Page 17 of Diamonds Are a Girl’s Best Friend (Catching Feelings #1)

CHAPTER TEN

KAYLA

T he town council meets tomorrow to decide my fate.

Unfortunately for them, I’m getting married tonight. And they aren’t invited.

I’m standing inside a white canvas tent just past the third base line, tucked beside the old chain-link fence.

From here, my dad and I will walk across the infield, right to the mound.

A makeshift aisle, traced in chalk dust and flower petals, leads the way.

It’s a beautiful night—mild and peaceful, and even the humidity has decided to cut me a break, although the citronella candles all over the outfield are fighting a losing battle against the bugs.

“You look beautiful,” Mom says in her pale lavender sheath and matching wrap. She puts her hands on my arms and angles me toward the full-length mirror leaning against the tent pole. We borrowed it from Tripp and Jane’s guest bedroom.

I haven’t spent time admiring myself in a mirror for years. I get ready every day, but I’m quick and efficient. I put on my makeup, and then I go.

But I give myself a pass today. I take a moment to look over my appearance, and I’m struck by the woman staring back.

I’m wearing a soft ivory gown with a sweetheart neckline, fitted through the bodice and layered with sheer tulle that brushes the tops of my feet when I walk.

I found it off the rack at Neiman’s in Lenox four days ago.

It’s a far cry from the custom-made Oscar de la Renta gown I was supposed to wear in another life, but Scottie stood outside the dressing room and, when she saw me, fanned herself with a pair of Spanx.

“Girl, if you don’t buy this dress, you’re making a huge mistake. You’re going to drop Sean to his knees.”

I laughed—and bought it.

The tailor took my measurements and got to work immediately. The dress was shipped express and arrived this morning.

It wasn’t until I put it on a half hour ago that I noticed the hem; Scottie had the tailor add a personal touch: a subtle line of baseball stitching, embroidered in soft thread like a quiet inside joke that makes me love her all the more.

My auburn hair is twisted up in a messy knot, a few tendrils trailing around my neck, and a scattering of pearl pins catching the light like fireflies.

My bone-colored heels are four inches high. And I know this sounds crazy, because I’m an Amazon in the things, but I like the way they lengthen me.

Besides, Sean has inches on me still.

“You look happy,” Mom says, a bit too quietly.

I smile, although I’m not sure that’s how I’d put it. But I am sure of one thing: I feel like myself. Maybe more than I have in a long time. “Are you okay with this, Mom?” I ask, although I should probably ask myself that question.

Mom’s lips pull to the side. Her dirty blonde hair has been pinned up, but small wisps have fallen forward, and I love the effect on her. “I don’t know. You seem more content than I’ve seen you in years, and that makes me happy. I just wish I knew Sean better.”

“You’re going to love him,” I say confidently, even though my chest tightens with a flicker of guilt and something that feels dangerously close to grief.

If she and my family love him, what happens in a year when I have residency and we go our separate ways?

We’ll still be friends, of course, because I already know Sean is the kind of guy I’ll want to have in my life long after this.

Will my family love him too much? Will they still want him to come to family reunions, even when we’ve both moved on?

Will he become their Meryl? Someone they can’t let go of? Someone they’ll never forgive me for giving up?

“What do you love about him?” Mom asks.

My heart gives a lopsided thud.

I could list a hundred things that make him good on paper. That part’s easy. But I don’t know how to explain the way my whole body unclenches when he’s in the room.

“He’s a great listener. Like, Dad-level listening. He works as hard as anyone I’ve ever known. He’s committed to other people. He was drafted into the NHL when he was 21, but he turned it down after his dad was paralyzed in a car accident so he could look after him.”

Mom’s eyes widen. “Oh, I love him already.”

I smile, my chest warmer. “He was my first friend in this town before I even knew I needed one.” I look at myself, at how tall I’m standing next to her.

My mom is five-nine, but our height is our only resemblance, at least physically.

My youngest brother and I were both adopted at birth, yet I’ve known I belonged with my parents for as long as I can remember.

I’ve been searching my whole life for another person who could make me feel like that.

I don’t know everything about Sean, though we’ve gotten to know each other a lot better in the last week of wedding prep. But I know he never makes me feel like I need to be anything other than who I am.

“I don’t have to shrink with him, Mom. I never question if I made too many jokes or if I tried too hard or if I’m too much or not enough. I’m … comfortable. All the time.”

“That is so much.” Her eyes well as she squeezes my upper arms. “Is it enough?”

“It’s enough for me to want to do something crazy for the first time in my life,” I say, swallowing back guilt. I don’t know why I can’t level with my family about what’s really going on, but I can’t. I won’t .

I don’t want to.

I’ll unpack that later.

“I’m so happy to hear that.” She turns me around and her crystal blue eyes peer into mine. “Sweetheart, if anything changes, I want to be the first to know. If you’re blissfully happy, I want to be the first to know. If marriage is harder than you expected, I?—”

“Will be the first to know,” I tell her. My stomach twists. “Mom, I know you have questions, but don’t worry: I’m done hiding my darkest emotions from you.”

The conviction in my voice surprises me, as does the sincerity.

There are things I’m not telling her—I’m entering into a marriage of convenience, for heaven’s sake—but I hid too much from my family when I was growing up, tried to cover what was going on with me, and it could have ended very badly.

As it was, having a family who loved me saved me before I was ever in real danger.

The part of me that still craves control—that old whisper of “do it perfectly or not at all. Look perfect. Be perfect”—tries to claw its way back in sometimes. But I know better now. I’m learning to stop at “good enough,” to find satisfaction in efforts over perfection. Balance over burnout.

I’m not perfect at it, but, then, that’s quite literally the goal.

And maybe that’s part of what makes Sean so refreshing.

“I care about Sean; he cares about me. It’s … nice to be happy with someone without feeling like I’m constantly competing for a prize I don’t even want.”

Mom pulls me into a hug, and at that same moment, Scottie comes in with a nod. An acoustic trio starts playing “Can’t Help Falling in Love,” a song that always tugs on my heartstrings. It was my grandparents’ song.

Sean couldn’t believe it when I told him a few nights ago that I wanted to walk down the aisle to Elvis.

“I expected a string quartet flown in from Vienna playing the Wedding March,” he teased.

“I happen to love acoustic guitars,” I said. “And Elvis.”

“You get hotter every second I’m around you,” he said.

And he said it like he meant it.

Scottie gets my attention. “Batter up.”

My mom and I leave the tent, and I take my place just behind Scottie and Jane. The aisle runs across the infield, marked by chalk and scattered petals, the stands dotted with our teams, my friends from Sugar Maple, and Sean’s closest friends (he has a lot more than I do).

I didn’t bother inviting any of my old friends. Although I had a moment’s hesitation when I realized I couldn’t invite Meryl and her kids. That Louisa wouldn’t be my flower girl, when she already has the dress.

Even if this is fake, it still feels momentous, and having a big day without my best friend?—

It hurts.

That’s neither here nor there. It’s done. A breakup is never easy.

We considered inviting the town, but in the end, I didn’t want to be that performative.

And even though I should be ashamed to admit this, I can’t wait to see the look on people’s faces when they learn that the rumors are true: the golden boy married the outcast.

Pettiness, thy name is Kayla.

My brothers are in matching cream shirts and suspenders, lined up as my bro-maids.

Wes looks like he might cry. Hunter looks like he might tackle Sean for fun.

Only Gray is smiling. Gray—born Logan Grayson Carville to two older brothers who refused to use his first name because it was the name of the villain in an animated series about talking wolf cubs—never stood a chance.

My brothers …

I wonder how they’d feel if they knew the truth.

What is the truth? You’re not being coerced or forced. You’re entering a contractual relationship. A business arrangement. You’re allowed to sign contracts.

So convincing, Kayla .

Dad appears at my side, solid and sturdy, wearing that look of faith in me that always makes me want to deserve it. I slip my arm through his, not sure if I’m feeling guilty or butterflies.

After all, it’s my wedding day.

“My girl,” he says, kissing my cheek. “I’m so relieved you’re not marrying Aldridge I forgot to ask how you’re doing.”

“Don’t you mean you forgot to ask if I know what I’m doing?”

“No one knows what they’re doing when they get married.”

I chuckle, but as we walk slowly across the grass, I can’t stop feeling like I’m Daddy’s Little Girl.

“Am I crazy for marrying a guy I’ve known for such a short time?”

“Your Grandpa Tag proposed to your grandma on their second date.” He grins. “Of course you’re crazy. You’re a Carville.”

I laugh and lean my head on his shoulder for just a moment.

We walk slowly across the grass. I keep my eyes forward until I find Sean, standing at the mound, his dark vest crisp against the fading sunset.