I vowed right then to stop comparing myself to my sisters or anyone else. Listen to what Skylar is saying. Happiness is about family and friends and being grateful for what you have, which is a hell of a lot.
“We raise our glasses to all of you for being here tonight, and to love for bringing us together. Cheers!” she cried happily.
Suddenly I remembered my glass was empty, and my shoulders slumped in disappointment. Then I figured I’d raise it anyway, and to my surprise, when I went to grab it, I discovered someone had filled it when I wasn’t looking.
That seemed like a good sign.
I actually smiled as I lifted it up. “To love!”
Maybe there was hope for me after all.
By nine the following night, my positive attitude was somewhat diminished. All the rude questions and comments I hadn’t heard at the rehearsal dinner had clearly been saved up for the main event.
No boyfriend yet? Maybe you’re being too picky.
Last Nixon sister standing, huh?
Hard to believe you’re still single, Jillian. You’re so pretty! (Then they’d study me carefully, like they were trying to figure out what the problem was, since it couldn’t be my face. If I were a car, they’d have asked me to pop the hood so they could take a look.)
One well-meaning great-aunt even dragged me over to meet someone who was seated at a nearby table. The fact that he was gay and even had a male date seemed lost on her, and she kept insisting we dance. The poor guy took me out on the floor just to shut her up, and we swayed awkwardly to “Ain’t That a Kick in the Head” while my sisters howled with laughter at the head table.
After that, I decided to hide out near the bar and get tipsy.
I was creeping behind a row of topiary trees with my third—or maybe my fifth—glass of champagne when my mother’s oldest friend, Irene Mahoney, spotted me. Irene meant well, but she was the kind of woman who always managed to compliment and insult me in one breath.
“Jillian! Are you hiding?” She stuck her hands on her ample hips.
“No, Aunt Irene. Just taking a break.” Lifting my glass, I downed the rest of my champagne and immediately wanted more. Why were champagne flutes so small? Would it be wrong to ask for a bigger glass? Or maybe the whole bottle?
“Well, you should be dancing! You look so pretty in that dress, and you’re never going to meet anyone if you don’t put yourself out there. You know what they say, always a bridesmaid…” Her voice trailed off as she pointed one pudgy finger at me.
I squeezed the stem of my glass so hard I thought it might snap, but I managed a smile. “I’m not much of a dancer.”
“How’s the new job going? Your mother said you’re loving it.”
I nodded enthusiastically. “I am.”
“Are the hours any less grueling? Do you have any time to yourself?”
“They’re a little better, not much. But I love getting to know the families. Last week I—”
“What about your own family? Don’t you want one?”
I bristled. “Sure. Eventually.”
“Well, you’re never going to meet anyone hiding over here with that frown on your face, silly girl.”
Actually, I wasn’t frowning until you came over here.
“You need to stand where you can be seen. Smile. Look more approachable,” she admonished, patting my arm. “Let me find you a partner.”
“No, really. I don’t want to dance right now.”
“Well, you’re much too lovely to be standing over here so single—I mean, so alone. You’re at that age where you have to be proactive about these things, Jillian. You have to let men see what a prize you are or risk being sad and lonely forever.” She grabbed my arm and began to drag me toward the tent.
“Please. I’m not a prize, Aunt Irene. And I’m not sad, either.”
“Of course you are! Every woman wants a man in her life.”
Digging my heels in, I wrenched my arm away. “Actually, what this woman wants is another drink. Excuse me.” I spun away from her and slammed immediately into a big, solid wall. Wait, no—it wasn’t a wall. Walls don’t have strong hands that reach out to steady you, huge dark eyes full of concern, and a thick, brown beard you’re pretty sure would feel like velvet against your cheek. And your thighs.
They don’t know your name, either.
“Jillian?”
For a second, I couldn’t place him. Then my jaw dropped. Oh my God. “Levi?”
“You two know each other?” Irene, still right behind me, sounded pleased.
“Uh…yeah.” Levi and I looked at each other, half stunned, half embarrassed. He took his hands from my upper arms, and I immediately felt unbalanced.
“We’ve, um…” Our eyes locked, exchanging a silent word. Fucked.
“Met.” Levi finished my sentence, his lips tipping up.
I smiled too. What we’d done was have fumbling, frantic sex in a dorm utility closet the way only two desperately hormonal (and drunk) college students can do. To this day, every time I think about that encounter, I go a little weak in the knees.
Was it horrible that I didn’t know his last name?
“Isn’t this wonderful?” Irene looked back and forth between Levi and me, smiling approvingly. “And just look how nice and tall he is, Jillian. My word, he must be over six feet. You should ask her to dance,” she ordered him.
Levi’s eyes widened in alarm, and I smiled at him reassuringly. “Don’t worry about it. I’m not much of a dancer.” But Irene was right about one thing—he was nice and tall. He had a few solid inches on me, and at five foot eight plus my four-inch heels, that was pretty impressive. He wore a black suit with a white dress shirt, and the knot in his tie was loose and a little haphazard, as if he’d been in a rush to get dressed. His dark hair was parted on the side, longer on top and neatly combed back. Something stirred inside me—something I hadn’t felt in a long time.