Shortcake

by Watson, Lucy

  “He’s certifiably crazy,” Mara says with a small smile, watching him disappear out the door.

  “Crazy ones make the best lovers, chérie,” Jacob states, while scrolling through his pictures, his suggestive grin saying he’s an expert on looney love.

  “Well, then I must be unbelievable in bed,” I add on an exhale, slumping back in the chair, trying not to think of sex with Ben.

  The way he moves his hips, the way he bites the curve of my neck, the way he grips my hair. My non-thoughts are followed by a real hollowness in my gut that no amount of Rico’s pizza or gummy bears will ever fill.

  Laughter erupts around me.

  So glad they’re having a good time.

  Not.

  * * *

  My first honest laugh, on this day from hell, came four hours ago when a rouge-cheeked Josie gifted me the secret to her sixty years of happiness with her husband, Sal. Her secret came in the form of a 1950s, tattered handbook called The Good Housewife’s Guide to a Happy Husband.

  My second laugh of the day came when, sitting in Jacob’s swivel chair, I read Tip #3 out loud to a horrified-looking Mara.

  “Tip #3: Prepare yourself. Take fifteen minutes to rest so you’ll be refreshed when he arrives. Touch up your makeup, put a ribbon in your hair, and be fresh-looking. He has just been with a lot of work-weary people and deserves to end his day with something pretty to look at.”

  Picturing a young rosy-cheeked Josie greeting her Sal with a ribbon in her hair and a pot roast in her hands triggered another laugh to bubble up from my throat. This one was tinged with a little something other than happiness. Envy, maybe? I don’t know.

  I pictured myself greeting Greg with a ribbon in my hair. Nope. Never happened. Never would. Then I pictured myself greeting Ben all dolled-up with a pot roast in hand. My feminist bones would never let me admit it out loud, but if it made Ben smile that hallway smile at me, I’d do it every day until my last.

  Tip #23 I would never do, though. Not even for Ben.

  That’s a lie, and you know it.

  Shhh…

  After having a glass of champagne from the bottle Dottie pulled from her purse, I felt like I was actually doing it. I was breathing. Smiling. Laughing. Getting ready for a fake wedding. And I was okay. Not great. But okay.

  Until now, step number 987 on my wedding day path.

  This is the one that does me in.

  This is the one that causes my head to spin and my world to tilt. This is the step that takes me out of the fog of denial and to the full-length mirror of reality.

  The woman standing in the goddess wedding dress with fairytale hair covered by a veil, unicorn skin, and romantic rose-petal lips shatters my heart into a million pieces.

  It’s all a lie.

  The realization that I’ll be walking down the aisle toward a man I’m in love with who doesn’t love me back, who I’ll never see again after next week, steals my breath and squeezes my chest in a vice.

  I can’t breathe.

  “I can’t do it, I’m so sorry,” I cry out to no one and everyone as I hobble back to the swivel chair, trying to take in oxygen while leaving pieces of shattered soul behind.

  I can’t breathe.

  Mara is at my side in a flash, talking to me, her words garbled like she’s underwater. She’s probably asking me for the safeword, but I can’t speak.

  I can’t think. Can’t breathe.

  I can’t even cry properly, and quickly learn that tearless crying is the most painful of all, and no matter how hard I try to suck-it-up-buttercup, I stay strapped to the chair.

  I don’t know how long I sit there, but I know it’s long enough for the Brigade to go full wedding-panic mode. I’m trying to say the words that will wipe the worry from their faces, but all that comes out is sorry on a throaty wheeze.

  My eyes search the room for Mara through my haze, but she’s gone. How the hell am I supposed to wheeze the safeword to her if she’s not freaking here?

  Ada’s chocolate eyes come into view as she bends down in front of me, her face set in worried lines. I hate that I put those there.

  “I’m sorry,” I manage to whisper, between shallow breaths, closing my eyes against the guilt at putting that look on her usually smiling face.

  “Shhh… none of that, now. Take a deep breath,” she says, her dry hand rubbing soothing strokes along my arm. “You’re okay.”

  I take a deep breath through my nose and nod. Even though I’m no longer hyperventilating, I’m far from okay.

  “There you go. You’re okay.”

  I nod again, feeling like the Jesus bobblehead on Griselda’s car dash.

  Dottie’s voice crashes in the room, “How’s she supposed to breathe with you hovering over her like that. Move it. She just needs some orange juice, and she’ll be fine.”

  I open my eyes, just as Dottie shoves Ada out of the way and brings a giant glass of orange juice to my lips like this is a freaking Julia Roberts-Steel Magnolias moment.

  “Drink up,” she orders. Her hand cups under my chin as she tilts the glass, leaving me little choice. “Good, girl,” she says with a softness in her voice I’ve never heard before.

  A softness that makes me miss Rose. I blink back the sudden tears.

  Dottie wipes my chin and sets down the glass on the floor by the chair. She grabs my hand in her surprisingly warm one. “Well, don’t just sit there. Help me stand up, girl. I risked life and limb bending down, you know.”

  And just like that I’m standing, taking Dottie Baker up with me, and instantly regret it when she leans in close to say something, but a collective gasp sounds through the room that causes her to turn around.

  “What’s going on?” A familiar deep voice bellows from the doorway, stealing my breath, and making me grip Dottie’s shoulders in front of me.

  I’m sort of starting to like Dottie Baker, but I have no problem using her as a shield if I have to.

  If you ever want to see a group of octogenarians move at hyper-warp speed bring a groom into a room where the bride is getting ready before the wedding. In a blink, I’m looking at a wall of pastel colors and perfectly coiffed white hair.

  “You can’t see the bride before the wedding. It’s bad luck,” Betsy exclaims. I can’t see if she’s wearing pearls, but if she is, she’s white-knuckling them.

  “The wedding started twenty minutes ago,” Ben states, his baritone voice a rougher timber than I’ve ever heard. “Give us a moment, please.”

  Where my chest was tight before, now it twists with dread. Dottie pats my hand, then pulls free from my death grip. She’s a lot stronger than she looks. She would’ve made a good shield. Damnit.

  Betsy looks over her shoulder at me. “We’ll let the guest know we’re running late, dear. Take your time.”

  And just like that the pastel river parts and there he is.

  Benjamin Martin Crawford. Age twenty-seven. Marine. Mechanic.

  Giver of hallway smiles. Popper of heart balloons. Stealer of happy songs.

  And he’s wearing a kilt.

  “You’re wearing a kilt,” I say under my breath. He looks bigger, fiercer even, and fucking gorgeous.

  If Nick is a Scottish Prince, Ben is his King.

  He holds my gaze as the Brigade files out of the room. His arms cross over his broad chest, his stance battle-ready.

  I look to my mental fortress. All my guards shake their heads, put down their swords, and walk away.

  Thanks for nothing, assholes.

  My eyes slice to Mara as she storms in carrying a bottle of whiskey, probably to calm me down or something. Her gaze slides between us, no doubt sensing the danger in the room.

  “Benedict Cumberbatch!” I throw my safeword across the room in a Hail Mary pass praying she catches it.

  She catches that shit single-handedly. “I’m on it. Hang tight,” she states, her voice all-business, and rushes out of the room.

  I want to jump on her back like a baby howler monkey, le
tting her carry me away from this, but Ben’s pinning me to the floor with his stare.

  And then it’s just Ben and me. And the growing ache in my chest.

  “Benedict Cumberbatch?” Ben repeats. His eyes narrow. His hands drop to his sides, his muscles pulled tight.

  Then his gaze slides down my goddess dress, his mask slips, and his face softens for a breath. “Jesus Christ, you’re beautiful,” he whispers to himself and runs a hand through his hair.

  His words suck the oxygen from my lungs.

  When his gaze meets mine, a little of the darkness on his face returns. “Why are you in here and not out there?” He motions to the direction of the wedding.

  “I’m sorry, Ben.” I bite my bottom lip to keep it from quivering.” I can’t do this.”

  His face softens again, but the stiffness in his shoulders remain. “You having a panic attack?”

  I shake my head. “I just can’t do this,” I stammer. “I’m sorry.”

  “Is it because of the people? You say the word, and I’ll clear the house.” His words and the gentleness in his eyes cracks open my chest, leaving my heart exposed.

  My vision blurs with tears. “I can’t marry you… fake marry you… this… I just can’t do it.” I sniffle, wiping my eyes, catching tears before they fall.

  My gaze drops to the floor, his formal black shoes coming into view. He smells like woodsy cologne and Ben. I don’t know why the fact he put cologne on makes me feel worse, but it does.

  His rough fingers gently lift my chin to meet his searching gaze. “You got anxiety, babe? You need some air?” His voice is lower, his eyes are tinged with concern.

  “No.” I shake my head, my eyes cast down, my cheeks hot.

  “Good.” He grabs my hand and starts toward the door. “Let’s do this. Then we’ll talk.”

  My vision blurs. “I can’t.” I pull my hand from his.

  “Why? Tell me so I can fix it.”

  Because I love you. Because you fake-promising to love me forever will end me. END ME.

  I shake my head. “You can’t fix this.” I take a step back. The words echoing in my mind start to teeter on my tongue.

  “Let me try.”

  If you tell him you love him, he’ll let you go… If you tell him you want to real-marry him, this will all be over.

  Just as I’m about to end it all with three words, my eyes jump to the doorway as Mara storms in, breathless, her cheeks flushed. Her wild eyes lock on mine.

  “Jacob’s got the car. Let’s go.” Then her gaze flicks to Ben, and her face pales. “To the bathroom.” She clumsily tries to backpedal. “We’re going to go to the bathroom…” Her voice softens. “And then down the aisle. Because today’s the big day…yay…”

  Whatever’s written on Ben’s face has her slowly backing out of the room, mouthing sorry to me. My stomach drops, crashing against the floor.

  “Benedict Cumberbatch,” I whisper, watching Mara disappear.

  Ben turns from the now-empty doorway and shoots me with a look that flash-freezes the blood in my veins to ice. I wince at the pain.

  “Jacob?”

  “Ben—”

  “You were going to leave our wedding?” His brows pull tight. Hot emotion in his brown eyes is replaced with a cold look that would have Thor hightailing it back to daddy. “With Jacob?”

  “I… I… He’s Mara’s friend. He’s gay. I think,” I stammer taking a step back, wishing I was one of those people who faints in dangerous situations. I could use a black-out right about now.

  “You were gonna get on a fucking plane without even saying goodbye? Leave me like that?”

  “No, I… my flight’s not for a while.”

  His eyes narrow. “Right now, you have two choices.” He steps closer. “You can either walk down the aisle or I can carry you, but either way we’re getting fucking married.”

  What’s worse than getting fake-married to Ben? Having him carry you down the freaking aisle in front of seventy-five of his people. That’s what.

  “You can’t carry me down the aisle.”

  “Wanna bet?”

  A flashback of how we ended up in this mess to begin with takes center stage. I welcome the anger, because being mad at Ben is like jumping into a cool lake on a sweltering day.

  “Fine. I’ll walk,” I say, squaring my shoulders, holding tight to the anger that’s going to save me from feeling this.

  His eyes search mine for a breath. I see the moment his body shifts, but before I can react, I’m up in the air and slung over his broad shoulder like he just pillaged a village and I’m his freaking prize. Well, jokes on him because he just kidnapped the village idiot.

  “What are you doing?” I screech. “I said I’d walk!”

  I curse Dottie Baker for making me drink a gallon of orange juice as his long strides carry me out of the room.

  “Not taking any chances.”

  “You said I could walk.” I struggle against his grip.

  “I changed my mind.”

  My pulse hammers as muted voices down the hall become clear. “Put me down!” I demand, struggling.

  “No.”

  “You can’t just pick me up and take me wherever you want! It’s called kidnapping!”

  A few gasps and murmurs echo as we step into the living room.

  I twist my neck to see servers in black ties staring at me with champagne trays in hand. Seeing their shocked faces shoots a 50cc syringe of pure panic through me.

  “It’s against the law!”

  “You don’t say,” Ben mumbles flatly as he bounces me on his shoulder with angry steps through the living room.

  He slows just enough to swing open the back door to the yard. My desperate hand tries and fails to latch onto the side of the doorframe. The fresh air slaps me in the face Moonstruck-style, but my mind is still in a haze, trying to grasp what the hell is happening.

  His heavy steps crunch the gravel walkway. In the distance, delicate music mixes with the mishmash of chatter. Mishmash and chatter of his friends and family.

  “You have people here—”

  “Give a fuck about that.” The fact he doesn’t slow his stride confirms his not-giving-a-fuckness state of being.

  I flick through the channels of my mind, looking for anything I can say or do to get out of this mess. But all I see is an empty fucking fortress and a lone chicken strutting across the muddy courtyard, clucking at me that I’m screwed.

  Asshole chicken.

  I push up on his back and see the house moving farther away, and my stomach sinks. This is really happening. Benjamin Crawford is really going to carry me down the freaking aisle as punishment for trying to pull a Runaway Bride on him.

  And thus, begins the five stages of death.

  “If you want to make a fool of yourself in front of your people. Have at it, big guy.” He grunts, calling my bluff as the music grows closer. “You know what, as your elder, I demand you put me down! Right now, young man!” This earns me a dark chuckle. I exhale. “Okay, let’s just take a minute and talk about this.”

  “We’ll talk tonight.”

  “We can’t talk about not getting fake-married after we get fake-married. It doesn’t work like that.”

  “It does in my book.”

  I picture myself smacking him over the head with his fucking book, no doubt titled, How to Ruin Emmy’s Life for Dummies.

  I toe-off my goddess heels and say in my best defeated voice, “Fine. Put me down. Let’s just get it over with.”

  I may be short and out of shape, but I’m still lightning fast, and if I can just get my feet on the ground, he’ll never catch me.

  “You’re a shit liar.” His hand tightens around my upper thigh.

  “Maybe you can give me some lessons.”

  “I’ve never lied to you.”

  “You literally just told me I could walk—”

  “I changed my mind. I didn’t lie.”

  A collective gasp sounds in the air arou
nd me at the same time fresh Irish sod covered by white rose petals crushes beneath Ben’s feet. Oh, my God! Are we on the freaking aisle? I push up on his back and arch my neck to see eyeballs staring at us with various stages of shock written on the faces that accompany them.

  “Hi,” I say to the nameless horde, then drop my head and close my eyes and chant to Ben’s back, “This isn’t happening. This isn’t happening. This is not happening.”

  The music cuts off. I open my eyes. It’s happening.

  “Oh, it’s happening,” he growls in an echo of my thoughts.

  Awkwardness cuts through the stillness in the air, giving me a pin-prickle, full-body flush of anger.

  “Yeah? You want to know why I was going to leave, Ben?” His shoulders stiffen. “Because I’m in love with you and I want to have your broody-babies and make you pot roast. That’s why! What do you think about that?”

  “I love pot roast.” his voice is deeper than I’ve ever heard it.

  “Are you deaf?! I just said I love you and I want to have your baby-lotion, broody babies.”

  “Good.”

  Good?!

  “No. Not good. Being in love with you is the opposite of good. It freaking sucks. Like I rather get food poisoning on a plane kind of sucks.”

  “Yeah, try being in love with Emelia Anderson and then we’ll talk.” He adjusts me a little and barks to someone, “Stop standing there and get ready.”

  Did he just say he loves me? Loves? Me?

  “Try being in love with me?” I repeat. My heart stops. My head spins trying to make sense of his words. “When I told you I was going to miss you, you looked like I shot your dog.”

  His grip shifts and his fingers tighten. Then I’m catching bits of magical white flowers and orange-purple sky, before my bare feet land on soft grass.

  He steadies me, helps fix my veil, and then all I can see is him. “You wanna know why?” His voice is filled with so much emotion it rolls across my skin like a thousand needles. “Because you looking up at me with those eyes saying that shit killed me…” He drops his hand to his side, his eyes flashing with something. “The thought of not seeing you every day. You not being with me. Being with someone else. Giving them that smile, that laugh. That part of you that was made for me…”