Page 31 of Maid of Dishonor
“The bride isn’t able to get out and look at venues, so we’re helping,” Carter says, and I hate how stupidly composed he sounds—like he isn’t at all picturing what it would be like if he and I got married in that sixties room. Like he isn’t realizing that we’d pretty much just have to lean into the theme and go whole hog with it. Like he isn’t currently imagining a playlist of sixties love songs—heavy on the Beatles and Marvin Gaye, maybe the Supremes…
But nope. He’s just thinking that he’s not going to marry me or anyone else, and definitely not in any of these rooms.
And suddenly, my offer to help Maya plan this wedding feels very stupid. Nice, perhaps, but stupid. Because my heart hurts. And indulging my romantic side while Carter is next to me proclaiming his intent to avoid marriage and commitment…well, that’s going to make my heart hurt even more.
Eight
Carter
Sam isquiet as we drive away from the crazy themed event place. She’s quiet when we tour the second reception venue too—a much more normal, reasonable place that’s actually pretty nice, if not more expensive.
The thing with Sam’s silences is that you have to know which kind you’re dealing with before you can do anything about it.
Not that you necessarily have to do anything. She gets quiet when she’s overly tired, and in those situations she usually just needs a good nap. But as I glance over at her, trying not to be obvious about it, I don’t see any other indicators that she’s sleepy. She’s standing up straight enough, and she looks alert as we leave the nice reception venue.
My gut says something is wrong, though. Some people sulk or wallow, but Sam’s not like that—if anything, she’s the opposite. She doesn’t like people knowing if anything is bothering her. Fortunately for me, her best friend and the person in charge of making sure she’s happy as often as possible, Sam is very bad at lying and very bad at hiding when something is upsetting her.
Like now. Something is wrong, and I have no idea what.
My mind darts back to the phone call she got just before we went into that first venue, and I turn to her. “You thinking about your mom?” I say, hesitant.
But I realize, by the way her shoulders slump and a slightly despairing look falls over her face, that while shewasn’tthinking about her mom, she certainly is now. So…pretty sure I just made it worse.
Great. Friend of the year over here.
“I…wasn’t,” she says, and I cringe.
“And now you are. Sorry.”
She shrugs, taking a detour off the main path back to the parking lot and sitting on a little metal bench instead. I sit down next to her, once again glancing surreptitiously over at her. We sit in silence as I watch her, the chirping of birds floating in and out while I study the gentle curve of her neck, the slope of her jaw, the little wisps of hair that I could tuck behind her ear—
“I know you think you’re being subtle, but you 100 percent are not,” she says, and I blink, surprised.
She just looks at me for a second and then starts to laugh. It’s not her usual laugh; there’s almost a hysterical edge to it. Nowhere near mad scientist, but not her easy-breezy laugh either.
I just watch her, a little smile pulling at my lips even as my heart thumps with anxiety that I’ve been caught staring at her. I shift on the bench, trying to get comfortable—the sun-drenched metal is hot under my palms where they rest, and the sun has warmed it a step past comfortable, even through my shorts.
Sam wipes tears of laughter from her eyes. “When you’re worried about me, you sort of try to look at me without me knowing it. So you try to be sneaky, but…you’re just not. Because you look at me, but then you stare! For like, five seconds.”
My smile spreads over the rest of my face as I laugh. “I didn’t realize I was so obvious.” The nervous twisting of my insides eases as I realize she thinks I was just looking at her because I was worried.
And to be fair, I am a little worried. It’s not theentirereason I was looking at her, but it’s true enough.
She just nods, still smiling, and rests her head on my shoulder. “I’m fine,” she says, sighing. “Just wiped out of wedding stuff, maybe.”
I laugh, ruffling her hair. She bats my hand away as I say, “It’s only been one day.”
“I know,” she says, sounding grumbly now. “It just makes me think about my future and how I’ll probably never get married and then I’ll die alone, surrounded by cats and dead houseplants that I can’t water because I’m too blind in my old age.”
I blink, my eyebrows climbing a little. “Wow,” I say. “That got dark fast.” Then I frown, looking down at her. All I can see from this angle is the top of her head and the side of her face, but I speak anyway. “And what are you talking about? Of course you’ll get married, if that’s what you want. You’ll definitely find someone, anyway. He’ll be great. He’ll be…”
I don’t mean to trail off. I don’t mean to lose track of my words. But my mind is skating ahead to Sam’s wedding to some…guy. A dermatologist, like Winifred’s boyfriend’s grandson or whatever. Or maybe someone with a stupid name, likeChet—
A stab of guilt hits me straight in the gut, so hard that for a second I can’t breathe.
I’m a terrible friend. If Sam falls in love with a dermatologist named Chet, of course I’ll support her completely.
“He’ll be awesome,” I finish lamely, my throat closing around the words even as I speak them.
