Total pages in book: 118
Estimated words: 112961 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 565(@200wpm)___ 452(@250wpm)___ 377(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 112961 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 565(@200wpm)___ 452(@250wpm)___ 377(@300wpm)
She takes my elbow, guiding me forward. “Connor, this is my mother, Lánying Chen.” If I had to do the math, I’d guess she was somewhere in her early sixties, but her skin is luminous, with only faint lines around her eyes.
The shift in Fizzy is subtle but noticeable to someone who can barely take his eyes off her: with her parents she softens, becoming more daughter than center stage, more caretaker than party girl, reaching up to straighten the pendant of her mother’s necklace.
I expect a handshake, but am pulled in for a hug instead, and I carefully embrace her mother; she is smaller than her daughter. As I pull back to meet Mrs. Chen’s smiling eyes, I think of my mother back home, how she looked exhausted day and night, how an event like this would make her panicked and uncomfortable.
Beside Mrs. Chen stands her husband, Ming, a lanky man I met at Fizzy’s book signing, with a mischievous smile he passed down to at least one of his three children. “Here’s my new friend who’ll make my daughter a superstar!”
We shake hands in greeting as Fizzy leans in, mock offended. “Hello, Father, I’m already a superstar.”
“When do I get my red carpet date, then?”
The two of them continue on as Mrs. Chen wraps an elegant hand around my forearm. “I like your show,” she says. “You are very handsome on TV.”
“Thank you,” I say, grinning. “I’m surprised Fizzy lets you watch it.”
Thankfully, she laughs at this. “You see her clearly, and I appreciate that.”
I’m momentarily stilled by this. “I think most of the credit goes to your daughter. It’s rare to find someone so genuine and natural in front of a camera. I’m beginning to think there’s nothing she can’t do.”
“When she writes her real novel, you’ll make it into a movie, okay?”
Now I’m confused for a different reason. “Her—”
Fizzy waves this off, breaking in. “When he’s not finding my soulmate, he’s saving the Earth, Mom! No time for romance adaptations!”
A woman who looks like she’s probably the wedding coordinator catches Fizzy’s eyes and points to her watch.
“Looks like it’s time,” Fizzy tells me.
We make our way toward the unending rows of white chairs tied with red ribbons. When a strand of Fizzy’s hair blows across her forehead, I reach up and brush it away without thinking.
Our eyes meet and my heart sinks deeper into this warm, alluring place.
“What did your mum mean about writing a ‘real’ novel?”
She shrugs, turning to watch the guests move in large numbers now toward the seats. “She means a book with thoughtful suffering.”
“Sounds engrossing.”
“There are many people in the world who view romance as hobby writing,” she says, and turns her face back to me. There’s no tightness there, no hurt. “Pretty sure she thinks I’m still warming up to attempt my masterpiece.”
Now might be the time to admit that I was once one of those people, or quietly contemplate the connection we share between our respective careers versus what our parents think we should be doing. But my first thought flies out instead. “I think you are the masterpiece.”
She opens her mouth as if she’s got a smart comeback, but nothing happens. With a wry twist to her lips, she shakes her head at me. “You’re something else.”
“Something good, I hope.”
She points to the seats. “Groom’s side on the left. That’s where you’ll sit. Go make friends.”
“Got it.”
“I’ll see you after the ceremony.” She gathers her dress and turns to head back inside to meet the wedding party. “Miss me,” she calls over her shoulder.
I watch her walk away, quietly admitting, “I already do.”
thirty-three FIZZY
I have been to an inordinate number of weddings in my day. I have been maid of honor twice (Alice and Jess), a bridesmaid fourteen times, performed three weddings, and twice have done a reading during the ceremony (once was a passage from one of my books, and that was very weird). I’m sure a lot of people go to weddings and take note of what they like, what they would do differently. They think about the decor and the food and the number of guests. They lean in and whisper that they would never have put so-and-so and what’s-her-name at the same table. They maybe even get business cards from the various vendors.
Not me. It’s possible that the shine has been scrubbed off weddings in all my various experiences with them, but I think the wedding is the least romantic part of romance. Sure, there is splendor and catering and the opportunity to wear completely outlandish clothing. But there is also family politics and stress and the reality that many people spend the equivalent of a down payment on a house on a single day’s celebration. Love is not found in a four-foot-high floral centerpiece or a seven-tiered chocolate cake. Real romance is in the quieter details. Who proposes, and how. The way they look at each other across a room. The anticipation of what it means to be married, the nights spent side by side, shaping their forever. The first moment alone after the commitment is made. The day after, when they get to finally embark on the adventure. And, of course, all the banging.