You May Kiss the Bridesmaid

by Camilla Isley

  Out of the corner of my eye, I notice my mom shutting her mouth and swallowing whatever comment she was about to make. Hopefully taking the hint we all have to do our best to keep this dinner civil for Winter’s sake.

  I can’t completely blame Mom for her attitude. In public, she’s defended me like a lioness, telling everyone who cared to listen they had no business sticking their nose into my private life and that they were in no position to judge. She even fought with her best friend, Lana’s mom, over The Mistake. But behind closed doors, it has been a very different tune since the magazine interview Johnathan the Bastard was paid to give was published.

  My ex isn’t famous, but Lana was already dating Christian at the time, and the paparazzi were out to get any specks of dirt they could on her past. Johnathan was more than happy to oblige them. In the interview, he called our affair a mistake—hence how I named it from that moment on. He made me sound like a devil’s temptress. But worst of all, he depicted Lana like a heartless gold digger who wouldn’t forgive him now that she had a famous boyfriend. John spread all that suffering for a ten-thousand-dollar payday. As eye-openers go, mine was pretty devastating. I’d ruined my life, I’d hurt the kindest person in the world, and for what? For someone who cared more about getting a check than he did about me.

  Since then, I’ve lost count of the times my mom has asked me, “Why?” or said, “Please, darling, help me understand.”

  As if it was that easy. I still can’t process the particular brand of insanity that made me do the unspeakable. And I know Mom means well, but I’d rather not be reminded of The Mistake at every single family gathering for the next twenty years.

  At least for tonight, my prayers get answered and, past the initial glitch, we manage to carry on polite conversation for the entire meal and to steer clear of incendiary topics.

  When everyone is done with the desserts, I search my bag for my phone, find it, and fire a quick text to Lana.

  Hey, you in your room? Can I stop by?

  “Who are you texting?” Mom asks.

  I lift my eyes from the screen, wanting to say, “None of your business.” But as per my new This Is Winter’s Week, Let’s Not Ruin It policy, I go with, “Lana. I’m checking if she has everything sorted for tomorrow, or if she needs help with any last-minute details.”

  “Oh, what are you girls doing?”

  I smile a little viciously, staring at the groom. “It’s top-secret, I can’t divulge that information.”

  Logan groans. “If it involves male nudity, I prefer not to know.”

  My grin widens. “Sorry, pal, but the day is going to be filled with studs.”

  The professor shakes his head. “Now I really don’t want to know.”

  I don’t tell him the studs are actual horses, and that we’ve planned to spend most of the day at a riding ground.

  My sister narrows her eyes at me. “I told you I didn’t want a stripper.”

  “Hey, don’t look at me,” I snap. “I wasn’t in charge of the event, the maid of honor was.”

  Okay, that came out snarkier than I intended, bringing to the surface more touchy-feely emotions than I cared to reveal.

  “Summer,” Winter says, “I didn’t pick Lana as a punishment for what happened.”

  I shrug. “Whatever.”

  Now that the topic is out there, I can no longer pretend it didn’t sting that my sister didn’t ask me to be her maid of honor.

  My phone pings with Lana’s answer.

  Sure, come up whenever you want

  I flip the screen toward the table. “Speaking of the devil,” I say, getting up. “I’d better go before it gets too late.” I nod at my parents. “Thank you for dinner.” And then I wave at my sister. “See you tomorrow.”

  I don’t wait for anyone’s reply and practically flee the restaurant. I know I’m acting like an ass, but sometimes I really can’t help being petty and petulant. In the months since The Mistake, I’ve felt like the universe is out to get me, so I always make sure I get it first.

  When I knock on Lana’s door ten minutes later, my mood hasn’t improved.

  “Hey.” She opens the door with her usual warm smile, takes me in once, then does a double-take.

  Wow, do I look this horrible?

  But she surprises me, saying, “You look great.”

  “Really?” I enter her room, and she shuts the door behind me. “Because I feel awful.”

  “Why? What happened?”

  “I semi-argued with my mom at dinner about you-know-what.” I plonk on a chair. “And then I got mad at my sister for picking you as maid of honor over me.”

  Lana sits on the bed opposite me. “Summer, you do know why she picked me, right?”

  “Because I’m the undesirable twin number one?”

  “No, because being maid of honor means you have to deal with a lot of the guests to organize stuff, and she didn’t want you to be uncomfortable with… certain people?”

  I hide my face in my hands. “Oh my gosh, I’m a total idiot. And I…” I stare up at my best friend, who I love to bits and don’t deserve, and I can’t help being overwhelmed once again by the enormity of what I did to her. Crap, I’m crying now. Ugly crying. A chest-shaking sobs and wailing fest.

  Lana’s eyes go wide. “Hey, what’s up?” She gets up from the bed and crouches next to my chair.

  “I’m sorry,” I sob. “For everything I did to you. I’m so, so sorry. And I know nothing I’ll ever do or say will make it right, but… I’m…”

  “Sorry?” Lana offers with half a smile.

  I nod. And I’m not sure who makes the first move, but suddenly we’re standing and hugging while Lana pats my back, murmuring, “It’s okay, everything is going to be okay.”

  I lean into her soothing touch for a while until I’m ready to let go. “You shouldn’t be consoling me. Also, you’re going to be a great mom one day.”

  Lana laughs it off, before asking, “Is that why you wanted to come over?”

  “No.” I blow my nose in a tissue. “I wanted to ask if we’re all set for tomorrow, or if you needed help with any last-minute organizing?”

  “No thanks. I had a lot of help from Tucker; we’re good to go. That guy should plan weddings for a living, no matter how much he says he hates it. He’s a natural.”

  “Okay.” I dry my eyes on the back of my hands. “I’d better go apologize to my sister before she goes to sleep.”

  I pull Lana into another meaning-charged hug, whispering, “Thank you.”

  We say good night, and I wander back down to the first floor, ready for one more atoning pilgrimage.

  I knock on my sister’s door. When there’s no answer after about a minute, I knock again harder, calling, “Winter? Are you in there?”

  I hear rustling on the other side. A piece of furniture gets knocked over. A giggle. More shuffling. More giggles.

  Winter opens the door wearing a white robe and looking positively flushed.

  “Hi,” she says, all pink cheeks and sparkly eyes. “What’s up?”

  “Hey, I’m sorry for snapping at you at dinner.”

  “Oh, that, phhf.” She throws her hands down, palm to the ground, in a never mind gesture. “Don’t worry.”

  “But after Thailand, we agreed we’d never go to bed angry, so—” A door slams shut at the other end of the hall, distracting me. It’s kind of awkward to have this conversation standing outside her room. “Hey, do you mind if I come in for a second?”

  Winter stares at the floor. “Mmm, actually, this is not a good time.”

  When our eyes meet again, the penny drops, as does my jaw. “Oh my gosh, were you having sex?”

  “No,” she says, by which she means not yet. “Listen, we’re good,” she continues. “I’m sure Lana explained why I picked her to be the maid of honor, and it has nothing to do with me still being mad at you.”

  “Yeah, sorry it took her spelling it out f
or me to understand.”

  “Not at all. Are we cool?”

  I nod.

  “Great, good night.”

  In a blur, she pulls me into a hug, lets go, and, just as quickly, pushes me out of the way and shuts the door in my face.

  Okay, then, the please-get-lost-and-let-me-have-sex-with-my-fiancé message is loud and clear.

  I make a quick stop in my room to brush my teeth, take off my makeup, and change into comfy clothes, and, finally, I’m ready to go to Archie’s. I swear I’ve visited all the hotel’s floors tonight. Winter and Logan’s guests must occupy at least a third of the resort; it would’ve seemed logical to assign us an entire floor, but, no, we’re scattered all over the place. Which, as annoying as it can be, does at least afford me some privacy.

  By the time I knock on Archie’s door, it’s already late and I’m suppressing a yawn.

  Archie answers the door, as impossibly attractive as ever: bearded, bare-chested, and ripped.

  “Hi.” I quickly scoot into the room before anyone sees me.

  “Hey, how was dinner?”

  I sag on the bed like a dead weight. “Barely tolerable. I snapped at both my mom and my sister. Gosh, I wish Winter would get married tomorrow so I could go home and not see anybody for a month.”

  Archie sits next to me, a cocky eyebrow raised. “Should my pride be hurt?”

  I smile up at him. “No, you’re the only de-stressing factor in all this.”

  “Come here.”

  He pulls me between his legs, my back resting against his chest, and begins to massage my shoulders.

  I moan. “Mmm, so you’re not good only for foot rubs.”

  “I’m good for a lot of things,” he whispers in my ear. “Why did you fight with your mom and sister?”

  “What do you think? The same old story.”

  I start to tell him what happened and… next thing I know, I’m blinking awake and awash in sunlight.

  Did I fall asleep on him? I must have. Archie’s hands on my back were so relaxing, so soothing.

  Now, in the cold light of day, we’ve switched positions and are spooning. I remove his arm from around my waist and push up on an elbow, careful not to wake him.

  I study his face. He looks serene, and, honestly, more beautiful than any man has a right to be. To have cheekbones like that, and with no contouring, it’s not fair. And his best feature, those piercing blue eyes, are not even on display yet.

  My heart beats to a weird thump, thump, thump frenzied tempo inside my chest. Somehow, sleeping together without sleeping together feels more intimate and dangerous than just having sex. What am I doing here? It hasn’t been two days, and I’m already sort of relying on this man to be my rock. The person I confide in before going to sleep. A lumberjack in flannel armor who shields me from the ex-friends I’m afraid will hurt me. The man who gives me feet and back rubs when I’m stressed. But he’s also the one who has told me in no uncertain terms that he’s not interested in being anyone’s rock, at least not in the long run.

  The thought sends me into a slight panic. And when I panic, I run. Careful not to disturb him, I slip out of bed. But to sneak out of the room and let him wake up alone seems too much of a dick move. Instead, I move into the kitchenette and make a pot of coffee. I try to be as quiet as I can so that when I fill two paper cups and place one on the nightstand on Archie’s side, he’s still sleeping like a baby. I’ve no idea how he likes his coffee. Black? With milk? Full of sugar? The other day at breakfast, he was drinking a cappuccino, so maybe not black. I add a creamer pod and two bags of sugar next to the cup.

  As a final touch, I find a notebook and a pen and scribble a simple message:

  See you at yoga, x

  Once I’m back in my room, I call his. A coward’s wakeup call, but necessary since I don’t want Archie’s coffee to go cold, or for him to sleep in and miss yoga. We’re not going to see much of each other today. Which, in theory, is a good thing. No matter how much I’m dreading it, it’s time I faced the world on my own two feet. But I still want to wish him good morning, in person. And yoga class is the perfect setting. With people around, we won’t be able to discuss why we spent the night just cuddling, or why I fled the room this morning.

  I let the line connect for three rings and hang up. That ought to do it.

  Ten

  Archie

  Stop. Make it stop.

  A shrill noise is drilling a hole into my sleeping skull. I turn my face to the right, following the source of the earsplitting sound, and blink awake. My eyes focus on the now-silent room phone accusingly. Was it ringing or did I dream it?

  It must’ve been ringing. Why else would I be awake? And why do I feel cold? I swear I spent the night wrapped in warmth and softness.

  Next to the phone, I notice a paper coffee cup that I’m sure wasn’t there last night. Underneath it, a note.

  I touch my hand to the paper cup, still warm, and turn my head to the other side of the bed, empty. I read the note:

  See you at yoga, x

  Ah.

  What should I make of this? I wonder what made Summer freak out and leave before I woke up. But I also smile to myself that she’s too nice to just sneak out, and made me coffee first.

  Women.

  The man who understands them is a lucky bastard, if the dude exists.

  Conscious I’m not him and probably never will be, I shrug and sit up in bed, leaning against the headboard while sipping the coffee.

  Mmm. Not too bad considering it came from a hotel kitchenette. Still, I grab the creamer Summer also left on my nightstand, and mix it in. I close the plastic lid and take another sip; much better. Again, I smile to myself that she went to the trouble of leaving me the creamer and sugar. I still would’ve preferred a bonjour kiss, but as morning after cop-outs go, this isn’t half bad.

  Coffee over, I take a quick shower and change into yoga clothes, arriving at the class just as it is about to start.

  Summer turns and spots me walking from the hotel to the outdoor cabana, her facial expression quickly switching from worried, to relieved, to a warm smile.

  And I’m struck a little dumb in my tracks.

  That is a smile that could launch a thousand ships, you know, if we were living in ancient Greece or something. A smile that could light up a whole town, and it’s just for me.

  I stumble and almost fall face-first into the gravel, but luckily recover my balance with the next stride and manage to reach the cabana without making a complete ass of myself.

  “Morning?” I say, underlining the greeting with a questioning tone: “Are we okay?”

  “Morning.” Summer nods in what I suppose to be a, “Yep, we’re good,” unspoken answer.

  Miranda, the same yoga teacher from yesterday, is confabulating with a small group of the other students in the class. She looks up, seemingly taking a headcount, and finally walks up front to the center of the space.

  “Hello, class,” she greets everyone. “I was just talking with a bunch of you who have expressed an interest in trying out more Acro Yoga poses. Since we’re an even number again, I wanted to check if everyone would be okay with a slightly different class?”

  I look at Summer. She shrugs, so I shrug right back.

  “Everyone good with it?” Miranda asks, and when no one objects, she continues, “Great. We’re going to do a quick warm up and then work on some new poses.”

  A few sun salutations later, Miranda asks us to divide up into pairs. The same couples from yesterday form, and we wait for the next instruction.

  “Okay,” Miranda encourages, “for the next pose we’re going to start with a position you’re already familiar with, but take it to the next level. We start in Plank Press. Bases, please lie on your backs facing your flyers, knees bent.”

  I get down on the mat and stare up at my partner. I love how Summer blushes whenever she meets my gaze and tries to hide it.

 
; “Flyers, place your feet in between your partner’s. Perfect. Now bases,” Miranda continues. “Like yesterday, set your feet on your flyers hips.”

  I never thought of yoga as foreplay, but this Acro thingy sure feels like it.

  “Let’s practice a basic plank press a few times. Flyers, open up your arms in a T shape and keep your bodies straight and remember to keep a strong core. Bases, bend your knees toward your chest and receive your flyers’ weight and then push back slowly. Flyers keep your feet on the floor and trust your weight to the base.”

  Take this move, I’m basically using Summer as a bench-press weight. It shouldn’t feel hot. But it does. It’s in the way she looks at me. In the way her ponytail swishes forward wherever I bend my knees, in the way her lips slightly part as if she was coming up for air.

  “And now let’s move on to the next level,” Miranda says. “Flyers, reach forward and clasp hands with your bases, keeping your arms straight and creating a straight line from your shoulder to your bases. And now the hard part: flyers, you have to push off the ground. Bases, you have to lift your flyers, straightening your legs. Flyers, once you’re airborne, engage your core and straighten your legs. If and when you feel stable enough in your balance, you can let go of your bases’ hands and pull your arms back like bird wings in Front Bird pose.”

  Okay, this pose and the next ones require enough strength and concentration that I don’t have much time left for dirty thoughts. Still, already compared to yesterday, Summer’s and my movements seem to be much more fluid. Like we already have that extra confidence in each other. Is that why she bailed this morning? Was spending the night in each other’s arms too much? And why? We agreed this thing between us was a week-only deal. So, is she afraid we’re getting too close? Is she getting too close? It wouldn’t be the first time a woman I’d agreed to have a casual relationship with wanted more.

  And, then, out of nowhere, the scariest thought I’ve ever had pops into my head: what if I wanted more?

  The idea distracts me, making me lose concentration and causing my legs to wobble. Which, in turn, causes Summer to tumble down on top of me, her face ridiculously close to my groin. She stares up at me, shocked at first. Then, when she realizes where her pretty head is, her expression turns to embarrassment.