Planning for Keeps

The air in the Fairmont’s Gold Room was thick with the scent of a thousand white roses and the quiet hum of anticipation. Gilded Corinthian columns soared towards a ceiling dripping with crystal chandeliers, each one refracting the late afternoon light into a million tiny rainbows. It was a fantasy made real, a spectacle of romance engineered down to the last perfect petal, and Maya Chen was its architect.

Dressed in a severe black jumpsuit that marked her as staff, not a guest, she stood in the shadows at the back of the grand ballroom. A nearly invisible headset was tucked behind one ear, her connection to the small army—florists, caterers, musicians—who moved at her command. Her expression was one of serene control, the practiced calm of a general watching their battle plan unfold flawlessly.

She ran a final, critical eye over the scene. The string quartet was positioned at the perfect angle, their bows poised. The aisle, a pristine river of white silk, was immaculately clean. The bride, Tiffany, a tech heiress with eyes wider than her trust fund, stood beside her father, trembling with what Maya professionally labeled as ‘joyful nerves’ but privately diagnosed as ‘the dawning horror of a legally binding contract.’

Maya’s gaze shifted to the groom, Chad. He looked handsome, impeccably tailored, and as emotionally present as a marble statue. His smile was a bright, white slash in a tanned face, a smile he’d be using in boardrooms for the next forty years. Maya had seen that smile before. She’d once been engaged to a man with that exact smile. The thought was a small, sharp stone in her shoe, a discomfort she’d long since learned to ignore.

This was her domain: the grand illusion. She was San Francisco’s premier wedding planner because she understood that love, at least the kind her clients paid six figures for, was a performance. Her job was to build the most beautiful stage, write the most convincing script, and ensure the lighting was always flattering. She sold fairy tales to people who could afford them, and she was exceptionally good at it.

The officiant’s voice droned on, speaking of eternal devotion and soulmates. Maya had to suppress a cynical smile. She’d seen Tiffany’s pre-nup. It was thicker than the bible the officiant was holding.

“You may now kiss your bride.”

The kiss was chaste, brief, and perfectly angled for the photographer. The room erupted in applause. Maya tapped her earpiece, her voice a low, steady murmur. “Cue recessional. Champagne pass in sixty seconds. We are on schedule.”

As the happy couple floated back down the aisle, showered in white petals that her team would have exactly ten minutes to sweep up, Maya allowed herself a small, professional smile. Another flawless execution. Another five-star review all but guaranteed. She watched them disappear through the gilded doors, the picture of romantic bliss. The illusion was complete, and as always, the perfection of it all left a hollow ache in her chest, a quiet reminder of a fantasy she created for others but could no longer stomach for herself.

Just as the last guest cleared the ballroom, Maya’s earpiece crackled. “Maya, we have a code-ten on the head table floral.” It was Jean-Pierre, the catering captain, his voice tight with panic. A code-ten was their discreet term for a visual disaster.

Maya’s calm façade didn’t flicker. “On my way.” She moved through the service corridors with practiced speed, her mind cycling through contingencies. A spilled wine bottle? A collapsed vase? She pushed through the swinging doors to the floral staging area, bracing for the worst, and stopped dead.

The original centerpiece for the head table—a monstrosity of cascading phalaenopsis orchids that had cost more than Maya’s first car—lay in a heap of shattered glass and bruised petals on the floor. But that wasn’t what made her stop.

Standing at a spare worktable was Jamie. They were surrounded by loose stems, floral wire, and discarded greenery, their brow furrowed in concentration. Their sleeves were rolled up to the elbows, revealing strong forearms dusted with pollen, and a stray gardenia was tucked behind their ear, a stark white star against their dark hair. In their hands, a new arrangement was taking shape—a lush, asymmetrical masterpiece of roses, peonies, and eucalyptus salvaged from the less-critical cocktail arrangements. It was different from the original, but it was arguably more beautiful, more organic, more alive.

“The delivery runner tripped coming out of the service elevator,” Jamie said without looking up, their fingers working deftly to wire a rose into place. “The backup was the wrong color palette—peach instead of blush. So, I improvised.”

Maya walked closer, her heels clicking softly on the concrete floor. She watched Jamie’s hands, the way they moved with a gentle, confident precision she’d always admired. They weren’t just an assistant; they were a partner, the quiet, steady force that anticipated every crisis and solved it before she even had to ask. The panic that had briefly tightened her chest dissolved, replaced by a wave of profound relief and something else, a deep, swelling gratitude that was almost painful in its intensity.

“It’s perfect,” Maya breathed, her voice softer than she intended. The new centerpiece was stunning, a testament to Jamie’s quiet artistry.

Jamie finally looked up, a faint smudge of green on their cheek. Their eyes, a warm, deep brown, met hers, and for a second, the frantic energy of the wedding faded away. There was only the cool air of the staging room, the sweet, heavy scent of flowers, and the steady presence of the one person in the world she trusted completely.

“Just doing my job,” Jamie said, a small, tired smile playing on their lips.

Impulsively, Maya reached out and laid a hand on their arm. “No, this is… Jamie, you’re a lifesaver. Seriously. What would I possibly do without you?”

Under her palm, she felt the muscle in Jamie’s arm jump, a sudden, sharp tension. For a fleeting moment, their gaze intensified, a flicker of something deep and unreadable in their eyes before it was shuttered away. Jamie’s heart hammered against their ribs, the casual touch sending a jolt of pure, agonizing heat straight through them. Her thumb stroked their arm, a thoughtless gesture of affection that felt like a brand. They could smell her perfume, a subtle mix of sandalwood and citrus that was so uniquely Maya. They wanted to lean into that touch, to turn their hand and lace their fingers with hers, to close the scant inches between them. They wanted to tell her that the thought of her doing anything without them was a physical ache in their chest.

Instead, Jamie swallowed the lump in their throat and managed a light, easy tone. “You’d manage. You always do.”

Maya gave their arm a final, appreciative squeeze, entirely oblivious to the storm she had just unleashed inside them. “Not without you,” she said, her smile genuine and warm and utterly, devastatingly platonic. She then turned away, her focus already shifting back to the grander production. “Alright, let’s get this masterpiece to the head table. The guests will be entering in five.”

Later, with the reception in full swing, Maya and Jamie stood side-by-side in a shadowed alcove, partially hidden by a towering fern. The band was playing a surprisingly funky version of a top-forty love song, and the dance floor was a writhing mass of silk and sequins. From their vantage point, they had a clear view of the head table, where the bride and groom were engaged in a deeply unromantic argument, their smiles fixed and brittle for the benefit of their guests.

“Look at them,” Maya murmured, her voice laced with a familiar, weary cynicism. She took a sip of the flat club soda she’d been nursing for an hour. “She’s mad he spent ten minutes talking to his college roommate, and he’s mad that she’s mad. They’ve been married for three hours. I give it eighteen months, tops.”

Jamie watched Maya’s profile, the sharp line of her jaw, the way her dark eyes tracked the couple with an almost anthropological detachment. Every cynical word was a tiny paper cut on Jamie’s heart. They wanted to defend the idea of love, to say that it wasn't all a performance, that what they felt for Maya was the most real thing in their life. But they couldn't. It would break the unspoken rules of their friendship.

“They’re just drunk and overwhelmed,” Jamie offered, their voice carefully neutral. “It’s a stressful day.”

“It’s a fantasy,” Maya countered, turning to face them fully. The colored lights from the dance floor played across her face, making her expression hard to read. “We sell them a six-figure fantasy, Jamie. We convince them that if the flowers are right and the cake is perfect, their love will be, too. It’s a beautiful, expensive lie.” She gestured vaguely at the room. “They believe in soulmates and destiny. They have no idea that love is mostly about who’s willing to unclog the shower drain and not complain about it.”

Jamie’s breath caught. They had unclogged Maya’s shower drain last Tuesday when she’d called them in a panic about flooding her downstairs neighbor. They’d done it without a second thought, because it was Maya. Because they would have done anything for her. The memory, so mundane and domestic, felt intensely intimate now, a secret truth hidden beneath Maya’s sweeping generalizations.

“Maybe some of it’s real,” Jamie said quietly, the words feeling thin and foolish even as they left their lips.

Maya let out a short, humorless laugh. She leaned closer, her voice dropping so only they could hear it over a crescendo from the band. Her hair, smelling of sandalwood and something uniquely her, brushed against Jamie’s cheek. The contact was electric, a searing spark against their skin that made their whole body tense. “Oh, it’s real for now. The attraction is real. The excitement is real. But this… this ‘forever’ they’re all celebrating? It’s an illusion.” Her gaze was intense, a flicker of old, familiar pain in their depths. It was the wound Mark had left, the one she covered with layers of professional competence and sharp-edged wit.

Jamie’s own heart ached in response, a dull throb of empathy and helpless longing. They wanted to reach out, to smooth the worry from her brow, to cup her face in their hands and tell her she was wrong. They wanted to kiss the cynicism right off her lips, to prove with their own body that a love that lasts wasn’t an illusion. They wanted to confess that they would happily unclog her drain for the rest of their lives if it meant they got to wake up next to her.

Instead, they held her gaze, their own feelings a carefully guarded fortress. They let the moment stretch, thick with unspoken things, until Maya finally pulled back, breaking the spell. The loss of her proximity was a physical pang.

“God, I’m sick of watching other people pretend,” she sighed, running a hand through her sleek hair. “I need something authentic. Something with MSG and questionable food safety ratings.” She looked at Jamie, a hint of her real, unguarded self returning to her eyes. “Our place?”

A grateful smile broke across Jamie’s face, the first genuine one they’d allowed themselves all night. “Our place,” they confirmed, the words a balm on their frayed nerves. That simple phrase meant safety, quiet, and a return to their shared reality, far from the performative spectacle of the reception.

An hour later, they were tucked into the comfortable chaos of Maya’s office. The scent of kung pao chicken and greasy egg rolls mingled with the smell of paper and ink, a perfume far more comforting to Jamie than the cloying scent of a thousand roses. They sat on the worn Persian rug, their backs against the legs of Maya’s oversized mahogany desk, a battlefield of white takeout containers spread between them. Outside, the sounds of San Francisco—a distant siren, the rumble of a streetcar—were a muted soundtrack to their ritual.

Maya had kicked off her heels, and her stockinged feet were curled beneath her. She ate with a focused intensity, as if replenishing the energy she’d poured into the evening. “The Bradfords’ tasting is Tuesday,” she said, her mouth full of noodles. “Remind me to call the baker. I want to try the lavender-honey cake again. The sample they sent last week was too dry.”

“I already confirmed it,” Jamie said, pushing the container of beef and broccoli closer to her. “And I flagged the issue with the dryness. They promised a new batch.”

“See?” Maya pointed her chopsticks at them, a small, genuine smile gracing her lips. The sight made Jamie’s stomach do a slow, painful flip. “This is what I’m talking about. Real partnership. You knew what I needed before I did. It’s not about grand gestures and public declarations. It’s about someone knowing you need better cake.”

Jamie’s heart hammered against their ribs. I know you need more than that, they wanted to scream. I know you haven’t slept properly in a week. I know you skip lunch when you’re stressed. I know you hate the way your father still compares you to your brother, and I know the anniversary of your breakup with Mark is next month and you’re pretending it isn’t.

But they just offered a small shrug, their throat tight. “I just pay attention.”

“You do more than that,” Maya murmured, her gaze softening as she looked around the office, at the mood boards covered in fabric swatches and photos of smiling, anonymous couples. Her cynical armor seemed to melt away under the dim office lighting, leaving behind a raw weariness. “You hold it all together. You hold me together.” She rested her head back against the desk, closing her eyes. Her dark hair fanned out against the wood, and the pulse in her throat beat a steady, fragile rhythm.

The admission hung in the air between them, more intimate than any touch. Jamie’s breath hitched. This was it, the opening they always yearned for and always feared. The moment to ask, What about you, Maya? Who’s holding you? But they knew the question would send her retreating back behind her wall of professionalism. Her vulnerability was a fleeting, precious thing, and their role was to provide a safe harbor for it, not to question its arrival.

Instead, they reached over and gently took the half-empty container from her lap before it could tip over. Their fingers brushed against her silk dress, the contact brief but searing. Maya didn’t flinch, her eyes remaining closed.

“Get some rest, May,” Jamie said softly.

Her breathing was already deepening, her body finally succumbing to the exhaustion she fought so hard to conceal. Jamie watched her for a long moment, their chest aching with a love so immense it felt like it might crack their ribs open. This was their curse and their blessing: these stolen moments of quiet intimacy, where they were allowed to see the real Maya Chen, the one who was tired and vulnerable and so much more beautiful than the flawless illusion she presented to the world.

Quietly, Jamie stood and retrieved the pashmina Maya kept slung over the back of her client chair. They carefully draped it over her, tucking the soft fabric around her shoulders. Her head lolled to the side, a soft sigh escaping her lips. For a heartbeat, Jamie let their fingers linger on her shoulder, absorbing the warmth of her skin through the silk. It was a hopeless, tender gesture in the silent office, a silent vow to keep unclogging the drains and anticipating the needs, all for the slim, foolish hope that one day, she might finally see them.