Before I Do
"She's the wedding planner his fiancée hired. Thick, organized, and impossible to ignore. When his bride-to-be keeps changing plans, he spends more time with the planner than the woman he's marrying."
Genevieve was supposed to plan my wedding.
She ended up destroying it.
I met her at the first consultation. My fiancée, Ashley, had insisted on the best—and Genevieve Laurent was the best wedding planner in the city.
She was maybe fifty-two. Silver hair in an elegant updo. A tailored dress that showed off every curve—and there were plenty. Wide hips, heavy breasts, an hourglass figure that made you forget she was old enough to be my mother.
"Mr. Harris," she said, shaking my hand. Her grip was firm. Her eyes missed nothing. "Tell me about your vision."
"Whatever Ashley wants," I said.
"And what do you want?"
I didn't have an answer. I'd never really asked myself.
Ashley changed her mind constantly.
Venue. Colors. Flowers. Every week, a new crisis. Every week, Genevieve handled it with grace.
"Your fiancée is... particular," she said at our fourth meeting. Ashley had sent me alone—too busy with work.
"She knows what she wants."
"Does she?" Genevieve's eyes held mine. "Because it seems to me she knows what she doesn't want. Which isn't the same thing."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean she's rejected twelve venues, fifteen floral arrangements, and eight caterers. She's planning a wedding for someone else. Someone she thinks she should be."
"That's not—"
"It is." She leaned forward. "I've been doing this for twenty-five years. I can tell when a bride wants to get married. And I can tell when she wants to be married. There's a difference."
I didn't respond. Because she was right.
I started looking forward to the meetings.
Ashley sent me alone more often—she was climbing the corporate ladder, didn't have time. So I sat in Genevieve's office and made decisions about napkin colors and table settings.
"You're not happy," Genevieve said one evening, late, after we'd finalized the seating chart.
"What makes you say that?"
"You never smile when you talk about her." She poured us both wine. "You smile when you talk about the wedding. The details. The planning. But when Ashley comes up..."
"We've been together five years."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I have."
She studied me. Then she stood and walked to where I sat. Close. Too close.
"Can I tell you something unprofessional?"
"Sure."
"In twenty-five years, I've seen hundreds of couples get married. Maybe a third of them were actually in love." She set down her glass. "The rest were going through the motions. Checking boxes. Building lives with the wrong people because they were afraid of being alone."
"And which am I?"
"I don't know." Her hand came to rest on my shoulder. "But I think you do."
I kissed her.
I don't know why. Loneliness. Desperation. The way she looked at me like I was worth something.
She kissed me back.
"This is a terrible idea," she breathed.
"I know."
"I'm planning your wedding."
"I know."
"If we do this—"
"I know." I pulled her onto my lap. "I don't care."
We fucked in her office.
Her dress pushed up around her waist. Her thick thighs straddling me. She was wet—soaked—and tight in a way that made me forget Ashley existed.
"Yes—" She rode me hard. "This is what's been missing—"
I grabbed her hips and thrust up into her. Her heavy breasts bounced. Her voice rose.
"Don't stop—don't you dare stop—"
I didn't.
She came screaming. I came inside her. We collapsed together in her desk chair.
"What now?" she asked.
"I don't know."
"You're getting married in six weeks."
"Am I?"
She looked at me. I looked at her.
We both knew the answer.
I called off the wedding.
Ashley was furious. Then relieved. Then furious again. In the end, she admitted what we'd both known—we were checking boxes. Building a life neither of us wanted.
Genevieve refunded the deposit. Professionally, ethically, like nothing had happened.
Three months later, I showed up at her office.
"I'm not planning a wedding," I said. "I'm asking for a date."
She smiled.
"It's about time."
We've been together two years now.
She doesn't plan weddings for me. Says it would be unethical.
But sometimes, late at night, she describes what ours would look like.
I listen.
I'm not afraid of the answer anymore.