My Big Fat Fake Honeymoon

by Lauren Landish

  Emily takes advantage of the opening I’ve left, smirking as she fires another bomb, “Oh, no, did your family not know about you and Lorenzo? I can understand. A bit awkward to keep it in the family that way with his being Violet’s cousin. Unless . . .” Her eyes narrow in glee, and I know that whatever she says next is her true purpose, the real reason she came over here.

  “The whole thing was fake . . . like your brother’s wedding and your sister’s engagement.” She tsks and adds, “You Andrewses just can’t stop faking, can you?”

  The crowd openly gasps in shock at the accusation. It should be ridiculous, but it’s a bit too plausible considering Ross and Courtney really did fake their relationships, so everyone quickly assumes I’ve done the same thing. That I did doesn’t make it any easier to refute.

  Sorry, Mom and Dad! I know you taught me better, but I’m past looking for words in my fried brain. Impulsive, spontaneous, crazy action is the coping mechanism I default to. I stand, throwing my water in Emily’s face.

  “Ah!” she screams. “What—”

  Water drips from her eyelashes, her makeup ruined and her hair flopping down to make her look like a spluttering, drowned rat. Her white dress—yeah, white like she’s still a bride—is nearly see-through, but the country club is definitely not a venue that holds wet T-shirt contests.

  I freeze, not believing I actually did that. I should feel remorse, should be horrified. But what I feel is . . . free.

  Laughter bubbles up, fizzy and warm and bright, exploding past my lips and making me sound like a manic hyena. Courtney snorts, trying to contain laughter of her own and doing a much better job of maintaining a sense of proper decorum.

  There’s a mix of laughter and horror from the crowd, who aren’t even pretending to ignore the spectacle now.

  Ross throws his napkin to the table and stands. “Enough!” he shouts, and even Emily has the good sense to flinch.

  But it’s my dad who truly saves me.

  He doesn’t even put his fork down, make a face, break a sweat, or throw things . . . all things I’ve done in the last several seconds since Emily walked up and nuclear bombed my life.

  But Dad is the cloth we’re all cut from and has perfected his skills around boardroom tables we can only dream of one day sitting at, so he coldly demands, “Are you quite finished now, young lady? I was rather enjoying a quiet dinner of celebration with my family before you came up and started spewing your venom all over my chicken marsala. It’s obvious you are no friend of Abi’s, and therefore, no friend of mine.” He makes a shooing motion with his fork, a bit of sauce slinging on Emily’s white dress too. “Leave us alone so we can continue to celebrate her good fortune as an artist and as a new bride. And you can go back to enjoying a night away from your new husband too.” Dad glances at the table of women who are sitting straight and slack-jawed now. “I’m sure your husband is particularly enjoying the evening away from you.”

  Whoa! Dad is . . . stone-cold brutal. I’m really glad he’s on my team.

  “Harrumph!” Emily makes a sound of displeasure before spinning on her toe and stomping back to her table. She snaps her fingers and calls across the room, “Check, please!”

  We’re quiet as Emily gathers her purse and entourage, stomping some more as she heads toward the door and loudly remarks, “Some people . . .” But the door closes on whatever she was going to say about people like me and my family.

  I shrink in my chair, wishing I could fall straight through the floor. I’m in hell already. Might as well get a little tan from the flames too. “Dad, I . . . sorry, I—”

  He cuts his eyes to me, giving me a hard look. “Eat. Tell me about the flowers at this fancy wedding,” he demands. But the true order is in his eyes, promising me that we’re going to have a conversation about all of this, but not now, not here.

  “Yes, where was I? Oh, the cooler broke right when we got there and we had to source replacements on the fly . . .”

  Walking into Dad’s office, he heads straight for the scotch. He pours a skinny pour, upends and swallows it, and then eyes me critically. I don’t know what he’s searching for as I stand there feeling like I’m a child again, waiting for a lecture. But whatever he sees, he goes for a second pour before sitting down.

  Mom isn’t waiting on him. She barely restrained her questions for the remainder of dinner, which we boldly ate while conversing about nothing of consequence to be sure we were seen as strong and unwilling to put up with shit from someone like Emily Jones. I mean, Daniels.

  Ugh.

  “You’ve got some explaining to do, so you’d best get to it, Abi,” Mom starts.

  I nod, finding a chair to plop into defeatedly. This is going to suck. I’m embarrassed, angry, and know I should’ve handled Emily with more grace, but in the moment, throwing my drink seemed like the right thing to do and the fastest way to shut her up.

  “I know,” I sigh, “Emily and I weren’t friends in school. More like competitors—”

  Dad interrupts me. “Yeah, yeah. We got that part. She’s a bitch.”

  Mom gasps, “Morgan!”

  He lifts a sardonic brow. “Am I wrong?”

  Mom doesn’t say anything for a long second, and then she shakes her head, on the verge of laughter but fighting it valiantly. “No, that girl was a bitch.” She sounds like the very word is a delight to say. I’m a little proud of Mom. She’s loving and kind, sweet and strong, but she’s not exactly one to let her ugly thoughts and feelings run amok.

  Dad gestures widely, giving me back the floor. “Now that that’s settled, continue. But start with Aruba, not schoolyard stupidity.”

  I need to get this off my chest, this craziness that I’ve gotten myself into that’s worse than anything I’ve done before. “I saw Emily and Doug at check-in, and she was . . . well, herself, and I was floundering. Lorenzo—he’s Violet’s cousin—came up and saved me. I didn’t know he was going to be there, but he cooked for the wedding last-minute. And it just popped out . . . I said we were there on our honeymoon too.”

  Dad mutters under his breath, looking at the ceiling as though cursing God for his stupid children. Or maybe praying that we finally grow the fuck up. Either way, he ends the private conversation by swallowing his second scotch and setting the empty tumbler on the side table next to him.

  Leaning forward, hands interlaced between his knees, he clarifies, “Instead of bragging about this amazing wedding you were there to work on, on the successful business you started on your own and run not only debt-free but with a stellar ROI, and the happy life you have carved out for yourself . . . you went with a fake honeymoon?”

  “Well, when you put it like that, I do see how stupid it sounds,” I admit. I hear Dad’s assessment, his pride in how well I’ve done, and it soothes something in me to know that he’s proud of me, of what I’ve accomplished. Even if I haven’t done all the things I want to . . . yet. And even if I did . . . this.

  Unexpected emotion wells up in my throat. “In the moment, it was just easier to . . .”

  Mom comes to my side, wrapping an arm around my shoulders and pulling me to her in comfort. “It was easier to beat her at the only thing she values. She wouldn’t have understood the hard work you’ve put in or the goals you’ve crushed. People like her only understand who they are based on who they know.”

  Mom is so fucking smart. I don’t forget that she’s brilliant and leads events and charities by the dozens, but she’s quiet about it in some ways, making it seem so effortless that I do forget that she’s as much a powerhouse as Dad.

  I nod into her shoulder. She lets me have a meltdown for one more second and then she pats my back before pushing me away coldly. “All right, now. Get on with it. Tell us the rest.”

  I find strength and keep going. “I was faking a honeymoon with Lorenzo. Like dinners, couples’ yoga, a sunset cruise.” Dad makes a snorting noise, and I rush to clarify, “Only when I was all caught up with the wedding stuff. Janey and I did every
thing one hundred percent.”

  “I’m sure you did, Abi. I don’t doubt your dedication to your work. I do, however, doubt your sanity. All of yours, actually.” Dad looks from me to Ross to Courtney. “Is it too much to ask that my children simply meet someone, fall in love, and get married in the usual way?”

  “We’re unusual people,” Courtney states dryly.

  There’s a moment of stunned silence as we look from one to another, frozen in time and space. And then surprised, shocked laughter bursts out of all of us.

  “Oh, my God, Abi, you should’ve seen the look on your face when you threw that drink,” Courtney huffs out between snorts. She pulls an exaggerated look of disbelief in mockery of what I apparently looked like.

  “Not as great as Mom’s!” Ross adds, mimicking Mom’s horrified face.

  “That was not funny!” Mom argues, but she’s laughing too.

  Even Dad is chuckling.

  “Thanks for having my back like that, Dad,” I tell him earnestly. “That was above and beyond any smackdown I’ve ever seen. Bitch smackdown, verbal warfare style.”

  Dad bows formally. “Glad to be of service. You might choose to make your own way, but when push comes to shove, you are and always will be an Andrews and I will always ‘have your back’, honey.” He says the common phrase as if it’s weird on his lips before admitting, “I just wish it hadn’t been so . . .”

  “Public?” Courtney offers.

  “Yes,” Mom confirms. “Speaking of . . . are we making an announcement about another new marriage?” She leans forward, eager to hear my answer. I think she’d be quite happy and not surprised at all if I had run off and gotten married without telling a soul. Hell, as grandbaby-keen as she is, she’s probably hoping for a baby announcement too.

  “At least this wedding, we won’t have to pay for,” Dad jokes, though I think he’s at least partially serious.

  “Not funny, Dad,” Courtney complains. Her wedding was beautiful and spectacular and . . . not cheap. It most definitely had the price tag to go along with an Andrews event.

  “Shh! I want to hear about this Lorenzo!” Mom bites, cutting off Dad and Courtney’s chitter chatter.

  They hush, looking pleased with themselves but not willing to open their mouth and risk Mom’s wrath.

  “He’s Violet’s cousin, a chef from Positano. He travels, cooking all over the world. He’s smart . . . funny . . . and passionate about life.” My voice fades off as memories of our conversations, our adventures, and our time together wash through my mind and body. I feel the smile on my face and the blush on my cheeks before anyone mentions them.

  “Ah, hell, I’ve seen that look before. He’s a goner. Total toast in another Abi scheme. Does he know it yet?” Ross jokes.

  I duck my chin, not wanting them to see the pink turn to a full flush of red. “It’s not like that. He was just helping a friend through a tough time.”

  Courtney whispers out of the side of her mouth, “To answer your question, Ross . . . no, he doesn’t know because Abi hasn’t really admitted it to herself yet.”

  Ross laughs at that, and I look up hotly, instantly in fight-or-flight mode, and I’ve never been one to fly. “What? Why is that funny? You think it’s funny that I had this great week with him and then it’s over just like that?” I yell.

  He doesn’t back down or cower in the slightest, rather his laughter amps up. “Do I think it’s funny? Fuck yeah, I think it’s funny that for all your scheming . . . your whole life’s worth of scheming . . . you end up caught in one of your own webs and are floundering around, fighting it like we always do. I’ll let you in on a little something we all learned long ago . . . don’t. Just go with it. It’s better that way.”

  “What?” I balk.

  Ross and Courtney look at each other, united against me. That’s a first and I don’t like it. Not one bit.

  Mom and Dad have matching looks of mirth on their faces too. I’m used to seeing them on the same page, but not united against me too.

  Mom is somehow the elected spokesperson. “Dear, you know we love you, but you are rather known for your schemes. You have to admit that it’s a little amusing that you’ve gotten yourself tied so deeply in one of your own devious plots that you can’t see a way out. Ironic, no?”

  I pout, crossing my arms over my chest. “No, I don’t think so.”

  Dad has never been one to let me stew in my own pity party, even though I throw a hell of a soiree. “What’s your plan for this Lorenzo?”

  I shrug, not over my sulk yet.

  “Do not tell me you intend on sitting back and doing nothing?” Dad demands.

  I shrug again, that being pretty much my exact plan. If Lorenzo wants more than the week we had, he knows where to find me.

  At my silence, Dad leans back in his chair, his legs spread wide and his hands rubbing at his face. He meets my eyes through heavy lids. “I’m disappointed in you, Abigail.”

  I flinch. “What?” That hurts sharper than a rose thorn stabbing through delicate skin.

  He keeps his relaxed posture, but every word is precise. “You are a remarkable woman who attacks life with a passion I have rarely seen. If this Lorenzo holds your interest—a task not to be underestimated—if he is worth you, then you owe it to yourself to meet him halfway. Simply doing nothing is beneath you, Abi. If that’s what he inspires in you, let him go. He deserves . . .” He shakes his head, changing his phrasing. “You deserve someone who inspires you to do anything, everything for them. To fight, to love, to dream, to live.”

  He takes Mom’s hand, and they look at each other with all the love they feel bared and pure. They are a lot to live up to, but I won’t settle for less than the example they’ve set.

  Could I have that with Lorenzo?

  I don’t know. It seems so fast, but I’ve never felt anything close to what I feel when I’m with him. I’ve never felt this way about anyone. And Courtney’s right about one thing . . . we’re unusual people, and I’m an anomaly in a family of weirdos. If there’s one thing I’d be likely to do, it’s fall in love with a near-stranger in one week while doing something crazy like faking already being married.

  “All right, so say I was going to do something, what would you suggest?” I ask my family, wanting their input into one of my schemes for the first time.

  Ross raises his hand like we’re back in school and wants the teacher to call on him. “I believe I know your partner in crime rather intimately, and she already has some ideas on that. Something about salad tongs this weekend?”

  “So should I hold off on the press release then?” Mom asks with a smile.

  Chapter 24

  Lorenzo

  My phone rings for the third time in a row, and I silence it the same way I have the previous two times. I growl, throwing it on the coffee table in front of me. It lands next to my boot and I have to fight the urge to kick it across the room in frustration.

  Why won’t she leave me alone? She’s called nearly every hour on the hour, left dozens of messages, and still keeps trying.

  I let my head fall back on the couch I’ve barely moved from since getting home from Avanti days ago. At least I came here, didn’t just keep riding to destinations unknown. And this morning, I managed to ride to the coffee shop I prefer to get a strong brew.

  Progress. Or giving up?

  I’m not sure.

  I take a sip of coffee, noting that for all the enormous effort it took to get, I’ve let it go cold and undrinkable.

  There’s a loud knock at the door. I’m too numb to flinch, too empty to care. The phone rings on the table and I sigh in annoyance.

  Go away.

  “I can hear your phone ringing, Lorenzo, so I know you’re in there. Open up or I’ll bust this door down. You know I will,” she yells out.

  The door is thin, making me reasonably certain that she could actually break through it with minimal effort if she put her ass into it with a good kick. Lord knows, she’s hard-willed and
stubborn enough to try.

  I get up and cross the small room before she has a chance to hurt herself. But I only open the door a few inches, just enough to stand in the tight opening. “What?” I snarl.

  “Way to greet the person who’s going to fix your fuck-up, asshole,” Violet snarls right back. Hell, if anything, hers might be more intimidating than mine.

  Not that I’d ever admit that to her.

  “I don’t need you to fix anything, Vi. I’m fine.” I’m nowhere near fine. I haven’t slept in days, am basically pumping caffeine and whiskey through my veins, and haven’t cooked anything in days. The Chinese food delivery guy has basically been my only visitor.

  Violet scoffs. “Really? Because I can smell you from here, you look like shit, and Abi isn’t doing much better.”

  The mere mention of her name weakens my resolve exponentially, and I lose my grip on the door. Violet instantly takes advantage, likely having plotted that from the get-go. She bursts through the door and into my small apartment.

  I sense her looking around at my place but can’t give a shit about what she thinks of it. It’s temporary, anyway. My homes always are.

  “What’s wrong with Abigail?” I demand. Of everything Violet said, that’s what sticks out.

  Violet’s heels click across the floor and she daintily picks up a dirty T-shirt from where I threw it yesterday. Or was it the day before? I don’t even know. She sits down on the arm of the couch, crossing her legs and looking as casual as can be now that she’s past the threshold of the door.

  “Do you care?” She glares at me critically, her eyes narrowing in challenge. “Truly care? Because I’m here to help you, but not if you’re half-assing this.”

  I crowd her, close enough to be threatening, but she’s a ballsy Italian woman and doesn’t react in the slightest. “What’s. Wrong. With. Abigail?” I repeat, needing her to answer me so I don’t run out the door, hop on my bike, and ride to SweetPea Boutique to lay eyes on Abigail myself.