The Good Girl's Guide to Bad Men

by Jessica Brody

  And I was confident that when I woke up the next day, all of my senseless fears would be gone. And Jamie would go back to being the man I had agreed to marry. Someone who was nothing like my father.

  17

  maid of questionable honor

  But it didn't exactly happen that way.

  I woke up in the middle of the night in a full-on panic attack. My chest and the back of my neck were damp with sweat. My lungs felt as if they were banging violently against my ribs with each breath, fighting to break free from the cell that had kept them prisoner since birth.

  I looked over at Jamie. He was sleeping soundly, his own torso rising and falling in smooth, even pulsations. Almost as if they were mocking me.

  I winced against the pain and brought my hand to my chest. Jamie stirred next to me, and I quickly decided to move into the living room. The last thing I wanted to do was wake him up and explain why I felt as if my lungs were trying to escape from my body. Especially when I couldn't explain it to myself.

  I gently pushed the covers off me and stood up. The bamboo-wood floors creaked under my feet, and I cursed the day I'd decided that wooden floors were more elegant and sophisticated than carpet. Elegant, maybe. Functional when trying to sneak out of a room without waking a sleeping fiancé? Not so much.

  Jamie stirred again, and I decided to make a run for it.

  I dashed out of the bedroom, closing the door softly behind me, and then scampered down the hallway—weaving my way in and out of the growing pile of boxes of Jamie's stuff—until I was in the safe confines of my kitchen. I dumped some tap water into a mug and popped it in the microwave.

  I tossed a chamomile teabag into the mug, walked into the living room, and collapsed onto the couch. As I held the hot tea close to me and felt the steam rise up and warm my face, I prayed that the heat and condensation would seep into my skin and calm my pounding heart.

  But it didn't seem to be working. My breathing was still shallow and quick, and my neck still felt clammy with cold sweat.

  What the hell is the matter with me?

  But I couldn't answer that question. Or maybe I just didn't want to answer it. Life was so much easier when you didn't answer questions like that. When you just ignored them and pretended they didn't even exist—phantom words swirling around in your head that just happened to come together to form a complete sentence.

  I sipped my tea and closed my eyes, trying to take deep breaths.

  Eventually, I turned on the TV. Some unfamiliar TV movie was playing, and I muted the volume.

  As I continued to stare at the silent images dancing around my screen, my breathing slowly began to steady itself. I set my mug on the coffee table and closed my eyes. Feeling the stability of my breath finally start to overcome me.

  The next thing I knew, Jamie was shaking me awake.

  I opened my eyes to a bright, sun-filled living room. "What time is it?" I asked, blinking against the light coming in from the windows.

  "Quarter after eight."

  I pushed myself up and heard my neck crack. "Oh."

  Jamie eyed the horizontal body-shaped indent on the couch. "What happened?"

  I yawned and stretched my arms. "I couldn't sleep, so I made myself some tea and decided to watch TV. I guess I fell asleep."

  He nodded, appearing to believe that was the whole story. I really didn't see any point in telling him about the whole exploding chest sensation. I was just grateful that at least now my lungs seemed to be perfectly content with staying inside my chest.

  "Is everything okay?" Jamie asked.

  I pulled myself off the couch and headed down the hallway to the bedroom. "Oh, yeah," I said, hoping it sounded convincing. "I think I just need to take a long, hot shower."

  "Well, then I should probably say good-bye now. I might not be here when you get out. I have an early client meeting."

  I spun on the balls of my feet and returned to the living room. "Okay, then," I said, kissing Jamie on the lips. "Bye."

  We didn't see each other much for the next few days. Being at Sophie's beck and call kept me out of the house for most of the week. And I never thought I'd be so grateful to be Sophie's maid-of-honor gofer. Because honestly, I needed some time away from Jamie and that whole mess I had created to clear my head and try to think rationally. Things had been weird between us, to say the least, and my mind had become such a kaleidoscope of perspectives lately, I didn't know which one to focus on.

  But Sophie's last minute wedding details kept my thoughts otherwise occupied.

  Thankfully, the groom's sister had come to her senses and dyed her hair back to its original mousy brown color (or a shade Sophie deemed to be "close enough"), and the caterer, despite his persistent threats, was still on the job, but Sophie had managed to come up with a whole bunch of new pressing issues for us to deal with during those last few days leading up to Saturday.

  But by the time Friday night arrived and the rehearsal dinner had come to a close, everything seemed to slow down, and for the first time in my life, I saw Sophie relax. Zoë, John, and I were all bunked up in her bridal suite for a little slumber party to celebrate her last night of singlehood.

  "She looks calm," I remarked about my friend as if she weren't sitting right next to me on the king-size bed. Her back was leaned up against the headboard, her knees tucked up under her chin. "Too calm."

  John nodded from a nearby armchair. "Yeah, what did you slip her? Valium? Zoloft? Got any more?"

  Sophie rolled her eyes and laughed at us. "No one slipped me anything. I just feel calm." She shrugged and hugged her knees tighter to her chest. "I am capable of being calm, you know?"

  "Since when?" John mocked.

  Sophie pulled a spare pillow off the bed and smacked him with it.

  Zoë let out a strange gurgling sound just then, and I turned toward the couch she was sitting on and noticed a cell phone tucked between her hands. She was staring at the screen with a smitten look on her face.

  "Zoë?" I said accusingly. "What are you doing?"

  Her head popped up, and she looked at the three of us with a guilty expression. "Nothing," she said, trying discreetly to slide the phone to the side and push it between the couch cushions.

  But I wasn't fooled. I recognized the symptoms right away. "Are you flirt-texting someone?" I asked playfully.

  Zoë glared at me with irritation. "No," she growled. "I was just checking an e-mail. From work."

  "You were not!" Sophie screeched, joining the game. "You're so right, Jen. Look at her face. She was totally flirt-texting."

  "I don't even know what that is."

  Sophie and I exchanged a look of mutual skepticism, and after a subtle, knowing nod, we sprang into action. Sophie leaped toward the couch and landed directly on Zoë's lap, her body sprawled out horizontally across the couch to hold Zoë's arms down while I went for the phone buried between the couch cushions. Zoë fought against Sophie's stronghold, and John quickly joined forces to keep our prisoner contained. She struggled fruitlessly against both of them. "Stop! What the fuck are you doing?" Then she saw me with the phone. "Jen! Don't. Please. Give it back."

  Maybe it was the three bottles of champagne we drank, or maybe it was my unyielding desire to be a part of someone else's drama for a change, but I was a girl on a mission. And I was deaf to Zoë's protests as I scrolled through her list of recent text messages. Fifteen in total in the last hour. All from the same number.

  "Ooh," I said dramatically. "Someone has been busy." I opened up a random text in the middle of the list and read it aloud to the group. "Can't wait to slip you out of that pouffy pink bridesmaid's dress."

  John and I simultaneously let out a whooping sound while Sophie expressed her offense. "My dresses are not pink! And they're not pouffy! I made a specific effort to pick out non-pouffy dresses."

  Zoë finally broke free and snatched the phone away from me. "Give that to me!"

  "Who was that from?" John demanded.

  She tried
to play the whole thing off with one of her aggravated eye rolls. "No one."

  "Is this the same no one who was too good to come to my wedding?" Sophie asked.

  "He couldn't come. He had a business trip."

  "Yeah, right," she argued, clearly still upset about the dress comment. "That is such a lie. You never even asked him."

  I plopped down on the bed and propped myself up on my elbows. "What's the big deal, anyway, Zo? Why won't you at least talk about him?"

  Zoë let her long blond hair down from its claw clip and shook out the kinks. "I'm just not ready to talk about him yet," she replied matter-of-factly.

  Sophie pulled her legs up onto the sofa and curled up next to John. "At least tell us his name."

  But Zoë shook her head adamantly. "Not a chance."

  Sophie turned to me. "What was the name on the text message?"

  I stifled a laugh as I looked over at Zoë, who shot me the most menacing "Don't you dare" look I've ever seen. I promptly ignored it. "It didn't have a name. It just said 'Footlong.'"

  John and Sophie both burst into laughter. "What?" John screeched. "Are you joking?"

  I shook my head. "Nope. That's what it said."

  "I can't believe you, Jen!" Zoë cried scornfully. "Is nothing sacred to you?"

  I couldn't help but laugh. "No, Zoë, I'm sorry, I don't find the sacredness in 'Footlong.'"

  "Now, is that nickname in reference to the kind of sandwiches he orders at Subway," John asked, feigning innocence, "or the size of his . . . package?"

  "Maybe he's just a big fan of fruit by the foot," I suggested helpfully.

  John nodded, humoring me. "Yes, Jen. I think you're right. Although if that is the case, then I believe the more appropriate nickname for him would be Dick by the Foot."

  And we all broke out into another fit of giggles. Well, all of us except Zoë, who had fallen onto her back and pulled the pillow over her head. "There!" came her muffled voice. "You have your stupid details. His penis is really huge." She pulled the pillow off her face and glared at me. "Now drop it."

  And we did . . . after another two hours of footlong jokes, of course.

  The ceremony was to be held in an old Catholic church in Redondo Beach. Neither Eric nor Sophie was particularly religious, but according to Eric's devout Catholic mother, getting married in a church, by a priest, was the only thing that was non-negotiable.

  Zoë and John left early for the ceremony so that they could stop at a drugstore and pick up some emergency hairspray to keep on hand for the reception. So it was just Sophie and me in the limousine during the quick ten-minute drive to the church. Her unusual calmness from the night before seemed to have vanished sometime in the middle of the night, because now she was having a hard time sitting still, despite the comfortable, plush leather seats in the back of the stretch Lincoln.

  "Relax," I told her patiently as I rested my hand on her knee. "Everything's going to be perfect."

  She struggled to take a deep breath and stared out the window as we drove. It was at that moment that I first really noticed her. I mean, yes, I saw her in the hotel room when she was getting her hair and makeup done and when she slipped into her dress and I buttoned it up for her and as we were walking through the hotel lobby and everyone stared. But I don't think I really saw her until now.

  Her brown hair was swept back dramatically into a complicated twist that was fastened with a diamond-studded clip at the top. Her makeup was subtle yet feminine, with pale pink eye shadows that brightened her eyes and matching pink lip gloss. Her strapless corset-style dress fell in layers around her small frame and flowed luxuriously along the floor of the limo like a foaming sea of white, flooding the inside of the car.

  She looked more beautiful than I had ever seen her.

  Yet while I was looking at her, there was a sudden pang inside my chest. Something was wrong. Really wrong. I mentally scrolled through my maid of honor checklist and was successfully able to tick off every item.

  So what was it, then? Why was my heart beating so fast? And why could I not escape this sense of utter dread that was pulsing through my veins?

  "What's wrong?" Sophie asked, noticing the uneasy expression on my face.

  I shook myself from my trance and forced a smile. "Nothing! Nothing at all. I just can't believe you're actually getting married!"

  She smiled and exhaled dramatically, placing her hand on her stomach, which I'm sure was doing multiple flips. "I know. It's crazy. But you know what's even crazier?"

  I smiled back at her endearingly. "That you didn't give yourself a stroke?"

  She nodded and let out a small laugh. "Well, that, too. But even more so . . ." She paused and looked me up and down, almost as if she were seeing me for the first time, too. "You're next."

  The old stone church was beautifully decorated with lilacs and calla lilies, tied up in long white satin sashes. As I made my way down the aisle, I noticed Jamie right away. He was beaming from the aisle of the third row, snapping pictures of me like a crazed member of the paparazzi. I flashed him a hasty smile and then turned my head toward the front of the church and clung tight to the elbow of Eric's younger brother. I tried to focus all my attention on walking straight and not tripping on my gown. The last thing I needed right now was to end up on YouTube under the title "Bridesmaid Disaster." Sophie would never forgive me if I face planted in the middle of the aisle.

  Eric's brother escorted me to the right of the altar and then took his place on the left. The organ began playing the "Wedding March," and everyone rose. I watched as Sophie made her way toward me, looking radiant and glowing. I had honestly never seen her look happier. And that was exactly how it should be. Your wedding day should be the happiest day of your life.

  I suppose all that stress of finding the right location, selecting the right linens, choosing the right wedding dress, and picking out the right theme is eventually worth it. So maybe I needed to stop putting it off and just do it. Just call Willa Cruz and set a date. Pick up a pen and fill out that damn questionnaire. What the hell was I waiting for?

  The priest breezed through the introduction and a few prayers and then said, "Eric and Sophie have decided to write their own vows to each other. Sophie, will you please recite your vows to Eric."

  I stood up straighter and paid attention. Sophie had been stressing about writing these vows for the past month. And although I'd heard them at least fifty times and probably could have recited them myself, I knew I didn't want to miss this part. This is the part of weddings that you remember. The most important part. The rings, the kiss, the unity candle, they're all just formalities. They happen at every wedding. But vows are unique. They come from the heart.

  "Eric," Sophie began, "when I met you, I was always wandering. Most of the time, I didn't know what direction I was going, but I always knew that I was headed somewhere. Toward something. Now I know that that somewhere was you. You are the night-light that leads me through the dark. And you are the water and sunshine that make me grow."

  I stole a glance toward the pews and caught sight of Jamie in the third row. I could have sworn I saw mist in his eyes. Was he crying? But it wasn't even our wedding. Those weren't even my vows. Then I looked behind him: A row of faces I had never seen before. And another behind that. And another behind that.

  Who were all these people? Where did they come from? How had I managed to know Sophie nearly my entire life and never met even half of these people? Were they long-lost relatives? Friends of the family? Wedding crashers?

  I turned my attention back to the bride.

  "I want nothing more than to spend my life with you. I want nothing more than to wake up to you every day and go to sleep with you every night. I love you more than you'll ever know because I love you more than I'll ever be able to tell you with words."

  I glanced toward the pews again, and suddenly the gravity of her statement hit me. She wasn't saying these words just to Eric. She was saying them to every single person in this room.
She was pledging herself to him in front of everyone she knew, and probably a few she didn't.

  I could barely tell my dad and his third wife that I was engaged. How was I ever going to announce to a room full of half strangers that Jamie was the night-light that led me through the dark?

  The priest was speaking now. "Sophie, please repeat after me. I, Sophie, take you, Eric, to be my husband . . ."

  She did.

  ". . . to share this world with you through sickness and health . . ."

  I could feel small beads of sweat forming on my forehead.

  Is it hot in here? I wondered. Or is it just me?

  I subtly glanced at Sophie's mother in the front row. She was covered in a wool pashmina that was held tight around her body.

  Okay, it must be just me. It must be all these lights. It's like being onstage up here.

  But when I looked above me, there were no lights. Just the sunlight peering in through the windows of the old stone church.

  So where the hell was all this heat coming from?

  "I promise to cherish you and devote myself to you fully," Sophie repeated. It sounded like it was coming from light-years away, from another dimension, even.

  I turned my attention back to the altar. This was the most important day of my best friend's life, and I was busy obsessing about the lack of spotlights in the church. I was the worst maid of honor ever.

  "I promise to never lie to you and always be faithful to you," she repeated diligently.

  To never lie to you and always be faithful to you.

  I wondered just how strict that "never" and "always" really were. Obviously there were extenuating circumstances. Because no one can never or always do anything. But I supposed that if the priest had asked Sophie to "almost never lie" to Eric, it wouldn't be quite as effective, would it?

  But it's a known fact that some things are out of your control. And some things sound a hundred times worse aloud than they really are, so clearly those things should stay in your head.