Forget Me Not by Julie Soto
23
Ama
OCTOBER
The week of a wedding is usually huge, but this is gigantic. I feel like David battling Goliath at times as I fend off one attack after another. Between Hazel’s agent updating her list the week before and the ballet studio remodel finishing, I’m up to my ears. I’m basically paying Mar to live at Weatherstone so she can be the point of contact on minor details the workers need. She appreciates the distraction nowadays after breaking up with Michael. It was her decision, but she’s still really upset about it. Thankfully, I have plenty of practice being supportive in these types of situations.
The good and the bad of this week is that Elliot is at the site for a couple of hours every day, so with Mar there to coordinate, I don’t get to or have to see him. While the reception hall is built, I’m with Jackie and Hazel doing last-minute work and final approvals. If this were a normal wedding, things would be going swimmingly, but I had to add a construction project to it.
I don’t even bother Elliot for final looks and approvals. I run it by Jackie, but we both agree: he is to be trusted. He can’t install the dance floor until Wednesday for fear of the flowers wilting by Saturday, but he’s there with the crew every day, monitoring the other installations and double-checking all the measurements. Mar reports back that he’s been getting along with the workers, observing and discussing changes. His architecture license ends up being a godsend.
When the inspector comes on Thursday afternoon to review our new floor built around the dance floor, Elliot is there to answer all of his questions. That’s the only time I see him that week. I can hardly take the time to appreciate it because the inspector is trying to find anything he can to shut us down, but I’m ready for him. I’ve got all my permits, my numbers, and my approvals. I’ve done nothing else for a month but live and breathe Jackie and Hazel’s wedding.
I got through my September weddings—including one that got cold feet at the half-hour mark—and am both dreading and dreaming of the small break I’ll have after next week. In the past six weeks, I’ve had eight or nine couples calling and emailing me about interviews, all people who’ve heard about the show filming or who follow Hazel and are so excited for the wedding. I’ve had to postpone every meeting until next week. I hope I live to see it.
Yesterday, I sent Jackie and Hazel to be pampered—waxing at Dirty Bird and mani-pedis at Nature Love, my favorites. Today, they had the brunch at Jackie’s parents’ house. Elliot basically dropped off the flowers with a grunt, mumbled that Ben would be back to break down, and left. I wished I could have gone with him. After, I’m a bit pressed for time to get the rehearsal dinner set up before we head to the Rose Garden for rehearsal.
We arrive at the Firehouse at noon, which is the earliest they’d allow us in, and sweep in like a tornado. I wanted Mar with me for an extra set of hands, but there are final touches being done at the ballet studio, so she’s still stuck over there. I give Jake an extra seventy-five bucks to come unload cars with me.
The Firehouse staff, bless them, hasn’t prepared for us at all. So I’m dragging the tables into place, getting plenty of help from the busboys because I’m in tight jeans and heels. Behind an armful of napkins that need to be steamed, Jake mumbles, “The florist and the film crew are here.”
I grab the top half of napkins, revealing his face. “Enunciate, Jake. You’re an actor.”
“Oh, sorry. The florist—”
“No, I heard you. Check with George to see if you can switch to help bring in flowers, and then lead the film crew in the right direction.”
“Who’s George?” he asks.
“He’s the rentals guy. Big, ginger hair.”
He scampers off like a rabbit, and I start dragging chairs over. I have a box of name cards and macarons for each place setting, but I need the plates set up first. While I’m talking to the head of the kitchen staff, two gigantic vases march swiftly past me in a pair of strong arms. Jake follows them with a sheepish shrug and says, “He wouldn’t let me help.”
I’m too distracted by the absolute majesty of the queen protea arrangements in Elliot’s grasp. He places them gently into their spots—the two corners of our section of the restaurant. When he turns to head back to the parking lot, he pushes his hair out of his face with one hand, and I see the dark circles and bloodshot eyes.
It knocks me back for a moment. Because I know that means he hasn’t been sleeping. Which means I definitely gave him too much.
“Ama, did you hear me?”
I spin and find Bea in front of me. “Sorry, no! God, those flowers are beautiful, aren’t they?”
“It’s great,” she agrees with a grin. “I’m just going to have the crew get some B-roll of the place being set up. I was thinking a time-lapse thing? Set up one camera in the corner in a wide shot and just record tape for the next six hours. And then, as the table is set, I was thinking we could do a final interview with you, since I know you won’t be available tomorrow.”
“Sure, of course. Thank you for that.” I clear my throat and lean into her. “And uh, the kid over there? That’s my stepbrother, Jake. He’s an actor. If you happen to find a use for him in the B-roll, I’d really appreciate as much screen time as he can get.”
Bea winks. “Noted.”
Jake is relegated to straightening the table settings as Elliot and his cousin Ben bring in the centerpieces. He’s still making trips to and from when Bea sits me at the table next to the model place setting I’ve done up for Jake to go through and copy.
Once the camera and sound guys are situated, Bea says, “I know we did an intro already, but let’s do another. The lighting and setting here are a lot better than before. So give us your name and info, how long you’ve been doing this, and so on.”
Cameras roll, and I push my hair over my ear.
“My name is Ama Torres, and I’m Hazel and Jackie’s wedding planner. I’ve been in the wedding industry for over eight years, and this is my fourth year running my own business as a wedding planner.”
“Good,” Bea encourages. “And what drew you to weddings?”
“I’ve always been in love with weddings,” I say. “As far back as I can remember.”
Elliot passes behind the camera again, and I try to keep my attention on Bea and the bright lights.
“Is there a specific wedding you remember growing up? Were you the flower girl for an aunt or anything personal?”
“My mother’s weddings.” I remember to rephrase for the interview and say, “I specifically remember falling in love with weddings during my mother’s.”
Bea says, “Is that how Jake came to be your stepbrother?”
I see Jake pirouette to face us at his name.
“No, that was a more recent relationship.” I should probably walk this back, but the light on the camera is distracting, as are Elliot’s footsteps as he stomps around the table. “My mother has been married several times, so I’ve gotten to experience a lot of weddings growing up.”
I can see Bea tilt her head, and I’ve come to realize that it’s not a good thing—for me.
“How many times has your mother been married?”
I hear Jake snort before he says, “A lot.”
All of our heads snap to him, and he looks shocked at himself. “Sorry,” he tries, “I—”
“Go pack up my car, Jake,” I say icily.
He gapes at me before recovering and dashing out the door in shame.
But Bea’s eyes are still on me. “How many times?”
“She’s um … My mother has been married sixteen times.” I laugh, like I always do when I say it. “You could say she loves weddings as much as me!”
“So, that’s why you became a wedding planner?”
“Yes, you could say that.” My smile feels waxy and fake. Bea gestures for me to rephrase. “I guess that’s why I became a wedding planner.”
Bea’s eyes almost look wolf-like, yellow between the forest trees, prowling. I can feel myself start to sweat.
“How was that for you? Growing up like that? Do you think it’s had any effect on your personal life?”
My mouth opens. My throat squeaks. I smile widely, and my eyes spring with nervous tears.
“Are you actually going to use any of this?” a gruff voice snaps from somewhere beyond the light of the camera. “Isn’t your show a half hour?”
My eyes focus, and Elliot is standing behind Bea with his arms crossed.
“Er, yes,” Bea recovers. “But the Hazel Renee wedding will be a two-parter. I think it’s great exposure for Ama to get as much airtime as possible. Let the viewers get to know her—”
“Great. Ask about her favorite color. Her ridiculous Gatorade preferences. Ask her about donuts!” His voice rises. “Don’t dig into her personal life. Are you serious?”
I feel like I can’t breathe.
“No one’s going to come to Sacramento and hire her because her mother’s been divorced fifteen, sixteen times. They’re going to hire her because of this,” he says, pointing at the table setting and the centerpieces. “They’re going to want her because of tomorrow, so why don’t you save your film for the things that actually matter.”
Finally the camera guy points the camera away and the light is off me.
When I clear my eyes, Elliot is stomping away, off to get his next few vases.
“Excuse me. I need a moment.” I jump to my feet and run the opposite direction, toward the small hallway that leads to the restaurant offices. Bea calls out an apology, but I’m not listening. I’m taking gulping breaths, pressing my knuckles into my eyes to push back the tears.
I don’t even know what’s making me cry harder—the embarrassment about my mother or Elliot being the one to stop it. I lean against a wall, curling over with my hands on my knees, trying to breathe.
He had no reason to step in. Elliot, the person who has experienced this firsthand. He knows exactly what kind of effect it had on my personal life. He didn’t have to do that at all.
I don’t know how long I stay in the hallway. I know that when I cry, I swell up like a pufferfish, Hazel Renee makeup or not. What I really need is ice on my eyes and lips before I can show my face to the world again, but since that’s not happening, I just take time.
There’s a window at the end of the hall, and I go to open it for some fresh air. I pull my hand back when I see one of the cameramen—the one who was filming my interview—smoking by a car, and Elliot standing by him.
I hide against the wall, peeking out to watch. The cameraman looks around, as if not to be caught, and then presses a button on his equipment. A memory card pops out, and he extends it to Elliot like he’s making a drug deal. Elliot puts it in his pocket and moves to his truck, grabbing the final vases to bring upstairs.