-two years.”
“Awww. I actually think that’s sweet,” she says. “It can’t be easy, and it’s not like learning to ride a bike again like they say. When you are young, trust isn’t usually an issue. Fear doesn’t exist because you haven’t been shot down that many times. But when we get older, trust, faith, hope, and loyalty...that all mixes into the experience. You don’t just get up and decide to fall in love. You find someone of interest and then you stumble around for a while until the trust, and hope and other things arrive to make you feel confident.”
That’s exactly what we are doing, stumbling around trying to establish the trust and faith in the other. “Wisdom from an event coordinator,” I tease her. “You should write a book.”
“We should write a book together. We both have the experience in viewing relationships with people,” she states.
“Yes, but the ones I deal with are well past this part in their relationships,” I admit, looking at the time on my phone. “It’s time for us to go. The wedding is in a half-hour. I need to get everyone in their places.”
She hugs me hard, holding on a bit longer than normal. “Hey,” she says, “older love isn’t easier than young love. Love is love and most of the time it’s difficult. Don’t go into it thinking it should all fit perfectly into place. If it were easy, everyone would have found their perfect match and soul mate.”
We separate and each go to finish our remaining jobs left on our checklists. She’s right, I admit to myself. If it were easy, there wouldn’t be the nasty “D” word, divorce. I doubt he’ll ever care for me as much as he does her. We don’t have the time invested, and he doesn’t seem to want any more time with me.
As I stand in the main hall looking over the room and making sure every person and thing is where it’s supposed to be, the music begins to play. No matter how hard love can be to find, I still think it’s worth the wait.