Sensing my distress, Sofi turns to look at me. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” I mumble. No! Capital N-O! My stomach churns while my breath labors against the nausea rising in my chest. Sweat beads cluster on my forehead. My skin grows chalky. Bile mixes with pieces of my dark broken self.
Then, just as I approach the Greenwich exit, Chopin’s Funeral March plays and at the same time, a minivan cuts in front of me, the back window sporting a sticker. Baby on Board. I totally lose it and swerve the car onto the soft shoulder. So radically, the tires screech against the asphalt.
“Jesus, Roman! What are you doing?” shrieks Sofi as I slam down on the brake, jerk the car into park, and jump out. Without closing the door, I bend over and, with a thundering belch, throw up on the road. The entire contents of my stomach puddle below me, including some chunky bits on my shoes. Cars whoosh by me. The stench is awful.
“Oh my God,” squawks Sofi as I barf again. I want to tell her to stay put, but I can’t get words out in my wretched condition. As I retch for a third time, I hear her get out of the Beamer. I vomit again, and from the corner of my watering eye, I see her round the car and run up to me. She looks aghast. Horrified.
“Stay away from me,” I choke out, trying to stand up straight. I feel weak and unsteady. My voice is hoarse and my knees are wobbly.
“Roman, please let me help you,” she insists, urgency and compassion in her voice.
I’m frankly too weak to resist her helping hand. In fact, I’m trembling and have the chills.
“Roman, are you sick?” she asks, gripping my forearm.
I shake my head, too afraid to open my mouth, fearing another round of puking.
“Let me clean you up.” Still clinging to my arm, she reaches into her bag with her free hand and slips out a Kleenex. Gently, she wipes my mouth and then lets go of me, squatting down to clean up my shoes. Thankfully, no chunky bits have gotten onto my black tux or my shirt. She stuffs the gross tissue into the fender. I’m grateful she didn’t litter and cost me a $200 fine as a highway patrol car pulls up to us.
A uniformed officer gets out and strides up to us. He’s careful not to step in my pool of vomit. “Is everything all right here?”
I nod and fake a small smile. “Yes, officer. Just some carsickness. Maybe a case of food poisoning. Or a bug.”
He looks at me questionably—at my eye patch—and I wonder if he’s going to say that I shouldn’t be driving with only one good eye. Instead, he asks me for my driver’s license. Which thankfully, I’ve kept up to date despite my aversion to driving. And my handicap.
“It’s in the car with my cell phone.”
Without me asking, Sophie pivots and reaches inside the car for it. She hands me the phone and I slide my license out of the shiny black leather case. It was just renewed last month. Taking it from me, the cop inspects it. My heart thuds. Is he going to call it in and check my driving record? Ask me about the accident? In front of Sofi? Worry pulses through me as I battle nausea. Fortunately, he doesn’t and hands it back to me. Shoving it back into my phone case, I inwardly sigh with relief until . . .
“Can I please see your car registration and insurance card?”
Huh?
“Officer.” Asswipe. “It’s a rental and we have a wedding to go to. We need to get on our way or we’ll be late.”
The prick lingers, demanding the rental contract. Fuck. I don’t remember if I took insurance out. I was a nervous wreck at the car rental place. Not in my right mind.
Sofi jumps in. “Officer, please! It’s my sister’s wedding! She’s terminally ill and may not have much time left on this earth! My parents will be devastated if we’re not there.”
Tears form in her eyes. I don’t know if she’s telling the truth about a family member or being a great actress and bullshitting him. Either way, she convinces him. He put his mobile device away and his face softens.
“Sorry to hear that. Drive carefully and enjoy yourselves.” He returns to his car and drives off. See ya.
“C’mon, let’s get the fuck out of here.”
Sofi doesn’t budge. “Roman, are you sure you’re okay?”
“Yeah,” I grumble, my voice now stronger.
“If you’re sick, I can call you an Uber or a cab to take you back to the city.”
“I told you I’m fine.” My voice rises with an unsettling mix of anger, regret, and faux determination. “Let’s go.” Before I change my mind. I’m dreading going to the wedding, but my dread is surpassed by one driving force. The fear of my butterfly going home with Blickdick. Or anywhere near him.
Before I can take one staggering step, she snatches the fob out of my hand. “Fine, but I’m driving.” Her sharp gaze meets mine. “Get in.”
CHAPTER 20
Sofi
“I’ll park the car,” says Roman, his voice edgy, as we pull into the circular driveway of Derek’s family’s palatial Connecticut estate. A dozen valets await us. “Get out.”
“Why?”
“Just do as I say.”
Mr. Bossy. I shift into park and begrudgingly do as he’s asked. We exchange places and he’s back behind the wheel.
“Put your seat belt on!” he orders.
“We’re only going fifty feet!”
“Do it!”
“Fine.” I stab the word at him and buckle up. “What’s going on?” I ask as he drives off in the direction of a designated parking area.
He pulls into a spot. “I’m not feeling good again.”
“Maybe you’re just allergic to weddings,” I say half-jokingly.
“Yeah, maybe I am.” He sounds serious. “I don’t want to create an ugly scene, so I’m going to stay in the car.”
“What do you mean?”
“Plain and simple. I’m not going to the wedding.”
My heart sinks with disappointment. “That’s a shame. It’s going to be beautiful.”
“You’ll tell me all about it . . . less is best.” He turns off the engine, then rounds the car to open my door. As I step out, he swings the back passenger door open and slides out the gorgeous black gown that’s sealed in a garment bag. He hands it to me. With all the layers of black taffeta and the crinoline, it weighs a ton.
“Be careful putting it on. Ask someone to help you if need be. And be sure to send me a photo of you in it. A few.”
“I will. What are you going to be doing?”
He gives me a sullen look. “I’ll tell you the one thing I won’t be doing—and that’s puking.”
“If you change your mind, you know where to find me.”
“Maybe, I’ll catch up with you later.”
I’m so pissed off with him that I almost say don’t bother. He gets back into the car and I stalk off. The gown draped over my arm. It’s almost six p.m. With the wedding about to start, I pick up my pace and break into a jog.
In the distance, I hear Roman yell out, “Butterfly, be careful. Don’t fall.”
Fuck him. It’s all his fault we’re so late. If I miss the procession, Harper will never forgive me. And I’ll never forgive myself.
Breathlessly, upon entering the English-style Tudor mansion, I tell the receptionist who I am, and I’m immediately ushered to a guesthouse that’s twice the size of my parents’ house. The main room is buzzing with members of the wedding party—black-tied groomsmen, bridesmaids in teal gowns as well as an adorable ring bearer and flower girl. Harper’s mom, in a stunning blush-pink gown, is flitting around the interior with the wedding coordinator, who keeps losing her half-moon glasses. Catching my breath, I search for Harper and then she makes her grand entrance. I gasp. She looks more gorgeous than ever in her body-hugging Vera Wang gown, the lace veil trailing from a sparkling tiara.
She instantly spots me and bolts my way. Only Harper could move like Wonder Woman in a wedding gown and stilettos. She was probably born wearing both.
She hugs me, careful not to ruin her makeup or upswept curls. “Oh my God, Sofi! Thank God y
ou’re here. I was freaking out! The wedding starts in fifteen minutes. Quick! Get dressed!” She points in the direction of a dressing room. “There’s someone who can help you put on your dress and do your hair and makeup.” She makes a face. “Trust me, you seriously need help in those departments.” Gee, thanks. My in-your-face bestie. Never one to hold back.
The behind-the-scenes stylists work me so fast I don’t have a chance to glimpse myself in Roman’s extravagant gown. All I know is I feel like royalty with my braided hair coiled like a crown around my head, though I’m sure I’m not walking in my six-inch heels like any duchess, princess, or queen. Just in the nick of time, I’m back in the main room where the wedding party is lining up for the procession. The frantic wedding planner is shouting orders via a megaphone. She reprimands the little flower girl, who starts to bawl. Poor thing! I want to take her in my arms, but it’s utter mayhem.
At the sight of me, Harper’s jaw drops and I can hear her gasp. Scowling, she marches my way. “Are you serious, Sofe? Oh my God! That dress! You’re going to steal my thunder!”
Already, I feel all eyes on me. “You like it? The up-and-coming designer I’m apprenticing with made it.” I vaguely told her about my new job but didn’t mention I was working for Roman Hurst because I knew my ambitious friend would be all over me. And worse, all over him. Roman has made it loud and clear how much he values his privacy. And I’ve made a vow to protect it. Still scrutinizing me, she grows more incensed.
“What happened to the maid of honor dress I bought you?”
A duh moment. I mentally roll my eyes. “Remember? My apartment building had a fire. It went up in flames like everything else.”
“Don’t you have anything else to wear? Something simpler?”
Sheesh. I don’t know why I put up with her. “No, sorry. This is it. I haven’t had time to go shopping.”
Before Harper can say another word, the wedding planner whisks me away and escorts me to my place in the procession lineup. I’m the third one out the gate, following the groom with his parents and the ring bearer/flower girl pairing. I’m standing in line behind the toffee-skinned flower girl who’s still sniffling. She looks to be five or six. I gently put my hands on her thin shoulders and spin her around. Bending down, I wipe away her tears with my fingertips.
“Why are you crying?” I ask.
“That mean lady over there.” She points to the wedding planner, who’s jostling people into place. “She yelled at me and told me I wasn’t a good listener.”
“Yeah, she’s pretty mean. But I think she’s just stressed out and is actually nice.” I adjust the reef of fresh flowers circling her long wavy jet-black hair. “I think you look beautiful.”
Her sniffling subsiding, she looks up at me with her glistening chocolate-brown eyes. “You do?”
I nod. “Totally.”
She breaks into a cheek-to-cheek smile. “Gracias! And I think you look like a princess!”
A smile back. “If I ever have a little girl, I hope she’s just like you.” And for some unexpected crazy reason, maybe because the color of her lustrous hair is the same as Roman’s, I wonder what a child with him would be like.
My imagination doesn’t go far. In the distance, chamber music starts up. The wedding has begun.
The garden ceremony was beautiful. Straight out of a fairy tale. It went off without a hitch and there was both laughter and tears among the three hundred or so guests when Harper messed up her vows and said “I do” to Derek prematurely. Vincent was there, running around like a banshee, taking photo after photo and creating memories with three other photographers plus the videographers. Many of the guests snapped pictures with their phones and took videos. Most of the time, I fiddled with my lucky butterfly pendant and kept thinking about Roman. The image of him in his elegant tux—oh so gorgeous and sexy—filling my mind. Wondering what he was doing. Hoping he was okay. And wishing I’d see him among the spectators. He was nowhere in sight. So much for wishful thinking.
Everyone’s now gathered in a ginormous white tent constructed over the pool for the dinner reception. The interior is dazzling with starry fairy lights dripping from the soaring ceiling and dozens of candlelit tables set with extravagant linens, china, and flowers. I was supposed to be seated at a table with Vincent, but somehow there was a screw-up and they’ve put me at a table with all the kids. Including the adorable flower girl. I learn her mother works for Derek’s father and her name is Mari.
“It’s short for Mariposa,” she tells me.
I smile. “That means butterfly in Spanish.”
She cocks her head. “How did you know that?”
“I love butterflies and know a lot about them.”
Her twinkling eyes fix on my lucky butterfly pendant. “Your necklace is so pretty.”
“Thanks! My daddy gave it to me when I was your age.” She gently touches it with her little fingers as I ask, “Have you ever been to the Museum of Natural History’s Butterfly Conservatory? There are hundreds of butterflies fluttering all around it.”
She shakes her head. “That sounds cool.”
“Maybe sometime your mommy will let me take you.”
Her eyes light up like fireflies. “Wow! That would be so fun!”
Awaiting the debut of the newlyweds, I’m having a blast. The kids are delightful, and having worked with kids before while I was in college, I have no problem making conversation with them. It’s so way better than making small talk with a bunch of stuffy adults I don’t know. Plus, they keep my mind off Roman, who I can’t reach because I stupidly left my purse with my phone in the car.
Making things even better, while all the adults are served their first course—some kind of pressed duck dish with a marmalade glaze—I’m served the first part of the kids’ meal—macaroni and cheese. You know what, let them eat their fois gras. The mac ‘n’ cheese is delicious—almost as good as my mom’s. While we happily devour it, Mr. and Mrs. Derek Plimpton the Third make their debut. Boisterous applause and cheers abound. The ten-piece band begins to play Bruno Mars’s “Just the Way You Are,” the raspy lead singer sounding every bit as good as the song’s originator. All eyes are on the beautiful couple as they do their first dance, including mine. My heart swells with happiness. Even if my best friend can be a self-centered pain in the ass. How perfect and in love they look. Tomorrow morning they’ll be on their way to The Bahamas for their honeymoon.
Their dance is followed by the traditional father–daughter/mother–son dance, and shortly afterward, everyone’s invited to join in. The kids jump up from their seats and run to the dance floor, going crazy to Enrique Iglesias’s “Bailando.” I’m left alone, and for the first time tonight, a pang of sadness stabs me. Damn Roman for deserting me. Before I can sulk too much, Vincent jogs up to me. He looks adorable in his skinny black tux, his camera slung over his shoulder and brushing his hip.
“Hey, Sofi! I caught a break. You wanna dance?”
He has no clue I came up here with Roman. I waste no time saying sure and spring up from my seat, forgetting how voluminous my dress is and how high my shoes are. I stumble. Vincent steadies me, his keen photographer eyes roaming down the length of my gown before returning to my face.
“Wow, mí amor! You look incredible.”
“Thanks,” I say humbly.
“Let me take a photo.” He reaches for his camera.
Smiling, I let him click away. A wicked idea pops into my head. “Vincent, can you also take a couple with your phone, including one with the two of us.”
“Sure, no prob.” He reaches into the breast pocket of his jacket and whips out his cell. I pose for him again, and then, wrapping his arm around me, he takes a selfie of the two of us, our faces brimming with megawatt smiles.
“Vincent, can I borrow your phone for a sec? I want to email the photos to my parents and show them this gown.”
“Why not use your phone?”
“I forgot it.”
“Sure.”
Unable to stifle a smirk, I thank Vincent again and hand him back his phone. Putting it away, he grasps my hand.
“C’mon, Sofi, let’s dance.”
Once again, I feel all eyes on me as I let Vincent lead me to the dance floor.
Screw you, Roman. I’m going to have fun!
CHAPTER 21
Roman
How long do fricking weddings take? I wouldn’t know because I’ve never been to one. Still sitting in the car, I grow antsier and antsier. The motor running so I can listen to the radio and keep the air-conditioning on, I keep my eye on the clock. The minutes pass like hot molasses. Slow and agonizing.
It happened a little over ten years ago. The event that changed my life. And what makes things worse, it happened just a few miles from here. Some memories never die. I’ve relived it so many times, each time as emotionally excruciating as the time before. Today is no exception. An unbearable wave of sadness and guilt passes over me. I should have never come here. Not in a million years. What the hell was I thinking?
Then, without warning, it plays. Stravinsky’s “Firebird.” Her symphonic spirit. The first few notes . . . and I lose it. I slam the radio off, but it’s too late. My chest clenching, I break into a sweat and feel myself suffocating. Sinking into an abyss. I’m having what my shrink calls an episode. A crippling anxiety attack. In the dark theater behind my eye patch, the horrific events of that day unfold like a horror movie. Breathe in, two three. Breathe out, two three. But it doesn’t help. The breaths come faster, turning into heaving pants, the ache in my chest so great I think I may be having a heart attack. I’ve got to get out of here! I don’t even care if I get into an accident. I deserve it.
BUTTERFLY: A Standalone Romantic Suspense Page 10
