Page 1 of The Wedding Favor

ONE

“My father always told me that most things could be forgiven with a smile.

So, I learned to smile early and often.”

—excerpt from the unpublished memoir,

Darling, I Must Say by Gloria Hayes

Hiding in a supply closet, clutching an economy-sized jar of pickles to my chest, was not how I’d envisioned spending my twenty-third birthday. But here we were.

“Iris, where are you?” my sister, Mae, asked loudly from the hallway.

“Be quiet,” I whispered. To the pickles.

There have been moments in my life when I’ve felt a sense of pride in my accomplishments. Holding two part-time jobs while going to school full time. I did that. Graduating from college with honors? Absolutely.

Hiding in a supply closet at my own birthday party? No, this was not a proud moment. Worse, it was the supply closet at the Sit-n-Eat Café. I’d never even opened this door… and I worked here. This inconspicuous space was situated between the two restrooms down the same hallway that ended in a back exit. That’s where I’d been headed.

The exit. Freedom.

“Iris Sampson, where are you?” I held my breath as my sister yelled, impatience laced in her voice.

“Go away,” I whispered. Again, to the pickles.

I wasn’t even sure how the pickles had ended up in my arms, but we were in this together now. Like soldiers on a battlefield, linked for life. This little supply closet, too. It had now become a character in the trau-medy of my birthday.

I hated parties. I hated my birthday. Combine the two? This was like my version of Hell. And it was all Mae’s idea. The whole town of Two Harts seemed to be crowded in the diner. I despised crowds. Even crowds of people I knew. Especially crowds of people I knew. But I’d chatted with a few, had a cup of punch, and eyed the birthday cake longingly.

Then he walked in—Aidan Bustos, ex-boyfriend, current friend (or something), and possibly the love of my life. On his arm, his fiancée, Missy, a woman who had the personality of a Hallmark card. Sickly sweet and, for the most part, insincere. I was pretty sure she hated my guts.

My panic had been real. I needed prep time before I saw Aidan. I had to look my best but also look like I wasn’t trying to look my best. That effort would require several hours of thought and preparation. And that was just my outfit and hair. I won’t even get into the mental gymnastics I’d need to perform to get in the right headspace.

Why were they there? This dumb birthday party Mae had organized for me, that’s why. Because nothing that happened in Two Harts stayed in Two Harts. Aidan’s aunt, who lived in town, had told Aidan all about the party. And Aidan had driven the three hours from Austin to surprise me.

That would have been great. Amazing, even. Except that he’d brought Missy with him. Okay, so I didn’t like Missy either. There the two of them were, holding hands and staring at each other with hearts in their eyes. The best-case scenario, he wouldn’t see me through the crowd.

But, like most things in my life, things didn’t go my way. Aidan had rushed over and wrapped his arms around me in a hug. One that was a little too intimate and lasted a little too long for someone who was just my friend. I didn’t stop it. I tucked my head into his neck and breathed him in. My whole body melted, because a hug from Aidan felt safe and comfortable like an old sweater.

Now, from the hallway, Mae spoke again in a sugary-sweet voice. “We’re about to cut the cake. It’s your favorite. Chocolate buttercream frosting with strawberry filling.”

I bit back a groan. My chocolate-loving sweet tooth begged me to open the door and reveal my hiding spot.

“Fight the urge,” I whispered. No amount of cake was worth going back out there.

“Fine,” Mae snapped. “Have it your way. All I wanted to do was celebrate your birthday…” Her voice trailed off and I imagined her stomping off.

I held my breath a few beats before feeling confident she wasn’t returning and groped for the light switch. A dim fluorescent light flickered on and revealed a tiny space crammed with cleaning supplies that looked older than me, a sad, droopy mop propped against one of three floor-to-ceiling shelves stuffed full of economy-sized jars of peanut butter, cans of beans, enormous bags of ketchup, industrial-sized containers of mayonnaise, and boxes of sugar packets.

Hanging haphazardly on the wall to the left of the door was a calendar from 1983. It was for a meat suppler, and they had really leaned into the whole “hot chicks can sell anything” marketing technique based on the scantily clad woman posing with a side of beef.

“Classy,” I muttered.

Not a peep from the pickles. I set the jar down gently on the floor, feeling a little sentimental. Those pickles were part of my story now. Maybe I’d take them home with me.

A stepladder was propped against the wall. I brushed off the cobwebs and unfolded it, biting back a screech when a spider popped out and scurried away. I wedged myself onto the top step—definitely not made with curves in mind. Resting my elbows on my knees, I pulled out my phone and indulged in one of my biggest, and most shameful, hobbies—torturing myself with photos of things I shouldn’t be looking at.

The first showed Aidan and Missy posing in a field of bluebonnets, the sun at just the right angle so that a ring of light surrounded Missy’s blonde hair. Like a halo. I hated this photo. So, of course, I’d saved it on my phone to gaze upon when my confused feelings for Aidan reared their ugly head. Which was pretty much daily.