Red Light, Green Light
Chapter Ten: Roses, Blitzkrieg and Coffee
Taylor and Oliver were to marry in a ceremony that was simple, charming and elegant. The guest list stewed together a concoction of loved ones and friends who gathered in the same pews that all four Weston boys had endured many fitful Sunday mornings in, frowning in boredom at their prayer books and tugging at their ties. St. James was a pleasant little church in Highbury, New Jersey, and its fluttering sentimental value indulged Emma's imagination a little too much.
"Just think," she sighed in raptures, "your children will go to services here, the church Oliver grew up in, the church you got married in—"
"Honey, please," Taylor cautioned, fixing the white ruched train of her wedding gown. "We live in the city and we're both pretty apathetic. We're marrying in this church to please his parents. I'm talking waterworks, front pew."
Emma smile grew sour and she crossed her arms over her chest. "Cynic."
"Romantic," Taylor accused. "Damn, we should trade. It is my wedding day, after all." At Emma's sniffle, her best friend shoved her, "Jesus, pull yourself together. Think of your mascara."
"Sorry. You're right." The veil was lowered and a ribboned bouquet of pink and white roses was handed over. Emma rested her hands on the bride's shoulders and beamed at how heartbreakingly beautiful and grown-up her best friend looked. "Oh, Tay."
"No crying."
"No crying."
Taylor's smile was bright and confident. She sucked in a breath and let it out slowly. "Let's do this. Out you go."
Emma grinned at her, smoothed a lock of hair, positioned her own bouquet and stepped across the threshold and onto the aisle, where organ music and dozens of turned faces met her.
She saw Oliver first. No, actually, she saw Oliver's hair first. The shocking crest of red was hard to ignore, followed by his wider than wide smile. His two groomsmen were at his side, each with a tucked-in pink rose in a front jacket pocket. Taylor's other bridesmaid, Kat, was stepping gracefully by the altar, the shimmer of her baby blue dress catching the light.
Emma passed the blur of guests and somehow forgot to hunt for Heather, Jack and Nora; they were probably nestled someplace obscure, like to the right, way in the back. Wedding ceremonies weren't always guaranteed to be short.
She pushed the less-than-encouraging thought away and joined her fellow bridesmaid next to the altar. Just in time, too, as everybody suddenly rose and the organ burst into sweeping melody. And there was the gorgeous bride herself.
Who Emma had every intention of watching, of course.
Until she caught sight of Oliver's second groomsman and her mouth dropped open stupidly.
Damn.
This wasn't to say that Nate Weston (best man) didn't cut a nice tux, too. He did. But the man to his left was all strategically tousled dark blond hair and sharp angular cheekbones and deep brown eyes and when he smiled his gloriously dimpled smile, Emma's stomach lurched and twisted and lurched again.
Groomsman #2's eyes flickered to hers and the corners of his lips turned up in a friendly and unassuming hello. Emma gawked. And not discreetly.
And this was how Beautiful Dimpled Future Husband Boy made Emma Lee Woodhouse miss a good 2/3rds of the ceremony that had solidified Taylor Weston nee Lau's marital happiness. At the end, she wouldn't have been able to tell you anything about it. The priest could have tap danced in electric blue fishnets and Emma would have just stared longingly past him.
Nine rows back, her friends were skeptical.
"Emma's cruising a groomsman," snorted Nora, popping a skittle into her mouth. "And he is fine."
"Which one?" Jack leaned close.
"The one that looks like Brad Pitt, Jude Law and Johnny Depp's illegitimate threesome lovechild after a drunken hot steamy night in Vegas."
"Oh, okay." He tilted his head. "Day-umm."
"Right?" Nora sighed. "Hey. Want a skittle?"
"I actually just ate, but thanks."
Lucas Churchill.
Lucas Churchill was his name.
Lucas Churchill had to be hers.
Lucas Churchill officially had a stalker.
Emma set to work on the stats.
"Gay?"
"Nope."
"Single?"
"Yep."
"Hygenic?"
"Looks that way."
"Where's he from?"
"Los Angeles. UCLA."
"Relation to Oliver?"
"Godson. His mother was Oliver's best friend in high school."
"Aw."
"I know!"
"Thanks, Kat," Emma nudged her fellow bridesmaid. "Love ya, girl."
"Anytime, sweetie," Kat winked. She set her glass of Chardonnay down and met her boyfriend chatting with the band setting up on stage. Emma giggled when she saw that Nora Goddard had already gotten chummy with the bass player. She had a notorious thing for musicians. Jack had once joked that a man could be a keyboardist and she would still go for him. Which, of course, had launched an entire hour long discussion on the sex appeal of each band member.
"My, don't we look pretty."
Emma turned at the voice, and smiled widely at the groom. "Hey, Ollie," she kissed his cheek. "How does it feel to be a married man?"
"Pretty damn good!" Oliver laughed. "But I think I lost my wife."
"Touching up in the ladies' room. Bet you $10."
"I'll take your word for it."
"Oops, just kidding. There she is," pointed Emma.
Taylor wound her arms around her husband's waist from behind; Oliver grinned and twirled her back. Emma smiled. They were just so dang cute. And perfectly complimenting, too. Oliver and Taylor Weston were a beautifully opposite couple. They were perfection itself.
"I ditched my veil," said Taylor with a shrug. Dark bell curls had escaped from her braided bun, framing her face. "Is that bad?"
"Does that mean I can take off my bow tie?" Oliver's hands inched towards his collar.
"No! It completes your look."
"Oh."
"Maybe later," Taylor compromised with a quick kiss. Oliver was all melted butter again.
As Taylor Weston adjusted the neckline of her strapless ivory dress, the bridal party was summoned over in front of an array of gorgeous flowers teeming over the first table. The photographer unscrewed his lens, hunting for an alternate inside his camera bag. This gave the women a chance to smooth the skirts of their dresses; the men, to straighten skewed bow ties and wrinkled tuxedo jackets.
"The things I wear for you, man," complained Nathan Weston to his brother.
Oliver laughed, "Nothing compared to your 21st birthday party, Nate."
"Aw, don't bring that up. Luke's going to think I'm indecent."
"Sorry—my mind's already made up about you," apologized Lucas Churchill. He smiled a careless boyish smile and Emma stared again, four people down. Only this time, her gawking didn't pass unnoticed. Taylor arched a delicate eyebrow just as the photographer framed his shot and commanded, "Smile!"
Five snapshots later, the group disbanded. Emma picked up her clutch from the table behind her.
"Man, I still see stars."
She jumped up, cheeks flooding red. Beautiful Boy—Lucas Churchill—was smiling down at her. His grin momentarily wavered. "The flash," explained Lucas quickly. "I'm sorry. Maybe that was vague." He shifted his weight awkwardly, which Emma thought was adorable. "I'm Luke."
Yeah, you are.
"Hi, I'm Emma."
"Oh, right—Maid of Honor," Luke smiled warmly. "Is it as prestigious as it seems?"
"Little bit more, actually."
"Really?" he challenged, folding his arms. "Maybe we should get you a tiara or something."
"Maybe we should," agreed Emma.
He laughed and she smiled, genuinely thrilled. And a little bit worried. Emma could not remember ever liking a guy this much and this quickly. Just as she was sure that Luke was about to ask her for a first dance (a cover of Frank Sinatra's "Night and Day" had conveniently begun), her attention was suddenly diverted three tables down, where Heather Smith was standing rigidly.
In front of Heather stood Ethan Perry. Gone was his friendly smile in favor of a smug little smirk. He was introducing her to his date, a twiggy blonde who smiled less-than-sincerely. And Heather, poor Heather, looked as if she had just swallowed a handful of marbles. Her blue eyes were saucer wide and horrified.
"Oh no," Emma covered her mouth.
"Are you okay?" asked Luke with concern. His eyes followed hers. "Is that your friend?"
"Yeah. I'm gonna—sorry, but I have to—"
"It's no problem," Luke stepped aside.
She smiled apologetically and approached Ethan and Heather's secluded awkward party.
Ethan's grin, once charming, now seemed reptilian. "Oh look, it's Emma Woodhouse. Isn't this perfect?" he asked his date. "I can introduce you to everybody now. Emma, this is my girlfriend, Abigail Hawkins."
The twiggy blonde smiled. It looked a little more genuine this time. "It's so nice to meet you! Emma, isn't it?"
"It is. And likewise."
There was an uncomfortable, pillowy silence despite the music.
"Honey," Abigail's hand suddenly flitted gently to her date's elbow. Heather stared at it as if it were a viral pathogen. "You promised me a dance. I'm going to request a song." She turned to Emma with a tittering, melodious little laugh: "I can't dance to oldies."
Emma smiled back mirthlessly.
"Okay, babe. Let's go," said Ethan.
Abigail waved to Emma and turned towards the stage. She watched as they weaved through the dancing couples, Ethan's hand grazing his date's backside. Next to Emma, Heather had drawn in a big gulp of air.
"Girlfriend," she repeated shakily. "Girlfriend."
"Heather, sweetie, I swear. I didn't know he would even be here."
"He has a girlfriend," Heather cocked her head, shell-shocked. "A girlfriend who completely snubbed me, too. Oh my God. Is he—is he smirking at me?"
Emma glanced towards the dance floor, but Ethan Perry had lowered his eyes by then. Still, a ghost of a sneer was unmistakable. The only misconception was as to who it was directed at. It was most likely delivered for her sake, and not Heather's. Emma winced.
She had accidentally left out that part of her explanation to Heather a few days ago. "Ethan Perry is a creep who wanted me the whole time" was ditched for the now ironically half-truth that was "I misinterpreted Ethan Perry's intentions and I'm so sorry, sweetie, because apparently he's interested in somebody else."
Abigail Hawkins.
"She's pretty," simpered Heather.
"Not really," admitted Emma. "You're pretty."
Heather paid no mind to her recently curled hair or gorgeously fitted navy dress. Her mood had sunken into her shoes.
And her date was nowhere to be found. Jack, apparently, had continuously ducked out of the reception to answer calls from his brother; Jonathan was a horrible driver and needed constant directions on the car ride back to Washington DC from New York City. Emma cursed his willingness to be so helpful all the time—Jack was needed here, now.
Her male tolerance was running dangerously low.
"You know," Emma said, "I hate guys. I really do. All of them. Even the nice ones. Because you think they're reliable, right? But they're not. They're just not."
Heather was now staring over her friend's shoulder. "Uh, Emma—"
"It's like, why do I even bother?" continued Emma, fitfully brushing back her red bangs. "Cute ones are probably assholes too. I should be a lesbian. Let's be lesbians."
"Emma."
"What?"
"Turn around."
She spun around on her heels and came face-to-face with Luke Churchill, who blinked and smiled at her. "Hi again."
"Oh." Her face grew hot. "Hi."
Luke cleared his throat. "Don't want to interrupt."
"Oh, no, don't worry about it." Emma swallowed a lump of embarrassment.
"I just came over here to ask if you wanted to dance."
"Sure. Yeah. Yes. I'd love to." Emma fidgeted. She introduced Luke and Heather to each other. Then she followed Luke out to the middle of the dance floor, being careful not to step on the blue train of her dress. Luke smiled patiently, "That's a pretty color on you."
"Thanks. Taylor's too generous. She didn't make her bridesmaids wear pink."
Luke seemed puzzled. "You don't like pink?"
"No, I do. But redheads look godawful in pink."
"I'm sure you'd pull it off," he complimented.
"Nope—Ariel the Little Mermaid couldn't do it and neither can I."
Luke Churchill laughed. They danced a comfortable distance apart, and Emma reminded herself not to be creepy and stare at him. Or worse, smell him. Damn, you smell good. Instead, she focused on the lilting Cole Porter song and looked out past Luke's shoulder. Heather was sulking at Table #5, eyes glued to Ethan and Abigail. Jack suddenly crouched down beside her.
Emma watched Jack lean close and murmur some joke in Heather's ear. She cracked up for what must have been the first time all evening. Jack grinned and led her away from the table. He shimmied and moonwalked to make Heather giggle again. The brunette snorted and muffled her laughter with one hand slapped over the other. Emma found herself grinning. This was why she needed Jack to remedy the situation.
"You're giggling," observed Lucas.
Emma smiled demurely. "Sorry."
"Don't be—it's cute."
She blushed, and then kicked herself.
Emma Woodhouse, what is wrong with you? I have lost all respect for you in light of your giggling girlish ways.
Surprisingly, Emma's internal voice sounded a lot like Jack.
5AM. Bette's Diner. Daybreak dotting the skyline.
Four friends crowded around a corner table over bagels, coffee and (at the very least) concentrated OJ.
Taylor Weston's once beautiful hair was ruined now in absolute disarray. Her eyeliner was only slightly smudged, and she hugged a fleece hoodie around the embroidered white bodice of her wedding dress. Oliver Weston's red head was nestled into her shoulder, and she rubbed wide comforting circles on his back. "Wake up," she hummed.
"You leave for your honeymoon tonight," Jack acknowledged. He sat, awake and wired, in the booth. The tuxedo jacket and tie had been long scrapped. A loose white dress shirt, sleeves hiked, and disheveled dark hair was all the fancy Jack Knightley could muster at so early an hour. He took a quick gulp of his coffee. "No, seriously. How wild is that? You guys are going to Italy."
Oliver's head peeped up. "It's pretty wild. I'll appreciate it more when I'm actually awake."
Taylor grinned, "We partied hard at our wedding, hon. Up top."
The newlyweds high-fived.
"I love you so much," Oliver sighed wistfully.
Emma giggled. She happened to be drinking OJ at the same time, and it bubbled and frothed out of her straw and gushed over the rim of the glass. Jack sneered. "Gross."
"Shuddup." Emma had also surrendered to a state of undress. Her auburn hair fell like a curtain over one shoulder, a flash of light shimmery blue peeking out from under her gray zip-up. Remarkably though, her mascara had lasted both the ceremony and reception. At this revelation, she began giggling. Again.
"What's with you, Chuckles?"
"Everything is funnier at five in the morning," explained Taylor.
"That's true."
"Hey," Emma piped up. Jack's green eyes darted up skeptically across the table. "Thanks for the save with Heather. She needed rescuing after the Ethan snub. And you really helped her enjoy herself. Which is important. It's important, you know?"
"How much did she drink?" Jack murmured to Taylor.
"Enough," laughed the bride.
"No, really," Emma touched his arm briefly, "it was a non-shitty thing to do, Jack. It was a good thing to do. You were like a knight. A shiny one. Knight. Knightley. Ahaha."
"Oh, Jesus."
Oliver chuckled, drumming his knuckles on the tabletop. "You might have to take her home, Jack."
Jack rubbed the stubble on his chin. "Cool."
"You have to endure an entire cab ride with her," Taylor warned, sympathetic.
"I met a beautiful boy today," Emma sung obliviously, fingers wiggling in the air. "Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful!"
"That's nice, honey."
"Luke Churchill and I are getting married. He asked me for my number."
"Yeah, I saw you two dancing," said Oliver. "You're a pretty damn attractive couple, I have to say. I don't know why I didn't introduce you earlier."
Emma let out a delighted squeak that morphed into a squeal. Jack and Taylor both winced; it was synchronized.
"We're going to have super attractive babies," she declared.
Jack set down his styrofoam cup and laughed, "Super magnetic babies?"
"No. Like, Brangelina babies. Shiloh Jolie-Pitt babies."
"Ah."
"Ah."
Jack shrugged on his jacket. "I'mma take her home now."
"Godspeed, Jacko."