“Oh, I’m so sorry, Miss Knowles. Let me check our records.” After a brief pause, the woman talks again. “It shows here your sister requested the call.”
“Okay, thank you.”
“She’s also asked us to remind you that you’re expected in the bridal suite in an hour for hair and makeup.”
“Thank you.” I slam the receiver down and collapse back on the pillow.
Damn. A headache is splitting my head in two. My eyeballs feel heavy as lead in their sockets. And queasiness infests my stomach. The famous oath every hungover person over thirty swears pops into mind: I’m never going to drink again.
Of all the days I could get myself into this situation I chose today, the day of the ceremony. When I can’t sneak away and hide in a hole. No, I have to stand up at the altar, carry out all my bridesmaid duties, and do it all with a smile on my face.
But for Winter, I can do it. If the months since The Mistake have taught me anything, it’s how to function like a normal, semi-happy human being while dying on the inside. So, let’s move into hangover survival mode.
First, I open my suitcase to fish out my eye cooling mask and stick it in the minuscule freezing compartment of the minibar.
Next, I survey the drink offerings. I was aiming for water, but I whoop in delight when I see the fridge is supplied with two Gatorades. I guess that, being in Napa, hangovers come with the territory and the hotel has smartly stashed its minibars with electrolyte-rich drinks. I grab both bottles of power drink and close the minibar. The choice is between Lemon-Lime and Strawberry. I open the Lemon-Lime, draining all twelve fluid ounces in a few long gulps.
The Strawberry I carry with me to the bathroom. I take a quick shower, but still apply a generous dose of conditioner to my hair. The blowout and style will be handled by a professional, but I can’t show up with a tangled mess for the hairstylist to sort. Wrapped in a towel, I open and finish the second bottle of Gatorade. Already I’m less queasy, and even if the electrolytes urban legend is bullshit, drinking so many liquids will sure drain the toxins from my body.
I need one last restoration elixir. I walk back to the kitchenette, leaving wet footprints on the floor, and make coffee. For breakfast, I eat a packet of chocolate chip cookies. No way I’m showing my face downstairs before I absolutely have to.
With caffeine and food in my system, I already feel better. I check the time on my phone. I still have half an hour before I have to be in the bridal suite, so I set an alarm at twenty-five minutes and go lay on the bed with my now-cool gel mask over my eyes. I let my towel-wrapped head sink into the pillow while the gel massage beads inside the mask work their magic.
By the time the timer goes off, I’ve fallen asleep again. But it’s fine; even this brief nap has done miracles to clear my head. When I walk out of my room, carrying my bridesmaid dress and shoes over my shoulder, I’m in decent, presentable shape, if not at one hundred percent yet.
My sister doesn’t seem as proud of my appearance. Winter barely lets me take three steps into the bridal suite before she greets me with the sweetest passive-aggressive smile. “Slept well?”
“Like a baby,” I reply, equally catty-but-polite. “You?”
“Great.” She winces and looks away, but she might’ve shown me her tongue for how mature this conversation has been.
I hang my dress on a hook by the door and take in the room. The walls are covered in a rose and cream floral wallpaper, and the furniture—two armchairs, a couch, and a changing screen—is all in the same print as the walls.
A bit matchy-matchy.
The only break from the blossomy overload is the far end wall, where the wallpaper is covered by three large head-to-torso mirrors, each dotted with lights overhead, like in a theater dressing room. One of them frames the reflection of my irritated sister.
Winter is boiling to say something else, but she’s thwarted by the hairstylist and makeup artist, who get up from the couch and start to divide and conquer. The bride should be the first to have her hair done and the last to put makeup on. The pecking order is bride, maid of honor, simple bridesmaid—aka me—and then mother of the bride.
Lana and my mother are also here, but so far, except for a genuinely friendly “hello,” and “morning dear,” they’ve kept quiet about last night. Did they even notice the drama?
According to the pampering line, Mom and Winter sit in front of the mirrors to get their hair and makeup done, respectively. Since I’ll be third to have my hair done and second for the makeup, I can safely assume I have a good half an hour during which I needn’t be here. But I need an excuse to get out.
“Does anyone want coffee?” I ask.
“Oh, darling.” The hairstylist catches my gaze in the mirror. “You don’t want a dark, stainy liquid near the bridal gown or bridesmaids’ dresses. You wouldn’t believe the disasters I’ve witnessed in my career. Better steer clear of food and drinks.”
I nod, and refrain from commenting that both the bridal gown and bridesmaids’ dresses are safely wrapped in cellophane.
For lack of better alternatives, I sit on the free armchair next to the one occupied by Lana, grab a magazine from the round coffee table between the chairs, and pretend to read. Right now, I can’t even make sense of the pictures.
“If it helps,” Lana whispers, “I think he really likes you.”
“Of course he likes her,” my sister—who must’ve developed vampire hearing overnight—snaps. “What’s not to like?”
“Be careful, dear,” the hairstylist interjects. “You don’t want me to burn you with a curling iron. Try to keep still.”
Unmoving, but just as antagonizing, my sister continues, “The problem is not if he likes her, but for how long.”
“Man, thanks,” I snort. “Because it’d be impossible for someone to like me for more than a week.”
“It’s not you, it’s him!”
“Girls,” my mother cuts into the conversation, “what are you talking about?”
Winter crosses her arms over her chest and pouts like a petulant child. “Ask her.”
My mom dodges the makeup artist’s brush and turns toward me. “What did you do this time?”
I slam the magazine I was fake-reading on the coffee table with such force I might’ve dented the wood. “What the hell!” I yell, standing up. “I’ve made one mistake in my life. One. And the only person who could still be cross with me is here”—I point at Lana—“and she’s let it go. So why can’t you all?”
“Sweetheart, I only asked why your sister was mad at you.”
“No, you said, ‘What did you do this time?’ like it’s a regular thing for me to mess up.”
“Maybe you’re a little too sensitive, dear.”
“Because you’ve made me too sensitive with your constant shows of disappointment.” I point at my mother and sister in the mirror. “Both of you.” Then, focusing on Winter, I add, “What I do in my free time is none of your business.”
“It is when your recreational activities will leave your heart shattered in a million tiny pieces”—she points at her chest—“I will have to pick up.”
“Don’t worry, my heart is not your responsibility.”
At this point both the makeup artist and hairstylist have stopped working; my mom and sister are gesticulating too much for them to do anything. Mom turns her chair around and looks up at me. “I still don’t understand what’s going on?”
“She’s sleeping with the best man,” Winter rats me out.
Mom looks between us. “That nice fella we met at dinner the other night? What’s the issue? Is he single?”
And I swear I want to tear my hair from my head. “Yeah, he’s single, Mom, I don’t specifically target men in relationships as my dates. This is exactly the behavior I was talking about. One mistake, and you always assume the worst about me. No matter what I do, there’ll never be redemption for me.”
“I don’t understand.” My mother is boilin
g like a pot in her chair. “If he’s single, what’s the problem?” This question, at least, is not addressed at me.
“Archibald Hill isn’t a smart choice,” Winter says. And the condescension in her tone blows my fuse for good.
“Oh, because you’re the queen of smart choices. Should I remind you how we got here?”
“What do you mean here?”
“With you in a wedding gown.”
By this point, I swear the hairstylist is reconsidering her policy of no food and drinks, and would gladly grab a box of popcorn and a Coke.
“What’s wrong with me getting married?” Winter accuses.
“Nothing, but let’s see all the smart choices that brought you to this point…” I pretend to pull my chin. “First, you accepted an assignment in a savage land with a team you knew nothing about, then got yourself chased through the jungle by maniacs, and shot at, and almost killed. At which point you decided it’d be an excellent idea to sleep with your boss, who, FYI, you hated until the day before, and, tah-dah, six months later you’re getting married. You’re not smart, you’re—”
“WHAT?” my sister yells.
The fight dies out of me, and I sag back on the armchair. “Lucky,” I whisper. “You’re lucky it all worked out for you. And I’m happy it did. I genuinely am. But this week has been hard for me. Half the people here hate me. And I wanted an escape.”
“And you chose the worst possible one.” Winter’s features soften as well. “Can’t you see I just worry about you?”
“Well, you don’t have to. Archie has been just a shot of morphine to get me through the week, nothing more. And it will be over by tomorrow, anyway. Or better still, it’s already over.”
“I’m sorry, Sammy, but it’s not that simple.”
“Why not?”
“Because morphine has two serious problems.”
“Yeah? Like what?”
“For one, it cures the pain, but not what causes it. And second…” Her eyes lock with mine. “It’s addictive.”
Twenty
Archie
Like a caged lion, I pace around the groom suite, brooding about last night. I try to break down my feelings about this quicksand I’m stuck in because I’ve no clue how to get out, or even if I want an out at all. I’ve always been so sure. Always so ready to walk away. But with Summer, it’s different.
Yeah? How?
My bed was empty last night, and I hated it. No matter that Summer was too drunk to make any conscious decision or stay awake for more than ten minutes; I didn’t want to leave her alone, even if it was the right thing to do. I wanted to stay by her side. To hold her. To wake up with the coconuty smell of her hair in my nostrils. To bring her water and aspirin for the headache she’ll be nursing right now. I hate even more that I don’t know how she is. And most of all, what she’s thinking.
But I also have to face other realities. She’s already had too many wrong relationships in her life, and I can’t steal more time from her if I’m not positive I want the same future she does: marriage, kids, to be a family.
Do I want any of those things?
Until a week ago, I would’ve laughed in anyone’s face who suggested it, but now, I’m not so sure anymore. Spending every day of the rest of my life with Summer doesn’t sound like a prison sentence. In a pre-Summer world, tying the knot literally translated for me to putting a length of rope around my neck and jumping. Whereas now, letting her go sounds like suicide.
But kids? What if we screwed them up? What if I sucked at being a father? Having a baby is not a decision I can change my mind about later, and I’m not sure where I stand.
I wish I could get some fresh air, but, apparently, it’s unthinkable for the best man to abandon the groom. As second in command, it is my sacred duty to stay put for the next two hours with nothing to do but stare at the walls. Of my two cellmates, the groom seems the most relaxed. Logan is lounging in an armchair, reading a book—he had the sense to bring some entertainment—and looking as if he doesn’t have a care in the world. Tucker, on the other end, is sitting straight-backed on the couch, hands resting on his legs, knees bouncing up and down in a nervous rhythm.
What does he have to be nervous about?
I can’t stand the cabin fever any longer, so I open a window to at least let in some air. Then I sit on one of the revolving chairs in front of the mirrors lining the back wall and spin around a few times. Neither gesture helps to clear my head. Maybe talking would be a better approach.
“Hey, Logie Bear,” I say, distracting the groom from his reading.
“Yeah?” My best friend lifts his gaze from his book.
“You think you and Winter will have kids soon?”
Logan shifts a bookmark to the right page, closes the book, and puts it to rest on his lap. “We decided it’d be better to wait until the work in Thailand is over. I wouldn’t want to travel so much when they were little.”
“But that could take years,” I say. “Is Winter okay waiting?”
“If things in Thailand were to stretch longer than a year or two, our backup plan is for her to give birth in Bangkok and spend her maternity leave there, while I work at the museum. She’d have to cut back on wild photography expeditions anyway while the kids are little.”
“Kids, plural?”
Logan puts the most annoying, dreamy smile on his face. “Yes, we want at least two.”
“And she’s okay sacrificing her professional life for them?”
“If a great opportunity came along, she could leave them in my care. I was talking more about the initial phase when she’ll be breastfeeding and won’t be able to get away from them for long periods.”
“You sound like a wet nurse.”
“Hey, you asked. Anyway, both our lives will have to change. I’m thinking of taking on more teaching hours, add more curricula. Teach both semesters. Heaven knows the dean at Berkley would be thrilled; I’m their Indiana Jones right now. And Winter is moving to Berkley. We agree it’d be better to raise our kids in a smaller town. And we both want a more stabilized lifestyle.”
“So, no more expeditions? No more adventures?”
Logan sighs. “Finding the lost city of gold has been my life’s achievement. I can be contented with that.”
“And when were you planning on telling me this?”
“I’m starting a family; I thought it was obvious I won’t be spending half the year traveling around the globe anymore.”
Nu-uh, dude, it wasn’t obvious, I want to scream. So, my entire life is about to change anyway, whether I want it to or not. No more trips around the world, at least not with my best friend.
I turn to Tucker. “And what about you?”
“Yeah, a more stabilized life would be good.”
“No, I was talking about the kids thing. You want them?”
Tucker shrugs. “Oh, that. Yeah, sure.”
“Just like that. You don’t have to think about it for even a second.”
“No, I’ve always wanted to be a father.”
At this moment I envy them their simple certainties. I wish I had some.
“Aren’t you guys scared of screwing up?” I prod. “Of not being good parents?”
“Gosh,” Logan says. “You’re the worst best man ever. Shouldn’t you be making calming speeches right now? Why are you trying to put doubts into my head?”
“You look calmer than a sarcophagus and clearly have no doubts.”
“Because I am sure. I love Winter; I want her to be my life’s partner. I’ve longed to start a family of my own ever since—” His voice falters, and I don’t need him to speak to know he’s talking about losing his parents. They both died in a car accident two years after we graduated. Logan has been sort of adopted by my mom ever since. He’s been with us for every Christmas and Thanksgiving. And my mom is crushed they couldn’t be here for the wedding, but my parents booked a cruise for this week a year in advance
and would’ve lost all the money if they didn’t go.
Adopted brother or not, I understand Logan’s desire to build a home.
“I know, man,” I say.
My best friend nods, shaking the sadness away. “And of course we’re going to screw up, but we’ll fix it, together.”
I pretend to gag to lighten the mood. “You’ll give me diabetes.” I turn to Tucker to share a manly stare of groom-deprecating disgust, but my other friend has gone back to staring straight ahead and fidgeting.
“You, on the other hand”—I point a finger at him—“look more nervous than a bull in a china shop. What’s up?”
Tucker looks at us. “Guys, I have to tell you something.”
That doesn’t sound promising.
“Hey, Tuck, relax,” Logan says with an easy grin. “It’s not like you’re getting married in a few hours.”
I’m less inclined to jokes, and prompt him, “Come on, man, spit it out.”
“Okay.” Tucker takes a deep breath. “I’ve made a decision… The trip to Thailand next month will be my last. Sorry, guys.”
And there goes another bomb. This wedding is tearing my life apart.
Slack-jawed, I ask, “But why?”
Tucker obsessively dries his palms on his knees. “As Logan said, it’s time for a more stabilized lifestyle. No more traveling around the five continents, that’s all.”
“What will you do? Are you going to be a Yosemite guide full time?” I ask.
“Actually…” The palm-drying pace increases. “I’m thinking of moving to LA.”
And the shoe drops. “Wait, this wouldn’t have anything to do with Feisty Curls, uh?”
“Who’s Feisty Curls?” Logan asks.
“That actor’s assistant,” I explain. “Tall, curly hair, dark skin, green eyes.” Then I point an accusing finger at Tucker. “I saw them eating each other’s faces the other night.”
Despite being a grown man, Tucker blushes. “I have nothing to hide,” he says. “Penny and I are in love and, yes, I am moving to LA to be closer to her.”
“But what will you do for a living down there?” I ask.
You May Kiss the Bridesmaid: A Wedding Date Rom Com (First Comes Love Book 6) Page 14
