Total pages in book: 120
Estimated words: 111742 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 559(@200wpm)___ 447(@250wpm)___ 372(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 111742 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 559(@200wpm)___ 447(@250wpm)___ 372(@300wpm)
At some point, Cole whispers, “Stop wiggling. It makes you look nervous.”
“My dress is irritating the rash on my hip,” I confess, well aware that I’ve been mindlessly scratching.
“When it itches, tell me and I’ll take care of it.”
Confused, I look at him with furrowed brows.
“Tell me,” he repeats, a sense of command in his voice.
So I do. I give him a pitiful look, knowing the desire to scratch the hell out of my hip is in my eyes, and he grips it hard right over the rash, squeezing my flesh. It’s painful, it’s heaven, it soothes the itch better than my nails have all week.
He uses his hold on me to guide me to the dance floor, and I try to argue. “I can’t dance.”
“I can,” he replies simply. It’s all that’s needed, too, as with his hand on my hip, occasionally kneading the flesh there, I let him lead me around the floor. Oddly enough, when I’m not thinking about dancing, I’m not too bad. Of course, that’s mostly because I’m following Cole’s hand, wanting his touch for several reasons right now.
“How’d you learn to do this?” I ask as he spins me in a circle.
“No choice. Mom decreed that we’d learn, so we did,” he says easily. “Even Kyle knows how. Had to put it to practice at Dad’s office parties, especially at Christmas.”
I try to imagine Cole as a boy, learning a traditional foxtrot or waltz and performing at a cotillion. I can’t quite picture it. “What else did you have to learn?”
He’s quiet for a while, swaying with me but lost in his thoughts.
“That being alone is for the best sometimes,” he admits finally. “But it’s good to have people you can count on when shit gets fucked up.” His voice has gone roughly contemplative, and he doesn’t offer any more so I’m not sure exactly what he’s talking about, but I can surmise that I’m not the only one whose family puts the ‘fun’ in dysfunctional.
We make it through dinner, cake, and about five too many boring toasts about Paisley and Max, without any drama. I’m this close to being home free.
But then the DJ plays Queen Beyonce. “Can I get all my single ladies to the dance floor, please?”
I don’t move, but Aunt Glenda scoots past the table and basically shoves me out of my chair onto the dance floor. “Go on, Janey Sue.” I hate it when she calls me that. My middle name is Susannah, which I already don’t like, but when she shortens it, I sound like I have a pet pig that I dress up with in matching seasonal costumes for the county fair parade.
To be clear, I’ve never so much as touched a live pig, much less owned one, though I did have several different collars for my calico cat when I was a kid and would change those out. But Mr. Pennyfoot liked that.
I look back, and Cole sends me a wink. You’ve got this, that wink says. And he’s right.
I stand in the gathering of single ladies on the floor, Jessica elbowing to get in front of me despite being a literal child. And though my family’s bad, they’re not going to marry her off child-bride style, so she shouldn’t even be out here.
“That bouquet is mine. Touch it and I’ll cry,” she hisses at me. She doesn’t mean a cute, little, boo-hoo, sad cry. Jessica will throw a literal tear-soaked tantrum to get her way.
Of course, that only makes me want that stupid bouquet more than my next breath.
I’m standing up to Nikki, not letting Paisley intimidate me, not letting Mom get into my head, and Jessica can sit all the way down. At the kids’ table where she belongs!
I’ve had enough. That ribbon-wrapped bundle of blue roses and baby’s breath has an entirely new meaning, like it’s a trophy for me telling my family to fuck off, something I’ve never had the guts to do.
Paisley scans the group, likely looking for a preferred bridesmaid to catch her precious flowers, but little does she know, they’re mine. All mine.
With a smile, she turns around. The photographer has her do a couple of practice tosses with overly exaggerated, fake looks of excitement while she clicks away, and then the count starts . . .
“One . . . two . . . three!”
Paisley tosses the bouquet over her shoulder, and everyone scrambles. Dozens of arms reach high, fighting to catch it, and I’m pretty sure I accidentally drop-elbow Jessica in the head, but somehow, the flowers land roses-down right into my hand and I grip them tightly.
Someone tries to wrestle it away from me, but I jerk it into my body like a wayward football and rush out of the group. Once I’m clear, I hold it up victoriously, rose petals falling loose from the rough handling, and shout, “I got it!”