Chapter 20

It’s nine o’clock in the morning and I’m late for work.

Scratch that: I’m late for everything. Since I’ve pushed work back by a half hour, I’ll be not-so-fashionably late to the fundraiser. My dress is hanging in the back of my car, and I turned off the music a long time ago because my head is pounding. I hardly slept at all last night, stuck on the wedding, bursting with ideas and the WORST headache ever. I even dreamed about destroying the wedding.

So this day is off to a fabulous start.

I pull into the parking lot and run like a madwoman into the shop. I gasp out insane-sounding apologies about traffic and the zipper on my brand new dress, but Tracy just waves her hand at me. “Be quiet and work.”

I smile nervously, grab a bucket from the cooler, and start.

The morning goes by much too quickly. Between managing the front desk and changing out the buckets and loading up my car with the arrangements I made yesterday in the shop, I can hardly breathe. I think it’s my clothes, despite the fact that I chose sweat pants and a loose T-shirt. (Actually, they chose me. They’re what was left of my clean clothes. Somebody help me.)

Tracy kicks me out of the shop at eleven-thirty, exactly fifteen minutes after I was supposed to leave. “Get out of here, crazy. You’re going to miss everything.”

“Thank you, Tracy,” I say, my body filling with relief, even as I think, Tell me something I don’t know.

I drop the vases and flower crown and boutonnieres and bridal bouquet off at Levi’s house. He’s already gone, as I expected, but Suzie and Elle and my family are in the back, setting up.

The whole place is coming together like a beautiful dream. Lights are strung. Tables are set up by the back door. Tom is helping unfold chairs and place them in a line. It’s really nice to see him focusing on something that makes him happy. (Read: Anything that’s not Andrea.) He smiles as Elle attempts to open a chair that doesn’t want to budge. She curses loudly and colorfully, eliciting a gasp from the corner of the backyard.

Suddenly there’s Albert, practically leaping across the grass, pulling glitter from his pockets and tossing it into the air over Elle’s head.

She sputters, waving her hands around. “Aaaalllllbbeeerrrt!”

Tom gapes. “What the hell?” Then Albert scampers off, and Tom’s laughing, taking the chair from Elle. He yanks it open.

Elle sputters again and blinks hard. “Thanks.”

“Yeah,” he says.

I roll my eyes and set the three vases on the closest table. My mom and Suzie are there, wrapping silverware in napkins. My mom kisses my cheek.

“Just set them on the front porch,” Suzie says, giving me a quick hug before bustling away. “I’ll bring them out back. I know you need to go. And you can change here, too, if you need to.”

After a few trips back and forth, I set the last of the flower-related items on the front porch, grab my dress and makeup bag and shoes and jewelry, and dash inside. I find the bathroom empty. (Thankfully.)

I lock myself inside.

Take a deep breath.

And another.

You’re late, I tell myself. Hurry, Bee!

But I just stand there, staring at my red face, puffy with dehydration, and my heaving chest.

I realize, a little too late, that I am terrified about the fundraiser.

Terrified I’ll make a fool out of myself in front of all these wealthy, refined men and women who are willing to drop thousands of dollars on a painting.

Terrified to wear this pretty dress in front of a pretty boy. (My pretty boy.)

Terrified my feelings will take a swan dive off a cliff without my permission.

What do I know about these things?

So I call Gretchen. (Obviously.) She answers so fast I wonder if she’s been waiting by the phone. “Dude, you better not be calling me from the fundraiser.”

“I’m not,” I say. And, of course, I start to cry.

“What’s wrong?” Gretchen’s voice is instantly soft. “Bee?”

“I’m freaking out, okay?” I sniffle. “It’s ridiculous, I know it is, but I’m totally panicking. I’ve never done anything like this before, and the little sleep I got last night was filled with terrible dreams about the wedding failing, and I’m so nervous I’m going to trip or say something stupid. Levi is in charge of these things, people are going to be around him constantly, and I have nowhere else to be, so I’ll be with him, too.” I’m not making sense, but Gretchen doesn’t seem to mind. She lets me talk, as if I’m giving a grand, important speech, rather than sniffling through a half-coherent rant. “He told me last night he thinks this green dress will look beautiful on me and I don’t know what to think about that.”

Gretchen sighs. “Bee, you have to keep moving. This is vital. Breathe. Drink water. Stop thinking about him like that. Think about the fundraiser and the amazing things you’ve done to get everyone to the wedding.”

I sigh, painfully heavy. It wavers. It overwhelms. And then it happens: The stress glides out of me on that sigh.

Not the fear, though. The fear is still there, trapped inside my heart. (I really hope it decides to make an exit soon.)

“Okay,” I say, wiping tears away. Now my face is even redder. “Can I keep you on the phone?”

“Duh.” Gretchen yawns. “Don’t know why I’m tired right now, but this phone call will help me stay awake while I wait for my mom to pick me up.”

“Talk about work,” I say. “Distract me. I need it.”

So she does. I laugh at her stories of her coworkers as I pull my dress over my head. I powder my face, put on blue eye shadow and pink blush. I adjust my glasses, wipe off the excess makeup dust, and start on my hair. Gretchen’s voice soothes me—even though I eventually lose track of her story—and I have no more trace of tears. I can do this. It doesn’t change my fears, but I can forget them, at least for now.

Miraculously, I’m only fifteen minutes late to the event.

Everyone is already inside the auditorium, taking their seats and whispering. I flash my invitation and rush in, but there are absolutely no seats left, so I follow the usher’s directions to the back. There are a few people there already, frowning at me as I stand in front of them. At least I’m short and they don’t have to strain to see over my head.

Before I can even set my purse down, Levi is on stage, tall as ever, hair hastily brushed back so it doesn’t flop onto his forehead. He’s wearing a gray suit, one that is obviously very expensive and tailored to fit him perfectly. I blink. Hard. Gretchen told me to control it, to not let my stupid feelings get in the way, but I absolutely cannot ignore how handsome he is. That suit was made for the gods, and yet here he is, just a regular boy from Escondido, pulling it off like a pro.

He’s magnificent.

At first I don’t hear a single word he says. (It’s the aforementioned magnificence, clouding my vision.) But then (with my eyes closed so I can focus) I hear about his mission and his goals, about TCP’s current clients. He lists off everything he loves about his volunteers. He names them all, thanking each one individually.

But then…he starts talking about me.

Oh no. Absolutely not, Levi.

“I met a girl a few weeks ago, friend of a friend sort of thing,” he begins, “and I introduced her to The Color Project. She seemed to have an interest, and I wanted to include her. I was pretty sure she would have great ideas, but in the end, she exceeded my expectations. She saved me when I thought I was going to have to say no to a couple who really just wanted to get married.

“But this girl…she didn’t take no for an answer. She made that wedding happen. Tonight, Ivanka and Augustin are getting married, with their entire family here from Prague to celebrate with them. All because Bee, our heroine, gave up the last two weeks of her life to plan a wedding for a couple who couldn’t. That’s the spirit of The Color Project—that’s why you’re all here today.”

He thanks the audience, stepping off the stage, and I’m crying (for the SECOND TIME TODAY). The lights go up, people are moving, but I can barely see through my tears. I wipe them away as best as I can and let the crowd take me.

The main room in the building is covered in art pieces, placed on the walls and on easels. People flock to them, pointing and talking and writing on the auction papers hanging beside each frame. I’m curious to see more, and also to eat (I don’t remember eating today), but more than anything I need to find Levi.

He finds me first. He calls my name, his voice almost lost in the crowd, but I hear it. (Oh, I hear it.) I turn, bumping into someone, my legs threatening to twist into a pretzel and tip me backward. Levi grabs my arm, smiling, eyes alight, and tugs me into a hug. “You okay?” he asks, somewhat alarmed when he sees my face.

“No,” I moan. “You made me cry.” I pat my cheeks lightly, as if this will get rid of the possible tear streaks through my makeup. “Do I look terrible? Is my mascara running?”

He shakes his head. “No. You look so beautiful, Bee.” He runs his thumb over my cheek (this closeness burns me) and nods. “Your mascara is fine, and I’m sorry I made you cry.”

“It was beautiful. It was a good cry.” I laugh, a little shaky.

His smile touches only his mouth; his eyes are searching, uncertain. “I’m…um… I honestly don’t know what to say to that.”

I laugh. “Trust me, I love a good cry. I’m honored by what you said,” I whisper, not sure how else to tell him.

(What I say: I’m honored.)

(What I want to say: I’m totally falling for you, you ridiculously wonderful boy.)

He’s so obviously relieved by this that I laugh again. He lightly touches my shoulder. “Want to get some food? Or do you want to look at the art? I can introduce you to a few people, or we don’t have to, whatever…” He shrugs. “Up to you.”

“Food,” I say. “Definitely food.”

Five minutes later I’m holding a plate piled high with a sandwich and salad. I’m too jittery to sit down, so we wander among the paintings. They are beautiful, masterfully crafted, the different styles and colors calling to different parts of me. I find one toward the back of two ballerinas in dark red tutus, wrapping their laces. It’s close to an impressionist style, but with a touch of modernism I can’t quite place. “Levi, this is beautiful.”

He smiles. “Patrick is one of our regular donators and a personal favorite among these artists.”

“He’s already my favorite and I’m not even halfway through.”

“If you like this one, let me show you something.” He takes my arm as if he’s about to lead me onward, but then stops, and stands very still.

His eyes, I discover, are focused on a man. He’s holding a glass of wine and flanked by two women showing so much boob that I’m afraid of accidentally seeing a nipple. I focus on the man instead, going cold when I realize how much he looks like Levi, but twenty-something years older, silver streaking his hair. His suit is fine, a dark shade of gray, almost black. The shirt beneath is red, making him look exotic with a dash of pompous.

“Levi, is that your dad?”

He groans. “Yeah. Let’s go.”

But Mr. Orville spots us—he’s looking right at me—and smiles broadly. He’s insanely handsome, the type of man you realize will always be gorgeous, no matter his age, like Brad Pitt or Jon Hamm or Hugh Jackman.

Mr. Orville pats Levi’s shoulder. I want to smile at him, to make myself approachable, but I don’t like his eyes, how cold they are, how…devouring.

And then he says, “The event turned out, son.”

Turned out how? I think. How about amazing? Or fabulous? Or extremely wonderful? How about, “You’re an excellent young man, and I’m proud of you.” A scowl threatens my lips when Mr. Orville turns to me, but I manage to turn it into a smile. (I hope.)

“I’m Bee,” I say, shaking his hand. His palm is dry, but his touch makes me want to shrink back. I don’t like how he’s looking at me.

“Bee, the famous Bee? The one I keep hearing all about?”

The fact that Levi has talked about me to his dad, the dad he doesn’t even like, makes me panic. Of course, I remind myself, he did just tell an entire fundraising event about me. So. There’s that.

“I…guess that’s me,” I say. “Nice to meet you.” (I hope I sound convincing.)

“You like art?” he asks.

“I love it,” I say, “although I can’t draw or paint or sketch to save my life.”

“Let’s hope it doesn’t come down to that.” Mr. Orville pats his stomach. “I think I’m going to take advantage of the food now. Nice chatting.”

He’s gone before I can say another word to him.

I turn to Levi, mouth agape. He runs a hand through his hair nervously, messing with it the way I like best. “Before you say anything,” I say, “I must admit that, to the naked eye, he is charming.”

“Sure,” Levi replies, practically spitting. “And he’d like to charm the pants off every girl here. I mean that literally.”

I sputter a laugh. “That’s a terrible thing to say.”

“Sometimes true things are terrible. I choose to ignore him.” He turns his back to his father, putting one hand on my shoulder and nudging me forward. “See? Totally ignoring him flirting with one of our artists. Look at me, I’m a pro.”

Laughing, I step out of the way of two men covering the nearest painting with a sheet. They carry it off, weaving through the crowd. Inside the auditorium, a man calls everyone back to their seats.

Levi grabs my hand. “This is my favorite part. Sit with me?”

If I were bold and witty, I’d say something fabulous. Something Marilyn Monroe would be proud of. Something flirtatious and irresistible. But because I’m just Bee (who thinks of witty things to say after the moment’s gone), I answer with, “Oh, sure.”

It turns out this is when they announce the winning bidders. Someone brings the paintings on stage, one by one, and the man with the microphone announces each winner and the amount donated. I become a little lost in all the large numbers—thousands of dollars are being donated by the second. I’m thankful for the distraction when Levi reaches over…and grabs my hand.

It’s an unobtrusive move on his part, but every inch of me is aware of him, and in a moment of happy panic I squeeze his hand. He leans in close to me, his shoulder meeting mine, and whispers (very close to my ear), “Do you have a pen?”

I want to ask why, but it’s too quiet in the auditorium, so I grab a pen from my purse. I think he’s going to, I don’t know, write a check or something. But then he grabs my hand, bends over my open palm, and begins to etch ink onto my skin.

It startles me, but I don’t move away, even though I have no idea what he’s doing. (I immediately realize I don’t care.) After a few minutes, when my palm itches from the ink, he turns my hand over and starts writing on the back. I don’t do anything, say anything; I don’t move or even let out the breath that I’m holding. I realize that he hasn’t looked up in minutes, hasn’t laughed at a single joke made from the announcer on stage, hasn’t clapped at all.

I keep my face forward, not daring to look down, not ready to be surprised by whatever it is. I don’t look down when he’s finished, when he sits back and drops the pen into my purse. I don’t even look down when the fundraiser comes to a close and we walk outside. I wait until I’m in my car and Levi’s in his and we’re ready to drive to the wedding.

I start the car first, taking a second to breathe in deep. Then I hold up my hand, the back of it tattooed in swirly, looping designs, and small, even letters that are so Levi.

Songs that remind me of you.

I whimper, turning my hand to see the palm. The list is short, three songs, but I cannot breathe from happiness.

Harbour Lights

Anastasia

Lamplight

And below that, in smaller letters and parentheses: (All by A Silent Film, of course.)

I sit back in my seat, finally relaxing my shoulders. I’ve never before had a beautiful boy write about my favorite songs by my favorite band on my palm, and I’m pretty sure it’s my new favorite thing. Ever. I turn my hand over, again and again, to be sure the pretty design is still there, and the words, and the trace of Levi that I wish was permanent.

He remembered. He always remembers.

Smiling, I drop my hands on the steering wheel and pull out of the parking space, moving up behind Levi’s car at the stop sign.

I follow him home.