the ceremony, right?” I bellowed.
“Yes.”
I jumped. His voice was much closer. “Are you in my bedroom?”
“Yes.”
The latch on my bathroom door was broken … a minor inconvenience, unless there was a man in one’s bedroom. All he’d need to see me buck naked would be a little breeze … Wait a sec. Ian. My bedroom. Of course, I hadn’t made my bed today, and about eight dresses, several bras and panties and … blerk! My Dr. Rey’s Shapewear, in plain sight. Shit! Shit on a shingle, shit on rye.
I slapped off the slower, toweled off and jumped into my robe. Scooped every makeup and hair care product I had into the bag, grabbed a few clean towels and opened the door. “Hi! Sorry, I’m just running a teensy bit late,” I said, throwing the towels over my unmentionables on the bed.
Ian was standing with his arms folded, staring at my Morelock chair. He turned to me with a look that would restore the polar ice caps. “Your two minutes were up eleven minutes ago,” he said.
“Ian, I’m just … I just have to throw these things into a bag—you know what? I’d be a lot faster if you weren’t here. So out! Out you go! You, too, Bowie. I’m going as fast as I can.”
Basically shoving Ian out the door, I once again closed it on his face.
“I’m leaving here in five minutes,” he said.
“Hush, you! I’m coming.”
Nineteen minutes later, I opened the door. He was still there, glaring.
“Thank you for waiting. But we have plenty of time, right? The wedding’s at five—”
“The ceremony starts at five, Callie. It will take us an hour and a half to get to the hotel, where we have to check in, get changed, then go to the church, which is another twenty minutes out of town.” He fixed me with a look that said very clearly I can kill you with my pinkie.
“Well, it takes that long if you drive,” I said. “Let me drive, and we’ll get there in plenty of time.”
“You’re not driving,” he said.
“Well, try not to stress,” I said, glancing at my watch. “We can still make it if we leave now. Don’t be so tense.”
“I wasn’t tense an hour ago,” he said through gritted teeth.
“Oh, wait, I forgot something,” I said, dashing back into my room. He may have growled, but I emerged seconds later with a CD. “I made us a playlist for the ride.”
“Get in the car before I strangle you,” he said.
“Is that a romantic thing to say to your date?” I asked, heading him down the stairs. “It really isn’t.”
“You’re not my date,” he said, completely serious.
“Bye, Noah! Thanks for ruining my day!” I called through the kitchen door.
“You’re welcome. Have fun,” he said.
Ten minutes later, Ian pulled onto the interstate.
“Sorry I was late, Ian,” I said contritely, since he hadn’t spoken since my house. He didn’t answer, so I took it upon myself to fiddle with the CD player. A disk slid out. “Mahler’s Symphony #1? My mother plays this at the funeral home. Yikes, it’s worse than I thought.”
His mouth didn’t even twitch.
“Ian, please don’t be mad at me,” I said. “I’m really sorry I lost track of time.”
“I’m not mad, Callie. I’m preoccupied.” He cut his eyes to me, then back to the road.
“Well, here’s what I picked out for our little ride. I mean how many times do you have to go to your ex’s wedding, right? So we have the classic ‘Love Stinks,’ of course. ‘Nothing Compares to You’ by that crazy Irish woman, ‘Love Lies Bleeding’ by Sir Elton … oh, here’s a personal favorite, ‘Shut Up’ by the Black-Eyed Peas—remind me to tell you about my hip-hop class for senior citizens. ‘Good Riddance’ by Green Day. I haven’t actually heard that one yet, but I liked the title.”
Bingo. Got him to smile. Not much of a smile, but a little one.
“Shall I put it in?” I asked, holding up the CD.
“Sure,” he said, flicking on his signal and changing lanes. I complied, and the rather elementary chords of the J. Geils Band filled the car.
“So tell me about the groom,” I said, settling back and looking at my driver. He looked nice in profile, I thought. Definitely a rugged face, not quite handsome … but awfully interesting. “Have you met him?”
Ian glanced at me for a long moment—longer than I was comfortable with, since he was driving—then looked back at the road. “There is no groom,” he said.
“What do you mean?” I asked. “I thought this was a wedding.”
“There is no groom.”
“But—”
Ian looked over again, his face grim.
I swallowed. “Oh. Oh, holy guacamole, Ian. Are you kidding me?”
“No groom.”
I fumbled in my purse for the wedding invitation he’d given me last week.
The pleasure of your company is warmly requested at the marriage ceremony of Laura Elizabeth Pembers & Devin Mullane Kilpatrick, Saturday, September, etc., etc.
“Devin’s a woman?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Oh, my God, Ian.”
“Yes.” He cut another glance my way.
For a second, I didn’t say a word. No wonder he looked clenched all the time! No wonder he had issues with women! No wonder he didn’t want a date! “So you never …”
“No.”
“And she didn’t …”
“No.”
“How did you …”
“I found them in bed together, Callie.”
“Oh, Ian.” I reached out and put my hand on his leg. He glanced down, then at me again, eyes icy. Right. I carefully removed my hand—apparently there was a “no touching” rule in effect. Couldn’t blame him. Crikey. Ian’s ex-wife was gay.
Holy. Crap.
There was an exit for a rest stop up ahead, and Ian pulled off the highway. He parked the car carefully between the lines, despite the fact that there was no one else around, shifted into Park,
