I started to worry he was going to kiss me. Or not kiss me. Either way, I was in big trouble.
He looked down my body, along my fluffy bridesmaid gown, like he was formulating a plan to get it off of me.
Forget the wedding, I thought. Unzip me, bend me over, and make me call you weird names until the sun comes up.
He smiled, as if he was his vampire character, and could read my mind.
CHAPTER 2
The wedding was for my cousin Marita, age thirty-three, and her partner James, who was a whopping four days over twenty. Marita had met him at a bar, where he'd gained entry with fake ID, and they'd started dating casually, “just for fun.” Neither of them had expected marriage, until suddenly it was happening. Marita had a certain glow about her, if you know what I mean.
His family was ultra conservative, and he had seven brothers and sisters, all of them older than him, and none of them married. I knew Marita to be a sensible, wonderful woman, but by the looks on her fiance's parents' faces, she was the she-devil who was about to ruin their youngest son's life and future.
Marita was a Monroe, after all, and our family has a bit of a reputation in Beaverdale, but that’s a complicated story I’ll tell you more about later.
Marita and James wore tight smiles through the brief ceremony at the chapel, but relaxed afterward, in the receiving line. It's all done now, their faces said.
Relief.
There’s a dentist's office to one side of the bookstore, and I know post-root-canal magnitude of relief when I see it.
By contrast, I was nervous and jittery.
To my surprise, Dalton Deangelo sat patiently on his own, in the back row, through the whole ceremony. Nobody fainted, or even recognized him, I suppose because most people in attendance weren’t watchers of vampire soap operas.
Dalton and I had arrived on the late side, which would have been unforgivable if I'd had any actual duties as bridesmaid, but I was simply a spare who'd been added at the last minute to balance out an extra groomsman. I stood in my place, holding my flowers, and making everyone else including the bride look slimmer by comparison for the photos.
Because there'd been no time to introduce Dalton to my family, the awkwardness with my parents was a treat to still look forward to.
The summer weather was hot, and the little chapel grew muggy with all the people inside, so I found Dalton and ducked outside to the front steps as soon as we could.
“That was a beautiful ceremony,” Dalton said. “Everything happened so fast. I don't know if I've ever been to a real wedding before.”
“You only go to fake weddings?”
“Yes.”
I smacked my forehead. “Oh, for the show. That's right. There've been…” I counted in my head. “Four weddings.”
He looked at me as if seeing me without any clothes on.
For the record, I did not hate this feeling.
“You're a fan of the show,” he said.
“Don't let it go to your head, but yes, I have worshiped you for years.”
He raised his eyebrows, sexy like an immortal TV vampire.
I rubbed my bare arms as a gentle summer breeze puckered the follicles on my arms and reminded me I was but a mere mortal. “I said don't let it go to your head, mister. I can stop watching any time I want.”
“Our ratings say otherwise.” He got an I-ate-the-whole-thing grin.
Our conversation was interrupted by my family walking up.
“What ratings?” asked my father. He squinted to protect his pale blue eyes in the bright sun, his red hair curly and golden. Before we could answer, he was onto a new topic, saying, “What they ought to have on the ceiling in there is a chain of fans. You could set them up in tandem and create a stream of air.”
“You should tell them, Dad.”
He ducked his head back, forming double chins of I-don’t-think-so, as though the idea of telling someone something they ought to know, such as the optimal way to ventilate a building, was preposterous.
My mother, who’s the same shade of blond and the same shape of voluptuous as me, couldn’t take her eyes off my surprise date. She wore a blue dress that matched her eyes, tied with a red belt that matched her red shoes, her toes pointed demurely together as she gazed up at Dalton.
I introduced everyone, and it only took little Kyle all of thirty seconds to say something Kyle-like.
Kyle tilted his head up in that cute way only a seven-year-old can and said, “Are you Peepee's boyfriend?”
Dalton did a double-take. “Peepee? I don't know anyone by that name.”
“Kyle!” I admonished. “Don't call me that, you little turd monkey.”
“I'm a future old friend of Peepee’s,” Dalton said, shaking Kyle's hand.
“You're taller than my dad,” Kyle said. “Can I sit on your shoulders? I want to see everything.”
In response, Dalton knelt down like a trained circus horse and let Kyle climb on top his shoulders.
My mother caught my eye and loudly whispered, “He's so handsome, Peachy.” (Most people call me Peaches, but Mom calls me Peachy, or Petra if she’s annoyed.)
I glanced over at Dalton, running up and down the chapel steps with Kyle squealing on his shoulders.
“Is he?” I said, smirking. “I hadn't noticed, Mom. I'm not shallow like you, marrying Dad for his good looks.”
At this, my father beamed, and I felt a wave of gratitude for all my riches. My family is not perfect, and we have our fights and secrets, but most of us genuinely like each other, and that's just as important as love.
~
I kept expecting Dalton to disappear the way a too-good dream evaporates upon waking, but he instructed his driver take us over to the dance hall where the rest of the celebration was happening. I got out of the fancy car, which wasn’t quite as long as either of the two limousines in town people rent for special occasions, but it did have a glass separation between us and the driver.
I thought Dalton was stepping out to say goodbye, but he actually nodded toward the door, so we walked up together. Like he really was my date, and not the worst kind of Torture Bite.*
*When someone is eating a delicious dessert, they always try to make you take one bite, out of what? Cruelty? This is the worst of all nibbles, because if it’s good (and it’s always good) then you have to sit and suffer while they eat the rest. The taste is all up inside your mouth, tantalizing you with the torture of pleasure denied.
Dalton Deangelo holding me in his arms had been my tasty bite, and now I wanted more.
We walked into the dance hall and started mingling. He had his hands in the pockets of his gray slacks, and he looked as comfortable as any of the other men in attendance.