Archie snorts. “Compression? I think you need ratchet straps.” I glare at him.
“I could do that, I guess,” I say about the hated spandex of death, nodding even as I remember being stuck in them before. “They almost killed me when I tried them for the gala, but for this dress, I’ll do it.”
Weston lowers his voice as if he’s imparting secret wisdom, “If you’d rather not, have you heard of the keto egg fast? It’s hardcore, at least six eggs per day, plus a little cheese or butter, coffee and water, but that’s it. Definitely not sustainable, but you should read up on it and see if it might be a very short-term fix.”
Archie’s already clicking away on his laptop. “Got it. You should try this and the Spanx. Uh-oh.” He stops reading and looks up. His lips are tilted up at the corners. “This says that one of the side effects of the egg fast is hellacious farts. Guess you’ll be blowing the mystery wide-open there with lover boy.” He pitches his voice high, “Happy wedding day . . . brrrrrupt . . . oops, was that me? Tee-hee-hee.” His dry delivery makes it even funnier, but I don’t dare stroke his ego and let him know that.
I roll my eyes. “Eggs and Spanx I can do for the waistline. But I can’t exactly change my boobs.” I rub my hand over my chest, accustomed to the soft flaring out, and then back up my chest. In this dress, it’s just one smooshed-flat surface.
Weston smiles. “I can definitely fix that.” He moves closer and gestures to the lace at the top. “I’ll alter this part so that it’s more of a portrait-style neckline. That’ll show off your collarbones and give you and your breasts room to breathe.”
My heart soars, and I look in the mirror once again. Abi steps to my right, Archie to my left. “Violet, are you saying yes to the dress?”
I can feel the tears rolling, because of this dress, because of this moment, because of the wedding. It all feels like what I’d dreamed it would really be like. But I choke the tears down with a reminder once again . . . fake, fake, fake.
So I force a big ,toothy grin and say, “Yes to the dress. And eggs and Spanx, I guess, too.”
Archie and Abi’s smiling faces match mine in the mirror, and I wonder if they’re faking it too.
Archie pulls his tablet up from his side and starts clicking away. “Okay, ordered Spanx to be here tomorrow. Ordered eggs, and some good-smelling candles, to be delivered to your place so you can start tonight. Sent Ross a warning about your incoming flatulence, and last but not least, marked the wedding dress hunt as complete on the to-do list. That’ll go to Kaede, Abi, me, and the wedding planner.”
I turn to him, grabbing him in a hug. He balks at first, so not a touchy-feely person, but he relents. “Thank you so much, Arch. What would I do without you? Wait, did you say you told Ross I was going to be gassy? What the hell?”
He ignores my outburst. “Without me, you’d still be small potatoes, just a one-woman shop, running yourself ragged as you tried to do it all. At least with me, you’re free to be your creative genius self and leave the details to moi.”
“Humble brag, much?” I tease, knowing he’s one hundred percent right.
“No reason to be humble when it’s true,” he answers. “Just call me Kanye.”
I hug Abi and then Weston. “We did it, guys. This is actually happening!”
* * *
Wednesday—3 Days Until the Wedding
Ross . . . is a saint.
I’m sure of it. I’m on day two and a half of not eating anything but eggs, the thought of which now makes me nauseous. I know I’m snappy, and Archie’s been walking on eggshells since yesterday afternoon around three o’clock when I went full Hungry Girl Crazy. Metaphorical eggshells, not literally. I’m not that much of a mess.
Ross, though, has been there beside me the entire time. Even when the gas hit me like Arch’s research said it would. I tried to leave the room before I let loose, pink with embarrassment, but he’d followed me and laughingly told me that I ‘broke the farting barrier first’ as he let one rip too. Between the two of us, we’d made the whole room smell like sulfur and had generously sprayed some Febreze and burned down three candles to cover the stench.
It’d actually been oddly funny and even cute in a weirdly gross way, but I had drawn the line at a farting competition, even when Ross tried to egg me on. ‘Get it? Egg?’ he’d prodded as I’d groaned at the bad puns he kept coming up with.
But I have lost three pounds, so hopefully, it’ll be worth it. I did make Abi promise to make sure I don’t inhale my dinner at the wedding. I’m afraid that when presented with actual food, delicious food from one of the best Italian restaurants in the city, I’ll succumb and go into ravenous caveman mode and start shoveling it in. At first, she’d said she’d pay money to see me do that in my fancy white gown. But when I reminded her that it’d be all captured on video for posterity and forever linked to her brother, she’d relented and agreed that it would definitely not be funny, after all.
Oh, God . . . the video crew. I still can’t believe this is my life, I think as I watch the vultures following me. Ross has another crew of his own tracking his every step, but he seems to mostly take it in stride, going on with his business as if they’re not there.
But I take sweet glee in watching the gates close behind me, effectively locking the paps out and giving me a moment’s peace.
Today is our final walkthrough and stamp of approval on Mrs. Montgomery’s ballroom. I’m nervous, but not nearly as much as I was for her living room project. I feel like we have a steady grip on the style and look she’s going for now, and I’m looking forward to beginning on her formal dining room after the honeymoon. It’s got this great twelve-inch-thick crown molding that’s still the original walnut stain, and Mrs. Montgomery wants the room to be dark and dramatic. I think I’m going to paint the walls a deep forest green.
The maid shows us into the ballroom, as usual, and Archie and I examine our work one last time before Mrs. Montgomery shows up.
“Don’t stress, Vi. It’s gorgeous and Lydia’s going to love it,” Archie says quietly.
I smile and tease, “Oh! Lydia is it, now? What happened to Bitch-ella?”
He shrugs. “So maybe she’s not so bad after all. She kept coming through to check on the ballroom, and at first, I thought it was because she didn’t trust me. I mean, I know I’m not the usual guy you just invite into your house when you’re someone like her.” He motions to his combat boots, ripped jeans, anarchy logoed shirt, and his fluff of hair that is currently covered by a jaunty ball cap. “I figured she thought I was going to steal the silverware. But then she just talked and watched me work and even had the cook bring lemonade to the paint crew one day.”
My jaw drops. “You didn’t tell me that!”
He smiles wryly. “You’ve been a bit busy, Boss. It’s fine, but she’s just . . . not so bad. Lonely, maybe, and I think her resting bitch face is just a bit too much Botox.” He stretches the skin of his face back and opens his eyes wide, and I laugh.
But I stop myself before I get too loud or jostle my belly too much. The last thing I need to do is fart in Mrs. Montgomery’s ballroom moments before she walks in.
Luckily, we get our faces back to their professional blandness as she walks in. “Mrs. Montgomery, thank you for taking time to meet with us today.”
“Of course, Violet. Good to see you again, Archie. Please, do show me about.”
We move around the room, discussing details and highlighting features. I show how the room can be arranged in a multitude of ways for different events and moods, from formal to more intimate.
True to Arch’s call, Mrs. Montgomery’s face barely moves as she nods along with my presentation. But when I’m done, she offers warm praise. “Well done. I like the functionality as well as the finery. So, the formal dining is next?”
I nod. “Yes, ma’am. As we discussed, I’m out of town next week for my honeymoon, but we’ve already taken measurements and discussed what you’d like for the space. As soon as I retu
rn, we’ll begin the first phase.”
Mrs. Montgomery turns to me, a sparkle in her eyes I haven’t seen before. “Oh, yes, you are marrying Ross Andrews this weekend, aren’t you?” She’s intentionally trying to make it seem like a small, forgettable thing but failing spectacularly. “Mind a little advice from an old lady?”
I respond the way I’m expected to. “Oh, Mrs. Montgomery, you’re not the least bit old. Why, you don’t look a day over fifty!” Lies, lies, lies. But she pats her white, coiffed hair proudly.
“Thank you. Even so, I have some experience with marrying well, dear.” She lowers her voice. “Read the prenuptial agreement, every single word, and have a lawyer read over it too. Do not walk down that aisle without doing that. Take it from me.” She gestures around her, and I wonder how it is that a widowed Mrs. Montgomery came to live in this large house. I’d never even thought about it, but now, I do.
“Thank you for the advice. I’ll definitely take it under advisement,” I say politely. “Archie will work with your house manager to schedule our appointments for the dining room after I get back.”
“That sounds lovely, dear,” she says as she shakes my hand. She offers a cheek to Archie, and he presses his to hers, both of them making an air kissing sound. “Don’t be a stranger, Archie.”
Outside, I give him an incredulous look as we get in the car. “Are you two BFFs now?”
He points a finger at me. “Don’t you dare say a word. We actually have a few things in common.”
“Such as?” I say, not able to think of a single thing Archie, a twenty-something, sarcastic, gay punk rocker might have in common with Lydia Montgomery, a seventy-something, old-school wealthy socialite.
He mumbles the answer, but I hear him clearly. “Real Housewives of Monte Carlo.”
I laugh a bit too hard at that, and before Archie can complain, I roll the windows down and shut my mouth, trying not to breathe too much.
Chapter 21
Ross—Friday—1 Day Until the Wedding
I don’t think either of us imagined, in our happiest dreams or our scariest nightmares, that our wedding would be like this.
But today, the eve of our wedding is putting any hopes we’d had of a simple ceremony firmly to rest. Not just six feet under, but more like oceans under.
All of Violet’s family is in town now, people who haven’t seen her since she was knee-high and whom she doesn’t even remember. I’ve lost track of names because there are just so many of them.
And now, we’ve completely filled up Papa and Nana’s house for a get-to-know-you lunch. I feel like a bug under a microscope as they circle me, patting my back, shaking my hand, and pulling me in for wet kisses to my cheeks as they exclaim in Italian. They might be saying kind things, or they might be discussing how a beauty like Violet could do so much better than a schmuck like me. I’m not sure either way.
“Tell us about your work, Ross.”
“How many babies are you planning to have?”
“How soon for the babies?”
“Do you know how lucky you are to catch a woman like Violet?”
“If you hurt her, I will kill you so badly, the polizia will never find your body.”
That last one had been said straight-faced and seriously in broken English by a big, beefy wall of a man whose name, I think, is Rafael. I won’t dare call him that in case it’s wrong, though, because I’m not willing to risk inciting his anger or violence.
It’s nice that they’re protective of Violet, but they don’t need to worry about me. I have no intention of hurting her.
I excuse myself from the group surrounding me and go in search of my bride. I find her in the kitchen, holding an olive in her hand. She’s killing me with this egg diet. I want to just feed her and worship her curves. But she’s holding strong and seems confident that her fitting with Weston will go fine later this afternoon. I know the olive is just a cover because if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that her family will feed you at every opportunity or create one just so that they can spoil you.
I step to her side, sliding my hands around her waist, and eat the olive from her fingers. “For me?”
She smiles and whispers as she leans into me. “Thank you. Nana and Sofia keep trying to get me to taste everything. I finally had to say the olives made everything taste salty, and that got them arguing about how much salt to add to the marinara again.”
I laugh. “Evil woman, making them fight just so they’ll leave you alone.” She shrugs and I press a soft kiss to her cheek.
“Aww, to be in love . . . such is amore,” a voice says behind us.
I turn to see Gianna . . . no, wait . . . it’s Giovianna—those extra syllables are a killer—leaning against the door frame with her hands clasped beneath her chin. She’s a cousin, I think, from somewhere on the family tree. I swear I’m going to need a PowerPoint presentation or a flowchart to keep them all straight.
“Violet, I wanted to ask you something,” Giovianna says. Her smile looks friendly enough, but I’ve been in enough board rooms to recognize a shark approaching when I see one.
“Of course,” Violet says, unaware of the minefield she’s stepping into.
“I wasn’t sure you knew this or not, but Michael and Anna have been in several weddings now. Anna does enjoy sprinkling the flowers along the aisle, and Michael is very responsible and would keep the rings safe and sound. They’d be a lovely addition to your bridal party. They’re family, you know?”
Giovianna wants her kids to be the flower girl and ring bearer? Are these the same kids who are currently running wild in the living room using tubes of wrapping paper as swords and bopping each other over the head like feral Bunny Foo-Foo characters? Why do they even have wrapping paper out? It’s not Christmas or a birthday.
And did they just . . . yes, Michael did in fact just launch himself from the chair to the couch in a dive roll to escape Anna’s foot kicking out at the chair legs.
No way are they flower girl and ring bearer material. We’re not even doing that. Are we?
I turn to Violet, who looks like a horrified deer in the headlights, and decide to take the oncoming bullet myself. I squeeze her side, letting her know that I’ve got this.
“That is so kind of you to offer, Giovianna. But we truly are trying to keep things as small as possible, given the size of Violet’s family and my family’s business associates. I’m sure you understand that when an event like this is pulled together so quickly, it has to be as streamlined as possible to prevent anything from going awry. But thank you, truly.” I smile, thinking I handled that quite nicely.
The temperature in the room drops to frigid, and I swear, conversations stop all over the house as eyes turn this way. Even Nana is looking at me through narrowed eyes, but I have no idea what’s wrong. I thought I was pretty polite about the whole thing because who forces their kids into someone else’s wedding party twenty-four hours before we walk down the aisle? Especially hellions like Michael and Anna, who are now smearing something on the coffee table. Dear God, let that be chocolate.
Violet suddenly finds her tongue and leans toward Giovianna. “Of course, we’d love to have them.”
There’s an audible sigh of relief, and conversations begin again. Giovianna glares at me as she walks away, hopefully, to corral her demon spawn.
“What just happened?” I whisper to Violet.
“You can’t turn down an offer like that. It’s . . . it’s just not done,” she says, as if that explains everything. It doesn’t, not at all.
We both look to the living room. Giovianna has Michael by the ear, which he’s struggling against, and Anna is sitting pretty as a picture in the chair, her feet swinging where they don’t reach the floor. She looks like one of those girls from The Shining, all sweet and innocent, but it’s a cover for the evil beneath.
“So we’re up to a news crew, an orchestra, family guest singers, and a forced ring bearer and flower girl. Anything I’m missing?” I as
k, shaking my head in disbelief.
Violet grimaces. “If we can pull this off, it’s going to be a miracle.”
* * *
We’re lying on the sofa, Violet’s body limp after the whirlwind of today. In the last eight hours, we’ve marked every last detail off the to-do list . . .
* The get together with her family, where I insulted everyone with my lack of understanding about forced wedding party participation being a gift.
* A walkthrough of the ceremony with Father O’Flannigan, during which Violet looked ready to collapse.
* Coffee with my mom, though my Dad was noticeably absent and Mom’s excuse that he was at work was painfully thin.
* Violet’s final fitting at the bridal shop. I’d heard her whoop of delight at fitting into the dress from the lobby, where I’d been relegated because it’s bad luck for the groom to see the bride.
And now, we wait. In less than twenty-four hours, we will have pulled off the biggest prank of our lives . . . together this time, instead of against one another.
“Ross?” she says, her voice a bit scratchy.
I put my arm around her, holding her gently. “Yeah?”
“Did I snap at Father O’Flannigan during practice today?”
I nod, kissing the top of her head. “Just a little. I’m sure he’s seen a few nervous brides before. It’s okay.”
“Really?” she asks, utterly exhausted. “Then why do I feel like everything’s going to be a giant mess tomorrow?”
“Because despite every bride’s best intentions, and every wedding planner in the world, a wedding is like a football game,” I say with a soft laugh. “Everyone’s game plan goes right out the door when something smacks you in the mouth.”
My Big Fat Fake Wedding Page 26
