Chapter Six
Marty
“You had lunch with Jax. The Jax. And you’re just telling me now? This happened, what, five hours ago?”
I’d been out with Marianne all afternoon trying to track down a florist who could handle a last-minute order. Apparently, the florist she had chosen ended up double-booking herself for her specialty—color-dipped white roses—and we’d been driving around the city all damn day trying to figure out what we were going to do.
“I’m telling you. Let’s just get a bunch of roses and we can have a dipping party,” I sighed.
“Stop changing the subject,” Marianne commanded. “How did the lunch go? Where did you guys eat? What did you talk about? I need details, girl!”
I sighed and watched the world pass by while Marianne continued to prod me with questions. I answered them as best I could without giving too much away, because the truth of the matter was that I wasn’t sure how it went.
I was an independent woman climbing her way to the top of the music industry ladder—without having to blow anyone in order to get there—and yet, as I sat in front of Jax at lunch, I felt like the same seventeen-year-old high school girl with a stupid crush.
I mean, he even ordered for me, for god’s sake; just like he used to do in high school. It was just like him to be pompous and act like he knew—
“He ordered for you? Aw, how sweet.” Marianne gushed.
“It was pompous,” I hissed.
“It threw you back to your high school days, and you don’t like that.”
“And how do you know that?”
“Because during our freshman year, all you did was complain about high school. You hated so many people there, the classes sucked, your parents were assholes…yada yada yada. You couldn’t stand high school, and he makes you feel like you’re right back in it.”
“Whatever.”
“Oh! There’s a florist!”
Marianne sharply turned her wheel and went careening across three lanes of traffic, completely ignoring the twenty or so people that were honking at her on her way into the parking lot.
“This is a handicapped space,” I pointed out as she parked.
“I’ll only be a minute.”
I sat in the car while she ran in, and I couldn’t help but think about what she said. Had I really hated high school that much?
I mean, I was a teenager, and all teens hated their parents. And any girl would much rather have been making out with her boyfriend than sitting in class; that’s just how high school worked.
But, it was odd how when he ordered for me, it made me feel so self-conscious. I knew I was different than the person I’d been back then. I was all limbs and hair and awkward freckles, but now, I had curves. My boobs filled out my bras just fine, and I’d traded my long locks for a messy bob that fell to my chin.
I was hellbent on growing up and pulling away from all the rules my parents set; away from all the regulations I had to remember about being a ‘respectable woman.’ My parents meant well, but good god, cotillion lessons? Women didn’t play second-fiddle to men anymore. Women didn’t have to ‘make themselves pretty’ for men anymore. Women put their pants on one foot at a time. Just like men.
I’d friggin’ changed, alright. I’d been busy making a name for myself in the music industry, forging strong connections that would serve me well when I could afford my own studio, and treating myself to an expensive wardrobe and spa days. I didn’t need anyone—not my father, Jax, or any man—to provide any of those things for me.
The car door ripped open and Marianne sighed when she sat down. The car jostled and I watched her put her head in her hands, and as I went to comfort her, I pulled out my phone and called Alyssa.
“Did you find a florist?” she answered.
“We’ve exhausted all of the ones in the city. What are you guys doing?”
“Waiting for your phone call,” I heard Rebecca yell in the background.
“Clara’s already left to get the lightweight paints. Find someone who can get you four dozen white roses and get your asses over here. It’s going to be a rose-dipping night!”
I hung up the phone and threw my arms around Marianne; I couldn’t believe everything that had happened to her while planning all of this. The florist double-booked herself, the caterer had her down for the wrong day, and the D.J. we had prepaid apparently left for Europe and wasn’t returning any time soon. We had no bouquets, table pieces, food or music.
And we had five days to pull it all together.
“I’m going inside to talk to the florist. You sit out here and watch for any cops that might want to ticket you for sitting in a handicapped spot.”
“Just what I need: a fucking ticket!” Marianne wailed.
“I’ll be right back, sweetie.”
I went in and talked with the florist and told her exactly what was going on. I told her I’d pay for however many white roses she had, and would appreciate any calls to any local florists she knew of. The woman had two dozen she could offer me, and I swiped my card without hesitation before she started making phone calls. Another woman in the back placed a water tube on the bottom of each stem and wrapped them together in paper, then came to the register and started rattling off how to take care of them for the five days before the ceremony.
“Alright,” the shop owner began. “There’s a man up the road who has the other two dozen you need, but he’s swamped right now. If you give me the address they need to be at tonight, I can relay it to him and he can get them to you on his way home. Sound good?”
“Sounds great. Thank you so much!”
“Oh!” the florist yelled while I turned my back. “Rose-dipping is really hard, and it can damage the roses if you’re not careful or if you don’t use floral paints. Has the bride-to-be ever heard of rose dyeing?”
“Like…tie-dyeing?”
“Here.”
I watched her duck her head below the counter and rummage around for a pamphlet before she whipped back up and handed it to me. I took a look at the roses inside and they were absolutely beautiful: the white petals were pale pinks and vibrant blues; some were even red and orange. They weren’t quite like the dipped roses Marianne was going after, but they did match the fun spectacle that would be her rainbow wedding.
Marianne and her fiancé, Brad, suffered a major blow a couple of years ago: they got pregnant before they were engaged, and they were so ecstatic about starting a family that Brad proposed right then and there. Not with a ring, just a promise that they would grow a family and be there for each other, no matter what. She’d called me crying, not knowing what to do, and I told her to do the only thing I knew she should.
I told her to tell that man ‘yes’ and never look back.
But, four months later, they lost their growing little girl, and it put a lot of strain on their relationship.
Marianne pulled away and Brad tried desperately to cling to her. She flew to New York to stay with me for a while, and he followed, knocking at my door every day for weeks before he finally went back to their place. Over the time she stayed with me, I fielded Brad and his phone calls, and by the time I’d finally convinced her to go talk to a professional, Brad had packed up his things and took off. He left her a voice mail saying it was too painful to be in that little house without his girls, and I couldn’t blame him. It broke Marianne’s heart, and that’s when I knew it was over.
I mean, how does a couple come back from that?
But somehow, the two of them managed to reconcile. A few months after Marianne made her way home, Brad moved back in. Things were slowly getting back on track, but then, one day I got a phone call that stopped me in my tracks.
“I’m pregnant,” Marianne had breathed.
My heart stopped and I fell silent over the phone while she cried. My best friend from college who had just pieced her life back together after suffering a miscarriage was now pregnant again. She was panicking over the phone and rambling on about how she didn’t know if she could tell Brad; how maybe she should wait until after the four-month mark to see if this pregnancy seemed like a healthy one.
And again, I found her knocking at my apartment door, begging for my help.
But that time, I turned her away and told her to go home to the man who loved her. If she wanted to make it work, she had to be open and honest with him. She had to talk to him. She had to open herself up to the idea that he’d always be there before I would.
To make a long story short, 12 weeks ago, Marianne gave birth to their ‘rainbow baby’—a child that is born after a woman suffers a miscarriage—and to celebrate his life, they chose a rainbow-colored theme for their wedding.
As I stared at the pamphlet, the florist pulled me from my thoughts as she continued to explain, “With this method, dye is added to the water, which is then drawn up the rose stem, slowly dying the white petals any color. If you want a flower to have multiple colors, just gently split the stem with a knife and put each part of the stem in multiple glass vials of the dyed water.”
“Sounds easy enough,” I smiled.
“Then, you can keep them in water, give them these little packets of dissolvable food, and still have colorful flowers,” her assistant added.
“I’m going to call that guy down the street right now. Where will you need these delivered to?”
I stood there and mouthed the address to her while she was on the phone with him, and she scheduled the delivery before I left. Those two-dozen roses ran me almost $100, but it was worth it.
I’d do anything to make sure this wedding was a hit for Marianne.
I headed back out to the car, and I could tell Marianne had been crying profusely when I slid into the seat.
“Tell me what you think of this,” I said as I laid the pamphlet in her lap.
“You only have two-dozen, Marty,” she sniffed.
“The other two are being delivered to your house tonight. The girls are coming over and we’re doing this ourselves. Now, tell me what you think,” I said pointedly.
She looked at the pamphlet and at first, she crinkled her nose.
“These aren’t dipped.”
“Open the damn piece of paper, Mari!”’ I sighed.
She glared at me before she opened it in her lap, and I knew once she saw the multicolored roses, she’d be in love. She ran her fingers over the photo, and I finally saw the corners of her mouth begin to rise as she wiped a stray tear from her cheek.
“All we need to do is stop and get some food coloring,” I smiled.
“God, I love you,” she sniffled.
And that’s when I put my hand on her shoulder and gave it a comforting squeeze.
“We’re gonna pull this off. I promise.”
“Okay,” she sighed.
“But I need tomorrow night off,” I added.
“Why…?”
“Because Jax is taking me out to dinner,” I grinned.
“Oh…my…god! And exactly when were you going to tell me this?”
“After you were done blubbering over the flowers,” I laughed.
“Where is he taking you? What time? Is he picking you up—”
“Come on, let’s get going. I’m sure the rest of the girls will want to be filled in, and I’m only going to tell the story once.”
“Fine. But, I’m speeding.”
“Don’t you always?” I smirked.
And as she slammed her foot against the gas pedal, driving it to the floor, the honking horns that surrounded us answered my question.