Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 91058 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 455(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91058 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 455(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
“My brother’s wedding?” Scarlett asks, sounding like it’s the dumbest question she’s ever heard.
I blush for the first time in my entire life. I’ll have to nab the security camera footage from this hallway and light it on fire in a trash can to destroy all the evidence.
“No. Thought I’d skip it,” she adds with playful sarcasm.
I scratch the back of my neck, unable to fumble for a funny or witty or—let’s not kid ourselves, at this point I’d even take a semi-articulate—response.
“You’re a bridesmaid?” is the question I land on.
“One of about twelve.” Her eyes widen with the statement. “There are a lot of us.”
“The girls that were with you down in Miami?”
She half-laughs, half-blanches. “Afraid so.”
“That’s great. Yeah, I’ll be there too,” I say stiffly.
WRAP IT UP! my brain screams. This is horrible! You’re acting like a robot!
“With a date?” she asks.
I stutter a response. “N-no. Wait.” I step back. “Are you bringing a date?”
She shrugs and glances down the hall, cooler than cool. “I mean, I’m not opposed to the idea.”
“Right. Yeah, whatever. Same.” Then I do a jerky step forward, nod, and say, “Anyway, bye.”
I storm straight for my office. Lucy perks up when I pass in front of her desk.
“How’s it going?” Lucy asks.
“Terribly.”
“It’ll get better!” she promises, just before I slam my door, rattling it on its hinges.
This has reached emergency status. DEFCON 1. I can’t be around Scarlett, not until I feel like I’m on top of things again. I’ve totally lost myself. Yesterday, I paid for a junior associate’s lunch when he realized he forgot his wallet at his desk. Today, I held the elevator for someone. Willingly! A little while ago, a partner from our corporate litigation department called to ask me a question, and I asked how his day was going. If this keeps up, people are going to start liking me.
I can’t imagine a worse fate.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Scarlett
It’s the wedding day. The blissful sounds of birds chirping and bells ringing have been totally drowned out by “Who stole my sticky boob bra? The one I got from Target. I swear to GOD!” and “Hurry up at the makeup chair! You were supposed to be starting hair fifteen minutes ago!”
I’m getting my eye shadow done when Jordy comes around with an open bottle of champagne.
“I thought that was for the mimosas” is the last thing I say before she forces me to down a mouthful of it.
“It’s for whatever we want, ladies. Drink up!”
If Jordy had it her way, we would be teetering our way down the aisle, tipsy and giggly and sloppy but fun.
Conrad has six groomsmen, a respectable number, but it’s nothing compared to Hannah’s roster. Not every one of us will walk down the aisle with a groomsman, but I somehow made the cut. I’m surprised I don’t get paired up with Barrett or Wyatt, but I realize later that Hannah finagled it so that all the single people are grouped together on the off chance she can help sparks fly. It’s sweet of her, but I’ve been paired with Hugh, Conrad’s good friend from undergrad. We’ve met a handful of times over the years and I always thought he was really nice, but he’s not really my type. He’s a nerdy gamer (just like Conrad), which I could totally be into, don’t get me wrong. Someone who enjoys fantasy novels? Sure! I like them well enough, but not on Hugh’s level. And then there’s the anime and board games. Not the generic ones, mind you. He only plays indie board games, created and produced in small batches. When we’re taking pictures, he tugs up his pant leg to reveal his Lord of the Rings socks.
“Killer,” I tell him.
“Right? Like who doesn’t want Gandalf on their ankle?”
“Gollum too,” I say, my eyebrows shooting up. “I mean, the likeness is eerie.”
He chuckles and adjusts his bowtie. It’s black, though he wishes Conrad had gone with the R2-D2 pattern Hugh found on a Star Wars website. My mom would have had an aneurysm.
“Later, a few of us have these Chewbacca outfits we rented. We’re going to run out in them during the reception.”
“Oh god.” I laugh. “Conrad is going to love that.”
“Could everyone look here please?” the photographer asks, putting the kibosh on our conversation.
We smile and pose, and afterward, Hugh sort of lingers near me as if hoping to get a conversation going again. Then Gabriella walks over and notices Hugh’s socks and freaks out—“Oh my god! Those are amazing!”—and I promptly slink away to give them the chance to get to know each other better. I don’t see Hugh again until it’s ceremony time.
Hannah’s family and my parents have spared no expense for this wedding. We’ve basically taken over the Langham. The ceremony is outside on the terrace overlooking the Chicago River, a ballsy move considering how cold it can be in early March, but that’s nothing money can’t fix. Cashmere throws have been draped across the back of every chair, not that they’ll be needed thanks to the space heaters end-capping every row. If anything, guests will be sweating.