“Ok, I think we need to regroup,” Flower says.
I stop posing and Peter saunters close to nibble my palm. And then the unimaginable happens, he pretty much tries to eat my fingers and when I free my hand, my engagement ring stays behind.
Peter swallows it.
“No,” I squeal. “My goat ate my ring.”
I can’t believe this is happening. Panic ensues for the next five minutes as Flower checks inside his mouth to no avail. I think it goes without saying we don’t stay for the remainder of the class, but before we leave, I’m assured by the owner of the goats that we just have to wait a few days before I can get my ring back. Yes, you guessed it. I have to wait for a goat to poop out my engagement ring. I hope this isn’t an omen as to how my marriage will go.
“Well, I think we can cross goat yoga off the list,” I say to Lola as we leave the studio.
With sympathetic blue eyes, Lola loosens the bun atop her head and blonde hair falls down in waves. “I’m sorry about your ring.”
“It‘ll be ok,” I assure her, and myself. “This too shall pass.” Quite literally. “I have to go and run some errands for Georgia’s wedding tomorrow. I’ll keep you posted about Peter.”
We say our goodbyes and before I pull away, my phone buzzes with a text from Mom.
“Marsha and your Aunt Carol are coming by for lunch tomorrow. Can you make it? They’d love to see your beautiful ring.”
“Sorry,” I type back, sparing her the details of my missing ring. “I have a dog wedding tomorrow.”
“Dog wedding? You’re not grooming any more at Dog Spaw?”
For the record, I’m not just a dog groomer. Poppi and I opened the spa, and it caters to dogs and their humans too.
“Weddings are a new addition,” I reply. And pretty genius, if I do say so myself. It made sense that I give all these dog lovers something no one else can—dog weddings. I already pamper them at my doggy spa, so why not go a step further? Sounds crazy, but there’s a demand. It might be a little out there, but who am I to judge? I just sat through goat yoga.
“Speaking of weddings. Marsha’s having roaming peacocks.” She sends a picture of an elegant peacock standing next to a white tent. “Should you check into swans? Maybe penguins?”
She sends a rapid succession of pictures to bolster her suggestion.
“No, Mom.”
The wedding is already mapped out in my head. Every girl has fantasized about their dream wedding since they were young, and I am no exception to this rule. I want it to be on the beach. (You can’t be from Florida and not want a beach wedding.) The turtle sanctuary near Jupiter Beach, to be exact. There’s a tunnel that leads from the parking lot to the sand, and yes, I want to walk out of the tunnel like a princess walking down the aisle.
I shake my head at her competitiveness and head to Dave’s Hardware to pick up the trellis for tomorrow’s wedding.
This thing has been a nightmare to acquire. Who knew a white rose wrapped piece of wood would be so hard to find?
Dave’s Hardware is nearly empty when I enter the store. While I wait for the salesman to retrieve the trellis from the back, I pull out my phone, checking my to-do list to make sure everything is settled for the event.
Flowers? Check.
Officiant? Check.
Chairs for the wedding? Double check.
Everything is completed. I’m a natural at this.
“Hey, Kinky,” an incoming text from Henry reads. I cringe a little. We’re going to have to discuss this nickname he’s been using for me. For some reason, I’m not feeling this play on my name. Now, I feel I’ll have to live up to it, when we finally have sex, and I’m so not kinky. “I was thinking…” he continues. “You know, Spring is my favorite season.” I actually didn’t know this. How can he not like Fall best? “Let’s do the wedding at the Carousel.”
I gasp. The Carousel is a swanky hotel and nowhere near the turtle sanctuary. “Hi,” I reply. “Well, that sounds lovely, but I was thinking about the beach.”
I add a smiley face to soften the blow.
My beach suggestion is swept away in a tsunami-like flood of reasons the Carousel is the best choice. Henry says he wants to get married soon, like April soon, and a beach wedding might just end in rain.
His logic doesn’t squash my disappointment.
He delivers the death blow. “Sand isn’t a pleasant tactile experience for me. I just can’t do the beach.”
Remember when I said I had my whole wedding planned out since I was a kid? Well, sometimes those ideas are childish fantasies. Sometimes, as an adult, you have to make compromises. And really, it’s no big deal if I don’t get what I spent my whole life dreaming about.
I guess.
No, it’s fine.
Since he’s picking the venue, Henry says he’ll leave it up to me to choose the colors. Anything I want. Except, blue. Or green. They remind him of the beach. The fantasy I envisioned of holding a bouquet of forget-me-nots withers and dies.
My trellis arrives, and I stuff my stress-inducing phone away. Even if I can’t have my dream wedding, I’ll make sure the bride I’m working for has hers this weekend. Georgia will have it all, and then some.
Getting the coveted trellis to my work van is no easy feat. The cashier gave me a trolley cart to transport this thing, but it does not want to go in a straight line. I’m veering, and this trellis is leaning, and I swear it’s about to fall right here in the parking lot.
“Keep it together,” I tell myself and the monstrosity about to topple over onto the pavement.
I try my hardest to stabilize it as I zig-zag my way across the parking lot, but in a dramatic move, it comes crashing down.
Before I can even try to think of a way to get the trellis onto the cart again, out of nowhere, a car backs into the trellis with a sickening crack.
This can’t be happening. But it is. My life has become a horror film starring a ring eating goat, beach fearing fiancé, and now this.
Red brake lights glow as I stare at the crushed roses beneath the sedan’s tires. A man steps from the car.
“Don’t you have a rearview?” I yell, as I rush to what’s left of the trellis, like one would to an accident victim. I almost want to cry as I crouch next to the heap of broken wood that definitely won’t be standing over a happy couple anytime soon.
“This is the day dreams die,” I murmur.
Mine.
Georgia’s.
Probably a million other people’s. Ok, maybe not that many.
“I’m sorry.” Emerald green eyes focus on me. They’re a stunning color. Henry would hate them, because they look like the ocean. “What exactly was it?”
“It was a masterpiece. Pure perfection and you slaughtered it.” I stand and take a good look at the murderer. And maybe I shouldn’t have. This man is gorgeous—lustrous dark hair that looks like it’s on the verge of a sexy rebellion and a masculine jaw that could’ve been sculpted by Michelangelo himself. He’s what Lola would call too hot for his own good. A highly inappropriate thought forms in my mind that if I’m going with an art theme, Henry would be a Dali, all lopsided features blending together on canvas. Minus greens and blues, of course.
Dark brows draw together and the stranger’s tall frame hunches over the trellis to pick up a random piece of wood. “Maybe we can fix it?”