Page 28 of When Javi Dumped Mari

Javi

Now

Apparently the man of honor has duties beyond trying to convince the bride to dump the groom. Who knew?

“Thanks for coming with me,” Mari says, linking her arm with mine as we enter Diamond House, the Highland Park event space that’s hosting the wedding we’re crashing today.

Okay, to be fair, Mari was told we could stop by, so we’re not exactly crashing anything, but it feels weird as hell to be rolling up to a stranger’s marriage celebration to help plan your own.

I pat Mari’s hand. “No need to thank me. Just want to be sure I’m doing my part.”

“You dressed up,” she says, eyeing my light gray suit. “I’d say you’re doing all right. And seriously, I know you’re going all in on the musical, so I’m grateful that you ditched your work for a little while.” She rests her head against my shoulder. “You’re the best.”

Would she still think so if she knew I spent the last few days scouring the internet for information about Alex that would make her call off the wedding? Hmm, I should probably keep that fact to myself. Especially since I didn’t find anything.

We walk through the brightly decorated lounge, a long, narrow room with four discrete conversation areas anchored by oversize sofas and plush armchairs.

There is no specific color scheme; color is the scheme.

A few people are chatting off to the side—one person’s taking a call—but the activity’s otherwise sparse in here.

The most arresting feature is the four-panel sliding glass door that leads to the courtyard, which is where the true festivities seem to be happening.

“So which one of you had the idea to hire a live portrait artist for the wedding?” I ask.

“Alex suggested it,” she says, running a hand over the back of a mint-green velvet couch as we pass it. “But he knows I’m a bit of a micromanager—”

“A bit?”

She jostles my shoulder with her own. “Watch it. As I was saying , since Alex knows I’m a micromanager and he knows Diamond House’s owner, he arranged for us to get a preview of what it would be like.

I’m not really worried about the portrait itself.

But I am curious to know how the artist interacts with the guests.

Whether having a person watching every detail changes the vibe.

I want our guests to enjoy themselves, so if it’s a mood killer, I’ll just tell Alex I’m not comfortable with the idea. He’ll understand.”

“And Alex is too busy to do this with you?”

“He had a conflict.” I remain quiet, so she adds, “Please don’t read anything else into it. We’re busy people.”

“Fine, fine,” I say. It isn’t fine, though.

We’re all busy—some of us more so than others—but being “busy people” sounds like a ready-made catchall Mari can pull off the shelf whenever she needs to account for her partner’s absence.

As if she’s expecting it’ll come in handy as an easy explanation that won’t cause people to think less of him.

“Still, I’m allowed to probe, remember?”

“I remember.”

“So, does he have a good excuse for not being here?”

“He does,” she says firmly.

“I won’t complain, then. Besides, his loss is my gain.”

She squeezes my arm. “Exactly.”

We walk outside to the courtyard, a large area that’s sealed off from rest of the world by enormous tree hedges that resemble the walls of a maze.

I look down at the patterned concrete floor—a seemingly never-ending spiral of black-and-white diamonds—and almost sway on my feet.

Wow, whoever designed this place was definitely trying to make a statement—or create a headache-inducing optical illusion.

I blink a few times and lift my face to the sun, enjoying the warmth on my face.

It’s a perfect L.A. day, and since I’ve pretty much been holed up in Jeremy’s condo, I haven’t experienced many of those firsthand.

I’m smiling as I study the guests, a diverse mix of people whose attire is as eclectic as the venue’s décor.

“Do you know anything about the couple getting married?” I ask.

“Alex said one of the guys is a studio set designer. I’m not sure what the other guy does.”

The crowd and the venue make sense to me now. A creative person would appreciate this setting; it celebrates color, honors nature, and features conversation-worthy elements at every turn.

“There’s Sienna, the artist,” Mari says, pointing to a young Asian woman standing at the far end of the courtyard, a thin paintbrush in her gloved hand.

She’s wearing brown ankle boots and a long black dress cinched at the waist by a wide brown leather belt.

Her canvas is propped on a wooden A-frame easel, and guests are peeking over her shoulder.

“I never would have guessed,” I joke.

Mari rolls her eyes and pulls me along as she makes her way over. We wait at the edge of the crowd and watch Sienna work. She’s friendly with everyone and comfortable speaking with both adults and the little kids bouncing on their toes to get a closer look.

I study the canvas, trying to imagine what the finished painting will look like. The celebrants, an interracial couple, are almost complete, the image of them dancing while their guests are gathered around them matching what’s actually happening in front of us.

Mari and I inch closer, waiting for the opportunity to introduce ourselves. When several kids lose interest and scamper away, we settle into the spot they abandoned.

Mari clears her throat. “Sienna, I’m Marisol Campos, we spoke last week about the possibility of you doing a live painting at my wedding in Sonoma.”

Sienna turns to Mari with a bright smile. “Yes, yes, hello, hello! So great to meet you.” She places the paintbrush in the drawer attached to the easel and stares up at me.

“Hi, I’m Javier.”

“Nice to meet you, Javier,” she says, using her ungloved hand to shake mine.

She picks up the paintbrush again and gazes out at the couple still dancing in the center of the courtyard. “They agreed to two dances so I can get this right. I’ll refine the rest in my studio. Happy to answer any questions you have.”

“I’m just so fascinated by this,” Mari says, her words rushing out as if they’re tripping on themselves. “But since you’re only capturing a moment, how do you ensure you have enough time to”—she gestures at the painting—“do what you do.”

Sienna crooks her finger and points to a spot in front of the easel.

There, a small digital camera sits on a tripod.

It’s so unobtrusive I didn’t notice it until now.

“This is my assistant, Mr. Nikon. What I’m doing here is for the atmosphere.

But if there are adjustments to be made, or heaven forbid, I make a mistake, the moment is stored in my camera and I can refer to it when I’m back in the studio. ”

“I see,” Mari says. “And I read on your website that the couple chooses the moment they want memorialized.”

“Yes,” Sienna confirms.

“But what about the guests?” Mari asks. “How do you incorporate them?”

“That’s your choice too,” Sienna says. “I can highlight specific guests and ignore everyone else, or I can paint everything as I see it. The pricing varies, obviously, but everything’s really dependent on your preferences.

I can be as inconspicuous or as present as you need me to be.

And I’m not easily distracted, so someone talking my ear off isn’t going to affect the finished product. ”

“What if the couple just wants a portrait of them?” I ask, curious about the process. “With no one else around, I mean. That’s the kind of special moment I can easily imagine putting up in my home.”

“Many of the couples I work with opt for a portrait of just themselves, so you and Marisol wouldn’t be doing anything out of the ordinary if you went that route.”

Mari straightens. “Oh, Javier isn’t my fiancé.”

Sienna’s gaze flickers between Mari’s face and our linked arms. After a moment of silence, Mari eases out of my hold. “My fiancé, Alex, couldn’t be here. Javier is my man of honor.”

“Oh, that’s so sweet!” Sienna gushes.

“How’d you even get into this?” Mari asks, plainly wanting to skip right over the awkwardness. “It’s so specialized. Wonderful but specialized. I didn’t even know there was such a thing as live wedding painting until Alex, my fiancé , mentioned it. Isn’t that interesting?”

Sienna’s eyes widen, and then she turns back to the canvas.

Yeah, not awkward at all, Mari.

Sienna studies the portrait, thinking for a few beats before responding. “Honestly, I’m an artist, but I’m also a romantic at heart. As cliché as this may sound, I love romance, weddings, expressions of love. Making a living capturing these magical moments is a privilege.”

A middle-aged woman (who’s practically breathing down my neck) takes a sip of wine and says, “It’s such a beautiful depiction of them. Reminds me that those two were meant to be.”

“Best friends turned lovers,” a younger woman beside her observes wistfully.

“A hard-fought happily-ever-after,” a third person agrees.

Sienna takes in a sharp breath and draws the paintbrush away from the canvas as if she’s been burned. For a long moment, she just stands there, her gaze clouding.

Mari frowns and reaches out to touch Sienna’s shoulder. “Sienna? Everything okay?”

In answer, Sienna throws her head back and wails.

“Oh my God, oh my God,” Mari chants. “What’s wrong? What can I do? Are you hurt?”

“Only my heart,” Sienna sobs. “I”—she sniffs—“ruined”—she whimpers—“everything. With David.”

The “with David” part comes out as a blubbery mess that makes Mari and me wince.

Mari throws an arm around Sienna and looks at me. I’m going to take her to the bathroom , she mouths.

Good idea , I mouth in return, my face tight as I absorb this baffling turn of events.