After I Was His

by Amelia Wilde

  “I’m not a coward.”

  “I didn’t say you were a coward.” Whitney’s voice is level as she turns to the garment bag and unzips it with a precise flick of her wrist. It’s empty. The suit is out. “Ah. So you were planning to go.”

  “I wasn’t—”

  She marches into the bathroom, where my tuxedo hangs from the shower rod. I didn’t put it there. Dayton did. He came in laughing on the day of his bachelor party and took it out of the bag. We both looked at it hanging there. “We’re going to look slick as fuck,” he’d said.

  That was before the taxi ride.

  It shouldn’t be this much of a disruption. I should have been able to sleep that night—or early that morning, when I finally got back to the room and locked the door, testing it three times before I turned away. I couldn’t fucking sleep. I couldn’t get my eyes to shut. All the booze must have mixed with the nightmares hidden in my brain, and it put me on high alert.

  High alert, looking for nothing. Nobody came to the door. Nobody shot a gun in the street. Nothing blew up. And still, it was after ten in the morning by the time my hands stopped shaking. By the time my brain ceased rocketing back to Afghanistan, to the crunch of metal at the very beginning of it all, when the shrapnel from the bomb made contact with the bottom of the Humvee. It tore through the whole fucking thing, but that sound—that sound ended everything. It ended life as I knew it, and I never saw it coming.

  I should have seen it coming.

  Whitney comes out of the bathroom with the tuxedo and accoutrements draped over her arm. “Undershirt first.” She tosses the shirt to me, and I put it on. It seems like the right thing to do. “I don’t want to hear any excuses. I’m running very short on time. Summer’s dress isn’t on.”

  This last bit sounds nonsensical, and a dull pain throbs at my temples. This whole event is fucked. I didn’t even make the rehearsal dinner. Or the rehearsal. Shame boils in the pit of my gut. I couldn’t force myself into it. The sound from the car was still ringing in my ears.

  “That’s too bad.” I don’t know if that’s the right answer or not. “She’ll have to put it on without me.”

  “You?” Whitney scoffs. “She doesn’t care about you. She’s not going to put it on without me. Come on. I’ve got your pants.” She lays out the rest of the items on the bed. The cuff links. The coat. The shirt. There are fucking suspenders. What is this?

  “You don’t put the pants on first.”

  “Right. Sorry. My mind is addled because I had to look in three different bars before I realized that Dayton is an idiot. He’s adorable, but he’s an idiot.”

  “He’s not an idiot.”

  “He didn’t break the door down and haul you out. That makes him a little bit of an idiot in my book.”

  “That’s my best friend you’re talking about.”

  “That’s your best friend you’re standing up.” Whitney looks baffled, and she casts a glance into the corner of the hotel room, like she’s doing a reaction shot on The Office. “You can’t let him down like this. There’s nobody else who’s going to do the job for you.”

  She tosses me the shirt and I catch it.

  “Nice reflexes.”

  “I’m not putting this on.” Sweat beads at the small of my back. I don’t know how I’m going to leave the fucking hotel, much less attend the wedding. A lot could happen between the room and the reception hall, and I have no way to control it. I have no way to wrap my hands around the choking dread that’s squeezing my airway.

  “I did not anticipate having to dress a grown man, but”—Whitney purses her lips and comes toward me. She whips the shirt out of my hand and her fingers fly down over the button—”needs must.”

  Needs must? Where the hell did she learn an expression like that? I’m not sure, but up close, all I can see is the delicate pink of her lips, the cheekbone beneath the shimmering blush, and when I breathe in—holy Jesus. In her high heels, our eyes are almost at the same level...but not quite. Her eyelashes are full and beautiful against her cheeks.

  Then she looks up at me.

  It’s a sudden move, the thing she does with her arms. The shirt flies around me, her hands come toward me, and I react. It’s a gut-level reaction, not one that I can stop, and before the shirt has met my shoulders, I have her wrists in my hands.

  The adrenaline surges through my veins, cold under the heat of my irritation. Every muscle flexes, ready to defend. I take one breath in—there’s her scent again—and let it out. Dust motes in the air between us catch the light, and so do her dark eyes, streaked with a honey-gold that would take my breath away, if every part of me wasn’t focused on survival. Her mouth rounds in shock—those pretty, pink lips—and her eyebrows move upward toward the perfect line of her hair.

  We’re frozen.

  My heartbeat is loud in my ears. Thud. Thud. Thud.

  On the fourth heartbeat, Whitney wriggles in my grasp. Her skin is soft, so soft, under my palms, her pulse pumping under the delicate flesh of her wrist. “Okay,” she says, her voice soft but direct. “You can put the shirt on, if it means that much to you.”

  I drop her wrists and turn away.

  Jesus Christ.

  What the hell was that?

  “Go,” I tell her, raw command behind the word. “Get out of here. Tell Summer I’m sorry.”

  A pause.

  “I’m not going to do that.”

  I round on her, voice rising. “Then go. I don’t want you in here. I’m not going to the fucking wedding.” I’m still on that adrenaline high. I take two steps toward her, blood surging in my veins, and jab a finger in her direction. “Do you even know what could happen between here and that fucking reception hall?”

  I’ve lost control.

  I’ve lost control, and now she can see it—my naked, shameful dread.

  Whitney blinks. “We could stop for a drink.”

  “What?”

  “There’s a bar between here and there. I know. I looked in there for you before I came up here.”

  It subsides. The terror at the core of me subsides. How is she being so reasonable? How is she not running for the door?

  The shirt dangles from her fingertips and she lifts it back up, holding it in front of her by the shoulders. “Shirt,” she says, “then drink.”

  “No!” I thunder, and take a step closer. I’ll crowd her the hell out of here if that’s what I have to do. It’s not what I want to do, but this—this is too much. “No.”

  “You need to get out of your own head,” she spits, and the assessment is so piercing that it cuts me to the the quick. “I don’t know what the hell you’re obsessing about, but it is your sister’s wedding day, and you are going. You’re going, Wes. I don’t really give a shit if you don’t want to.” She raises her fist, high color in her cheeks, and presses her knuckles into my chest. “Put your shirt on, or I’ll do it for you.”

  The pressure on my chest is like a firecracker, a zing that goes all the way down to my cock. I’m so fucking pissed at her. She’s so fucking pretty.

  “Don’t touch me,” I growl.

  “Then grow up and do it yourself.”

  “Get out of here.”

  “I’ll get out when you’re dressed.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense.”

  “Nothing makes any sense, Wes, but you look like a fucking crazy person. Snap out of it. What do I have to do to get you to snap out of it?” Urgency makes her louder, louder.

  “There’s nothing you can do, you stupid little—”

  “Don’t even go there, asshole.”

  “Oh, that’s lovely,” I sneer, any semblance of restraint gone. “That’s a lovely mouth you’ve got on you. Do you kiss your mother with that—”

  “For the love of Christ,” she says, fire in her eyes, that mouth inches from mine. “I was serious. What the hell do I have to do? We have four minutes. Four minutes, Wes, and I have to be back in that room. Are you going to ruin this for everyone? Are y
ou?”

  “I have other priorities.”

  “Get over them, or I’ll—” Her eyes shine. Has she been drinking? They sent some almost-drunk beautiful girl to drag me to the wedding? Jesus. “I’ll be forced to take drastic measures.”

  Another wave of rage. “Yeah?” My voice drips with contempt. “Like what?”

  Whitney throws her arms around my neck and kisses me.

  3

  Whitney

  How many mimosas is too many before a wedding?

  Turns out, four.

  Wes tastes like toothpaste and heat. His body tenses—Surprise? Shock?—but it takes him less than a heartbeat to kiss me back. I have my arms around his neck, a loose hold that he could easily break away from, but he doesn’t. His hands go around my waist, the white dress shirt falls to the floor, and instead of pushing me in the opposite direction, he pulls me close, my hips against his.

  Why did I make him put on that undershirt? I’d do anything to run my hands down his bare abs right now.

  The kiss is hard, forceful. Wes is not my type. He’s the kind of guy I can’t stand. But this kiss? This growling, possessive kiss? I could be into this. A shiver of sheer delight runs down my spine, and it’s not because I’m in love with Wes. Jesus, no. It’s because this is so wrong. I shouldn’t be kissing Summer’s brother. She is my best friend in the world.

  But she wanted me to get him to the wedding at any cost, and he wouldn’t shut that mouth of his. He was going to keep arguing and arguing until something drastic happened.

  I’m something drastic.

  He moves one of his hands and cups the back of my neck, his calloused skin rough against the wispy hairs underneath the wedding-grade updo. Hot damn. Hot damn. Wes might be acting like a delicate flower—a petulant, delicate flower—but he doesn’t kiss like one. His tongue teases at my lips and I give into it, letting him explore for a moment before I push back, nipping at his bottom lip. He lets out a short breath and we collide, one more time, before he pushes away from me, the air electric around us.

  Wes wipes the pad of his thumb against his lips, his green eyes stormy, but he doesn’t turn away. He looks right into my eyes. “What the hell was that?”

  “You wouldn’t shut your mouth and follow the plan. Drastic measures. I think that worked to reset the conversation, don’t you?” He doesn’t answer while I bend to pick up the shirt from the floor. I sincerely hope he can’t see the way my knees are trembling beneath the skirt of my dress. I kissed him. I’m the one who went there, but my body is reacting like he swept me off my feet and dropped me onto the saddle of an elegant white stallion. Ride off into the sunset with Wes? Not likely. “Put this on.”

  He steps close, eyes flashing.

  I hold my breath, bracing for the argument, the dismissal I’ll have to take back to Summer. And, oh, God, Linda.

  Wes snatches the shirt from my hand. “Fine.”

  I exhale.

  “Are you going to stand there and watch me?”

  “I’m not leaving, if that’s what you’re asking. We’re late.” He buttons up the shirt and I toss him his pants. “Faster than that, oh best man.”

  He glances up at me, his hands on the waistband of his jeans. “You’re incredibly fucking pushy.”

  “It gets results.”

  He smirks, but he gets himself into the tuxedo pants nonetheless.

  “You’re a lifesaver,” Summer whispers. I have something like thirty seconds before I walk down the aisle. Wes is at the front with Dayton. Thank God I don’t have to walk with him right now. I’ll get myself together during the ceremony, and the walk out will be fine.

  Summer’s hands tremble around her bouquet, which is just this side of massive. It’s a riot of spring roses and it’s almost as beautiful as she is. “Are you all right? Do you need a tissue?” I have an entire bridal emergency kit strategically folded into my own bouquet.

  “I have tissues too,” whispers Alex. It’s her turn after me, and then the main event.

  “I’m okay,” she whispers, eyes shining. “How’d you get Wes down here on time for the pictures?”

  “I worked a small miracle.” I give her an encouraging smile. We do not need to talk about the details of the miracle. All that matters, is that I got to the room in time to slide into some photos of buttoning Summer’s dress—a lace confection that reminds me of Princess Kate’s wedding dress, it’s that classy and wonderful—and Wes was in the photos with Dayton and his other groomsman. It’s some guy named Curtis. I’m more than a little desperate to know where Dayton found a guy like Curtis. The guy looks good—in his tux, he’s a regular...you know, groomsman—but there’s something in his eyes that makes me wonder what his story is.

  “I couldn’t have pulled this off without you.” Summer, ever the nice one, looks at Alex. “You, either. All those doughnuts.”

  I take Summer’s hand and squeeze, and Alex reaches out to pat her arm. “That’s what best friends are for.”

  “I can’t believe you’re still mine, after I abandoned you to that apartment all by yourself.”

  “Solo living is a blessing, not a curse.”

  She cocks her head to the side, looking like a magazine ad for the expression don’t lie to me. “Solo rent is a curse.”

  “I’ve got a sublease going on.”

  “Got or had?”

  I sigh. “Had. But she took a job in LA. It’s not a big deal. I’ll line something up soon.” The wedding coordinator hisses my name from her spot by the doorway. “It’s your wedding day. Stop fretting about the apartment! Also, you look like a glorious wedding angel and I love you.”

  “You guys are hilarious,” whispers Alex, then turns to Summer. “Why didn’t you tell me she was so great? Never mind, never mind, wedding day.”

  Summer beams at me, and it’s my turn to walk down the aisle.

  Slow, measured steps. That’s what we practiced at the rehearsal. Gentle smile, not a fucking terrifying grin. Shoulders down, chin slightly forward. Summer’s wedding coordinator is kind of bitchy, but she does know how to get the best out of the wedding photos. I can respect that.

  I focus on the gentle smile and not on Wes.

  I’m totally not looking at him, standing there in his tux, a step away from Dayton, posture tall and precise, like I thought it would be. I am not noticing his sandy hair, a couple of shades darker than Summer’s, or the way he flicks his eyes to me as I come down the aisle. I don’t even see how his eyes heat up at the sight of me. Gentle smile. Gentle smile. Do not get turned on by the memory of his lips on mine while I’m walking down the aisle at my best friend’s wedding.

  I feel it before it happens—the damn aisle runner. There’s a crease and it catches the toe of my high heel. No. No. But I am a photogenic goddess in this moment and I will not be thwarted by an aisle runner. I will not have Wes see me fall on my face in front of the church.

  I lift my heel high—too high—and pray nobody’s taking a picture. A couple of little gasps rise in the air around me, but I save it. By God, I save it. I put my foot firmly back down on the ground and take the next step.

  Don’t look at him. Don’t look at him. Shoulders down, chin out—

  Fuck. I looked.

  He’s smirking again, that asshole.

  Smirking like I’m the hilarious joke at this wedding and not the best man who almost didn’t show up. My cheeks burn, but I keep my gentle smile on like a true professional. Shoulders down, chin slightly forward.

  I climb the steps, onto the dais, with no further incident and take my place on the other side of the officiant, who is a woman from the Unitarian Church with curly hair that is to die for. It spills down her back, reddish and shining. Maybe she can be my new best friend, now that Summer moved out.

  No. I’d never replace her, but the officiant—Kristi—is one of those people you instantly like. She’s a hugger too. The thing I like best about her is that she’s blocking my view of Wes.

  I stand slightly on an
angle as Alex comes down the aisle, slightly too fast. You can’t win them all.

  Then it’s Summer’s turn.

  There’s a whisper of fabric as everyone rises, a swell of music, and oh, my God, my heart aches at the perfect coordination of it all. Summer is lit by the floor-to-ceiling windows on this side of the hall, and even behind the delicate sheen of her veil, I can see how hard she’s smiling. Her eyes shine with tears. She and her dad pause inside the door for the photographer, and she looks up at him as if for reassurance. He looks down at her, pride illuminating his face.

  It’s a moment I will never, ever experience. I lower my lashes and look at the floor.

  Then the music rises again, and Summer’s dad walks her down the aisle. I pick up my head—shoulders down, chin slightly out—because the photographers are going to get a shot of Summer from the back as she comes toward her fiancé.

  She can’t take her eyes off him. Halfway down the aisle, she mouths the word, You. Dayton says it back, then puts a fist to his mouth. Jesus, this is going to be a sob-fest if people don’t get it together. Starting with me.

  I take a deep breath and let it out. Summer arrives at the stairs and her dad walks her up, and then there’s a whole process involving Dayton shaking his hand and taking his bride by the arm. The officiant launches into a speech about two people coming together in the bond of marriage. I listen until she compares a new love to the springtime, full of hope, because for me, it’s not that way, though I’d never say that to Summer. Not now. Of course not now. Not even when we’re two bottles in at Vino Veritas and sharing sex secrets with each other. No way.

  It’s time for the vows.

  It’s my time to leap into action—graceful, practiced action. Summer turns and I step to her side. Her bouquet is heavy as fuck, but I wear a gentle smile nonetheless. It’s a good thing I’ve been lifting at the gym, honestly, because my pre-weights arm muscles would give out under the combined weight of our flowers.