What He's Been Missing

1

Scarlet Fever

#Epicfailure. Two hours before the conclusion of the first decade of the twenty-first century and I was holed up in my loft on the couch . . . again. This shit was getting really old. Three years in a row? And the fourth year back wasn’t exactly spent dancing until my feet hurt and popping a bottle of bubbly before belting out “Happy New Year” amidst a crowd of Atlanta’s swankiest cosmopolites—I’d met midnight on my knees in the second pew at Mount Moriah in Social Circle with Grammy Annie-Lou.

Looking at me now you’d think I was Grammy Annie-Lou. No party. No crystal flute filled to the lip with Krystal. No leprechaun-inspired, obnoxious, blinged-out top hat. Just poor little colored-girl me camped out on the living room couch watching Love & Basketball in my “sick and shut-in” lumberjack plaid nightgown, sipping pink Moscato and eating light-cheese flatbread pizza after taking my second dose of NyQuil.

So sad to say, I wasn’t even having cold or flu symptoms. It was just my sad-sister cocktail of over-the-counter drugs. See, I was self-medicating in hopes that I might be dead asleep by the time the ball dropped in Manhattan. I didn’t even want to know what it would feel like to see a new year, a new decade in the new century come to life as I was thirty-one and all alone in this wretched world. I know that might sound dramatic, but damn, something had to give.

Right then, right there on that couch, gorging on disgusting pizza and half high from a near-overdose of cold medication and sweet wine, I felt like I was having the worst New Year’s night ever. And not because I wasn’t out at some wack-ass, overpriced party with an undertalented DJ—I’m old enough to know that Prince’s “party like it’s 1999” is all an illusion once you’re right there in the overstuffed crowd with your feet hurting and some dude wearing eyeliner is feeling on your booty while whispering Prince lyrics in your ear. The sad feeling was because I didn’t have anyone who wanted to take me to some wack-ass, overpriced party with an undertalented DJ. No one. Not a soul with a deep voice, muscular arms, and me on his mind felt inclined to invite me out to toast the good life.

Those other years there’d been prospects at least: New Year’s Eve ’09 the toothless man at the gas station asked if I wanted to split a bottle of Mad Dog; New Year’s Eve ’08 Goldie, the gold-toothed man who delivered my pizza, asked in the most sincere voice possible if he could come upstairs to give me a “sweet-tish” (that’s how he’d pronounced “Swedish”) massage; New Year’s Eve ’07 my dead ex-boyfriend Jaheed (he’s not really dead; I just prefer to tell people that) stood me up when he, on an emotional whim, decided to go back to his ex-girlfriend and propose to her at midnight (they’ve since married and divorced). But this New Year’s Eve—2010—was going down in history as the year that not even a dentally challenged chap or cheating jerk could stand the idea of having me on his arm.

The most devastating dismal detail of this worst New Year’s night ever was that no one would’ve thought that was my reality. I’m Rachel Winslow. The owner, founder, CEO, and visionary behind Let’s Get Married, Atlanta’s most formidable, full-service luxury wedding firm. I link the likes of lovers from engagement to honeymoon, making the “most special day they only imagined in high school daydreams” come to life.

I started in the business when I was only six years old and planning the nuptials of Cabbage Patch Kids after school in the high grass in Grammy Annie-Lou’s backyard in Social Circle, Georgia. And moved on up to celebrities and Atlanta’s elite making romantic promises overlooking the world at the Sun Dial. Last year, a cover story on Let’s Get Married in the Atlanta Journal-Constitution said, “Winslow just has the touch of love” and noted that my client list is booked for three years (most of those people aren’t even engaged yet) and I’ve grossed $1.25 million since opening in 2008. But I don’t do what I do for money or cover-story features and accolades. I do it because I’m still that little girl who celebrated with the newlywed Cabbage Patch couple until my grandmother came out on the back porch—always in her stained peach apron with the ruffle on the bottom—and called me in for supper.

And I really, really believe in love. At first flirty smile—love. At first sexy scent—love. The first moment you see him and you just know from somewhere in your navel that you must have his babies—love. Defy your mama—love. Defy your daddy—love! And who gives a damn if neither one of them ever speaks to you again because “he” is in your life and nothing else really matters right now, does it?—love. Cherry on top—love. Hand-holding on the Ferris wheel—love. Staying in bed all day and you don’t even care that your underarms smell like onions and his breath smells like onions (because he’s been kissing your underarms)—love. Red roses and chocolates on February fourteen—love. Love Jones with Nia Long standing out in the rain crying just before Larenz Tate sweeps her up into his arms—love. Sappy

—love. Yes, clichéd—love. And we don’t care if it is clichéd because it’s our fairy tale and it can be whatever and however we want it—love. Just—love.

All my life I dreamed I could find it. That I could have it. Be the love story I created. Escape the old myth that professionals in the wedding business are meant to plan for—but not be in—love. But the more New Year’s nights I spent alone, the less I thought my dream was possible. And you know what they say: “Whoever you’re with at the stroke of midnight on New Year’s Eve is the person you’ll spend the next year with.” Apparently, 2011 wanted to see me solo. Because, just as I’d planned, by midnight I was passed out in my grammy getup. No new love in sight. Not even the gold-toothed pizza man had tried me that year. Hell, I might’ve let him upstairs.

Things weren’t any better New Year’s Day.

At 7:00 AM, my cell phone rang after my best friend sent a text saying I’d better pick up.

“This better be good, Ian.”

“You’re coming tonight, right?” He sounded like it was 7:00 PM and I had a clue what he was talking about. Actually, I did. While the NyQuil binge still had me a bit foggy, I knew exactly why he was calling. It was his girlfriend Scarlet’s twenty-fifth birthday. 1/1/11. How could I forget? Ian had gone on babbling about it every five minutes at each of our weekly Wednesday lunch dates through December.

“What the what?” I groaned loudly to exaggerate the ache of waking, as if I’d been out all night and came staggering in with my stilettos in hand just minutes before he’d texted me. “Coming where? Why?”

“Rachel!”

“It’s seven o’clock in the morn—”

“It’s not like you went anywhere last night—”

“For your information, I chose to have a quiet evening of reflection at home.” (Lie.)