by Lexi Ryan
“Thank you,” the pastor says.
Dean takes his seat, and I turn to Veronica and hand off my bouquet, just like we practiced.
Veronica looks at me, her eyes pleading and desperate. She grimaces, and in the next breath, she vomits all over my flowers and down the front of her dress.
The flower girls screech.
“Ew!”
“Disgusting!”
“Oh my God,” Veronica says, staring at the watery flowers. “I’m sorry.”
“That’s some mighty bad catfish,” Kate says.
“Is that what they’re calling it these days?” Raina says, too loud. “That girl is knocked up.”
The guests gasp, and I step back. Away from the smell of stomach acid. Away from my sister with the worry and helpless grief all over her face.
Knocked up? Have we drifted so far apart that she wouldn’t even tell me something that important?
“V?”
She nods in answer to my unspoken question.
This is good news, right? A baby is always good news.
So why do I feel like the earth is falling away beneath my feet?
“I’m sorry,” Veronica repeats, still looking at me. “I’m so sorry.”
“Veronica?” Marcus pales. My gaze ping-pongs between him and my sister. His eyes are fixed on my twin and hers on him as she slowly nods again. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Nicole
“You have to listen to me!” Veronica sobs.
I climb out of the car and slam the door behind me before running up the stairs and into my apartment.
I walked so slowly up that aisle, but even with all my doubts, I never imagined how fast I could run back down it.
I grabbed Veronica’s purse from the tent because she’s the one who drove me here. I climbed into her car and started for home. She chased after me and jumped into the passenger seat of the moving car. I should have shoved her right back out the door, but I had to think of my unborn niece or nephew.
Marcus’s baby.
The drive between the park and my apartment is less than five minutes, but it felt more like an hour, and as we sat next to each other in silence, I felt like my whole life was washing away under my feet.
“Nicole!” She chases up the stairs after me, and I think about slamming the door shut, but I’m too busy trying to unzip this damn dress. I just want out of this lace. It itches, and I can’t breathe.
How long have I known and not let myself know? How long have I suspected and not let myself suspect?
Every time he left the room for a phone call. Every time he pulled away from my touch. Every time he insisted that our wedding night would be better if we waited.
But with my sister? No, even with all my shit luck in love, even with all my insecurities and anxieties, that I couldn’t have imagined.
“I can’t get the stupid zipper!” I spin in a circle as if the momentum might give my hand a better grip on its target.
“Will you please quit flailing around like a crazy woman and listen to me?”
“Unzip my dress!” Maybe it’s a ridiculous request. Maybe I shouldn’t speak to her at all. But she unzips my dress, and when it falls from my shoulders, it’s the sweetest kind of relief.
“I didn’t mean for it to happen,” she says, her voice cracking. “It was an accident.”
“An accident?” My words are slower now. Calmer. I’m too tired for this fight—or maybe I just know this is one I can’t win. “Do you expect me to believe that?”
“You know what I mean.”
“Actually, I don’t. I don’t understand how you accidentally sleep with your sister’s fiancé.”
“He hasn’t always been your fiancé.”
What’s that supposed to mean? Marcus and I have been engaged for six months. We’d been dating for two when he proposed. We wanted to be married by now, but the pastor insisted we have at least a six-month engagement, given how short our courtship was. I look at my sister’s still-flat stomach before meeting her eyes again. “How long have you been sleeping with Marcus?”
She puts her hand over her mouth. “I’m gonna be sick again.”
I laugh, but the sound comes out crazed. “I haven’t even slept with him. Is that why you encouraged me to wait? So you’d have him in your bed longer?” I step out of the dress that’s pooled around my feet, sweep it off the floor, and throw it at her, but it’s so heavy that it barely brushes her chest before slinking back to the floor. “Take it!” I scream. Oh, look. My crazy’s back. “It’s yours. He’s yours. You want my life? You think it’s so perfect? Take it!” It’s like I’m out of myself, watching this crazy woman in my body lose her mind.
“I didn’t mean to,” Veronica says. “I’m in love with him!”
“You think I’m not?”
“I know.” She sobs. “I know.” She shakes her head. “That’s why I got the job in Michigan. That’s why I’m leaving. I never meant to ruin your marriage.”
“Well, it’s too late for that.” She’s having his baby. I was supposed to have his baby.
“I’ll go.” Her face is wet with tears, and I vaguely wonder what’s wrong with me that she’s the one who’s crying and I can’t feel . . . anything. “I’ll get out of your life. You’ll never have to see me again. Just let me fix this. Let me leave. It’s the best and only solution.”
“Don’t.” My moment of crazy has slipped away. I sound so calm. Now that my dress isn’t trying to eat me, I feel calm. “Leaving won’t fix this.”
She puts a hand on her stomach. “Then tell me what will.”
“Veronica!” Marcus roars from the front door. “Veronica!”
I close my eyes. If any part of me believed we could salvage this, the fact that he came here looking for her and not me has killed it. “Nothing. You can’t make something like this better.” She’s having his baby.
I peel off my pristine white bridal underwear—I was supposed to spend my wedding night wearing this, and now I want nothing to do with it. I dress quickly, pulling on a black bra and panty set to replace the virginal white that seems to taunt me. I top it with a flannel shirt, a jean skirt, and a pair of cowboy boots.
“Where are you going?” she asks.
“I don’t know.” My eyes fix on the duffel bag in the corner, packed for our honeymoon in the Bahamas. A week at the beach with my new husband. It was going to be so romantic.
I need to get out of here, but my car is at my mother-in-law’s.
She isn’t going to be your mother-in-law anymore.
“I need to borrow your car,” I blurt.
“What? Sure, okay. Anything you want.”
“Don’t call me.” I throw the duffel bag over my shoulder and run down the stairs right past Marcus.
I’m pulling out of the parking lot when Marcus returns to the front of the building. He doesn’t come after me. He lifts a hand in a helpless wave. Asshole.
Where am I going?
The only thing that sounds more depressing than going on my honeymoon alone is staying here, so I drive to the airport. Screw Marcus. Screw Veronica. I’m going to the beach.
When I get to the airline counter, I clutch my purse with shaking hands and paste on a smile for the attendant. “I need to see about changing my flight.”
“Sure. May I see your ID?”
I stare at the purse in my hands and freeze. Because I don’t have my purse. I have Veronica’s. And Veronica’s ID.
“Ma’am? Your ID, please?” The chipper attendant cocks her head as she waits for me to hand over my identification.
I have Veronica’s purse. My purse is back at the ceremony site. With all those decorations I spent months preparing, and all those people who have talked about me behind my back most of my life.
“Ma’am, you’ll need a photo ID to fly today,” the attendant says.
Didn’t Veronica say she was supposed to fly to Michigan tonight? I pull her wallet from her purse and slide over her identification. �
��I don’t remember when my flight leaves.”
The woman taps something into the computer. She looks at Veronica’s picture then at me and nods, satisfied. “It leaves in two hours. Would you like to upgrade to business class for your flight to Grand Rapids?”
Grand Rapids, Michigan. I don’t even know what they have in Grand Rapids. I’ve never left Alabama. But anything is better than staying here.
I pull Veronica’s credit card from her wallet and pass it over to the attendant. “I’d love to.”
Six hours later…
“God, you’re hot.”
“God, I am.” I wave my hand in front of my face. “They sure do have the heat cranked up, don’t they?”
The guy smiles and steps closer to my stool. He’s good-looking by conventional standards—a strong jaw, a big smile, and thick blond hair parted to the side. He leans in so close that I can smell the whiskey on his breath. “Can I confess something?”
I tilt my head to the side, and the whole bar spins. Tequila is so fun. Why don’t I drink it all the time? “Confess what? I’m not a priest.”
“It’s not that kind of confession.” John—I think he said his name was John, but maybe it’s Judas. My sister’s name should be Judas. How could she betray me like that? How could she walk down the aisle at my wedding carrying my fiancé’s baby?
“I can’t stop thinking about getting inside you,” John says, snapping me out of my thoughts. He lowers his head so his lips sweep my ear. “It’s going to feel so good.”
That escalated quickly.
I giggle because his mouth on my ear tickles, then I giggle again because this is so ridiculous. Look at me, sitting here on my wedding night in a strange bar, in a town I’ve never heard of, and a guy I met less than ten minutes ago just whispered something dirtier than anything Marcus has ever said to me. Then I giggle more, because it feels good and if I stop laughing . . .
I’m afraid of what happens if I stop laughing.
“You like the sound of that?” He pulls back enough for me to see his smile.
My giggle turns to a snort. “Nope.” I wave to the bartender for another drink. Since I started drinking, I stopped caring so much about where I’m supposed to be right now, and I really, really don’t want to care right now. About anything, but especially not the things I can’t let myself think about.
My wedding night. The Plaza Hotel. Marcus.
I need more tequila.
“No?” John frowns at me, as if I’m a complex puzzle.
I reach for my drink but frown when I find it empty. I wave to the bartender again before turning to face John. “You’re awfully nice, John, but I don’t think we’re on the same page.”
He takes my hand in his and squeezes. “Then let me read to you.”
I look around to see if anyone else heard what he just said—because gag—and catch the eye of a tall, dark-haired man standing a few feet behind John. I flash him a smile, but he doesn’t seem to share my amusement.
I pull my hand out of John’s. “No thanks.”
John looks baffled. As if I just turned down eighty grand in cash and not a ride on his disco stick.
I snort again. “Disco stick. Does anyone actually call it that?”
He blinks at me. “Are you asking me what I call my dick?”
“No!” I shudder, then think again. “Marcus called his Henry. That should have been a sign, shouldn’t it? He talked about his penis like it was separate from him and had a mind of its own. Henry can’t stop thinking about you.” I giggle. “Oh my God, how did I not expect this?”
John looks into my eyes and brushes my hair behind my ear. “Did he break your heart? Let me prove that men can be good.”
“I’m not convinced that’s true.” Maybe men can be good, just not with me. There’s something fundamentally wrong with me that makes formerly good men change when they try to love me.
I perk up when I see the bartender slide a drink in front of me, and then frown when I realize it’s a glass of ice water. “Tequila?”
She nudges the glass closer to my hand and arches a brow. “This first. Pace yourself, okay?”
“Right. Sure. Water’s a great idea.” I try to sound extra sober so she’ll bring me more tequila next time I ask. Tonight, the drinks are on Veronica, so I’m ordering top-shelf booze. I take a sip of water, then cringe when it hits my stomach. Have I eaten today? There was the toast Martha made me before we went to the hair salon. I think I took one bite to appease her, but I was too nervous and eating felt like swallowing sawdust.
John watches the bartender retreat. “Ava has a stick up her ass, but I have plenty of tequila at my place. I’ll take good care of you.”
I shake my head, then realize it’s kind of fun to roll it from side to side, and do it again. “I don’t want to go to your house,” I tell John. “I want to stay here and forget that today was the worst day of my life.”
“I’ll make it better.”
The tall man behind John narrows his eyes at my overly aggressive suitor before turning his gaze on me. This time, I really look at him. He’s like a Greek god—tall, with shoulders so broad they probably have their own zip code. His lips quirk, and his eyes—oh God, his eyes are amazing. They’re this deep brown and turn down a little at the corners, as if he smiles so rarely that his eyes have forgotten how. He could play a tortured movie hero with those eyes.
“We both feel this thing between us,” John says, and I tear my gaze away from the tortured hero. “Let’s get out of here. I promise we won’t do anything you don’t want to do.”
“All I want to do is drink more tequila.” But not with him. No, that doesn’t actually sound like a good time at all.
“Then let’s get out of here.”
“No.” Suddenly, I’m out of patience with John and his inability to take no for an answer. I push on his shoulder to urge him away from me. “Give me some space, okay?”
John doesn’t budge. His hand wraps around my upper arm, and his thumb rubs tiny circles on my shoulder. “I think you like me in your space.”
I do my best to conjure psychic abilities and telepathically beg the guy behind John to help. When he continues to stare with those sad eyes rather than intervene, I mentally chastise myself. I’m a grown woman. I don’t need some tall, dark stranger to scare away unwanted suitors. I can save myself. “I don’t, actually,” I tell John. It’s crowded in here, but if I slide off the barstool and squeeze behind the group of guys by the pool table, it’ll put distance between me and this guy, and maybe he won’t try to follow. God, what a buzzkill.
Before I can decide the best way to escape, the Greek god steps around John to stand by my side. In the next breath, he sweeps John’s hand away from my arm. “Johnny boy,” he says. “I see you met my girlfriend. I think you’re making her uncomfortable.”
John’s eyes narrow, and his lips twist. “You don’t have a girlfriend.”
The tall guy slings an arm over my shoulder and smiles, but it’s not sincere, and definitely not kind. “Sure I do. And even if I didn’t, I’m pretty sure she asked you to give her some space.”
John backs up a full three feet and holds up both hands. “Listen, sorry if your girl was making eyes at me. I guess it was a misunderstanding.”
The tall guy arches a brow, and I don’t have to be a mind reader to know what he thinks of John. His expression says, You’re a fucking douche, and if you don’t back off, I’m going to see how it feels to bury my fist in your face. Or maybe that’s just wishful thinking on my part. I’ve never had one guy punch another for me, and right now, that sounds fun. Sorry, John.
“Fuck this. She’s not worth it,” John says. He swipes his beer off the counter and stumbles to the other side of the bar to a group of guys standing around a pool table.
When John’s gone, my Greek god turns to me. “You okay?”
I really like him. I wish I’d let him buy me a drink and not John. Then again, John wanted to buy me a drink, and this
guy seems more irritated at having to help than interested in making small talk with a random drunk girl. “I’m fine.” I’m not fine. I’m so far from fine that I don’t even know what fine looks like anymore.
“John doesn’t take a hint very well.”
“I’ve gotten more foreplay from my gynecologist.”
He chokes on his beer. “Is that so?”
“I suppose this is my fault. I smiled at him and let him buy me a drink.”
“John or your gynecologist?”
I shake my head. “John. My OBGYN doesn’t drink, and anyway, she’s not my type.”
The guy bites his lip, and I think there might be a smile trapped under those perfect white teeth. “I’m still not convinced it’s your fault. Anything else you did to give John the wrong idea?”
“Asked him questions.”
He folds his arms. “What kind of questions?”
“I asked his name. Is that, like, a mating ritual here? What’s your name? means we’ll be screwing like bunnies in fifteen minutes?”
He chuckles then shakes his head. “Are you just drunk, or are you always this adorable?”
I frown. Did he just flirt with me? I’m pretty sure he doesn’t even like me, so why would he flirt? “Can’t it be both?”
He turns his head and cuts his gaze to John before bringing it back to me. His eyes scan my face as if he’s still trying to determine if I’m okay. “Listen, I’ve got a meeting.”
“Isn’t it Saturday night?” I tap my phone to wake it, and the screen reads 11:05. If I were still in Jeffe—if Veronica weren’t pregnant, if Marcus hadn’t betrayed me—I’d be in the bridal suite at the Plaza right now. Instead, I took my sister’s plane ticket to Grand Rapids. While I was on the plane, I used her phone to open her email account, where I found a reservation for a rental car and a night in a hotel in a town called Jackson Harbor. Fast forward a few hours, a few shots of tequila, and a whole lot of trying not to think, and here I am.
And somehow, my story is still more believable than this man having a business meeting at eleven o’clock on a Saturday night.
