My heart pounds frantically one moment and barely registers a pulse the next.Do. Not. Cry.
I spoke to Connor that night. He told me he wanted to hear my voice before going to sleep. I told him that’s the kind of line someone who’s had a little too much to drink would say. He said he was stone cold sober. I blushed, even though he couldn’t see it. He never mentioned anything about meeting someone.
Tears well. I sweep past Reagan on the way to the door as she adds, “I don’t care that the girl gets an escort card. Just ask Sharon to add a seat next to him and leave it at that.”
I’m already halfway out the door when I say, “Got it.” The first sob comes before I even reach the elevator.
It’s exhausting goinghours with your tear ducts constantly at max capacity. Four hours in, I’ve developed a system where I escape to the bathroom every twenty minutes, let a few tears fall to relieve the pressure, clean myself up and return to wherever I’m supposed to be.
I haven’t seen or spoken to Connor since dinner ended last night. Of all the ways I imagined today would go, none of the possibilities included me, in full hair and makeup and a floor-length formal gown, heaving over a toilet.
I’ve labored over every detail of last night, the past year, and can’t, for the life of me, figure out how I misread everything so immensely.
Now, all of ours and Reagan’s immediate family is gathered in the hotel lobby turned ceremony space awaiting the wedding party’s arrival.
Right on schedule, the crew of tuxedo-clad guys and girls in shimmering purple gowns barrel through the lobby doors, my brother and his bride-to-be on their heels. The photographer at the helm immediately starts barking out orders.
Our family is up first as we’re called to the front for pictures with the bride and groom. All the groomsmen are seated off to the side,but I don’t let myself look at them. I can’t. If I look at him and he’s looking at me, I’ll burst into tears.
When our side of the family is finished, I beeline for my seat on the front row. Eyes ahead, deep breaths in and out.
A warm body in a tuxedo slides into the seat beside me. My eyes pinch shut at the proximity. The bathroom is thirty paces off to the left, I remind myself.
“Let me be the first to tell you how hot you look in that dress.” It’s not Connor.
I turn toward the vaguely familiar voice. Tall, dark-haired, and broad-chested, it’s the man I met last night. “Mav, right?”
His chest puffs with pride. “Hey, baby Fisher remembered my name.” I wince, but quickly level it. He means to be endearing, but I hate those words.
I manage a soft smile. “Mav isn’t really a name you forget.”
Before he can say anything else, a voice from behind us interrupts him. “Mav! Get your ass back here.”
There he is.
When I make for the bathroom a second later, I don’t look back at him.
After my well-oiled routine of cry a little, repress a lot, check the makeup, I return to the ceremony space. The wedding party has left, likely instructed by the planner to head back upstairs until showtime.
In my periphery, I notice that guests are beginning to arrive. The ushers have yet to begin seating anyone, so I relish these final moments of silence. On the perimeter of the room, I lean against a pillar and release an unsteady breath. What I wouldn’t give for this day to be over already.
My respite is cut short when I scan the room again. The man mirroring my position on the pillar across the room locks his eyes on mine.
If I didn’t know any better, I’d say he looks as afflicted as I feel.
If I didn’t know any better, I’d sayIlook as afflicted as I feel.
I don’t move and, for long seconds, neither does he. Until he does. He pushes off the pillar, closing the distance between us inquick strides while I brace myself for another round of heartbreak.
“Connor!” a perky, female voice calls from the end of the aisle.
He stops dead on his feet. His face flashes with something like irritation as his throat bobs. Slowly, he turns toward the woman prancing down the aisle and every nerve ending in my body bristles.
She zips into my line of sight, throwing her arms around Connor’s neck. Donning a hot pink micro-mini dress more suitable for a night of clubbing than a black-tie wedding and a pair of sky high five-inch heels, she’s still a solid five inches shorter than him.
Her profile comes into view as she turns and that’s when I see it. Bold makeup. Bright pink lips. Waves of platinum blonde hair—box dye number PL1. And there, on her right shoulder blade, is a hibiscus flower tattoo. The same tattoo she spent months begging me to get with her because we werebest friends.
Thank God I didn’t permanently mar my skin with that wholly insignificant, meaningless tropical bloom for it to end up as nothing more than a reminder of her betrayal.
