Page 11

Stella

There’s an old saying that goes Man plans, and God laughs . For example, it was always in my plans to show up to Janelle’s wedding as a married woman. And what do you know? That’s exactly what’s happening.

Except I’m not married to the man I thought I was going to spend the rest of my life with. No, I’m married to a complete fucking stranger. But hey, I’m married! And the cackling I keep hearing must be God.

At this point, I’ve done all I can to get a handle on everything. I’ve called my lawyers, set my PR team on high alert, and frantically googled quickest way to get an annulment in Nevada . None of it has made me feel better about my less-than-stellar life choices, but it’s time to compartmentalize and be there for Janelle on her big day.

The bridal suite is awash with excitement when I step inside. Aunt Caroline, Janelle’s mother, hugs me tight and gushes over how beautiful I look. I’m still sweating out whiskey, but I’ve managed to clean up well, and I accept her compliment with a smile.

“Where’s our bride?” I ask.

Aunt Caroline nods to the balcony with a wry smile. “Said she needed a minute to catch her breath, but to send you out the second you got here.”

I skirt my way around the room to get to the balcony door, nodding and waving to bridesmaids with a brightness I don’t feel. The fakeness falls away when I slide the door shut behind me and draw in a breath of the crisp air outside.

“About time you got here,” Janelle comments from where she’s sitting in lotus pose on a yoga mat. She squints, taking me in as I lower myself down next to her. “What’s wrong?”

Well, that didn’t take her long to spot. “Nothing’s wrong,” I say, forcing a lightness into my voice. “Just a little hungover, that’s all.”

“You’re a lot hungover,” she counters. “But that’s not the problem.”

Goddamn this girl and how well she knows me. “Seriously, I’m fine.”

“One more chance to tell me the truth,” she singsongs as she adjusts the tie of her white silk robe. “Or else I’m gonna tell my mama that you disappeared last night and probably got into some trouble.”

Who will, in turn, tell my mama. And if that happens, I can expect to receive endless disapproving looks for the rest of my life. Worse still, if she and my dad discover I got hitched…Oh God, I’ll be in such deep shit that I’ll never find my way out. That news leaking absolutely cannot happen—at least not until I figure out a way to gently break it to them.

“Fine,” I grumble. “I disappeared with Thomas and got into a lot of trouble.”

Janelle’s face lights up like the Fourth of July. “Okay, now! Looks like Stella got her groove back!”

I did, for a little while at least. Then it all went to shit.

“I was hoping you were with him,” she goes on. “He’s hot as hell. Great for a one-night fling, which is exactly what you needed.”

I flinch, and my anxiety has me wondering if it’s possible for your stomach to rip its way out of your body. My cousin, unfortunately, doesn’t miss my reaction, and I’m not quick enough to try to hide it.

“Something’s definitely up,” she says, humor gone. “Spill it, Stella.”

I shake my head, my throat tightening around the things I want to tell her. She and I don’t typically keep secrets from each other. “We can talk another time,” I make myself say. “This day is about you, not me.”

“Get outta here with that mess.” She drops the yoga pose and turns all the way toward me. “I want to know what’s going on. You’re worrying me.”

The full force of her attention has me ready to spill, just like it always has. She looks ridiculous with her hair up in rollers, her makeup almost done except for lashes and lipstick, but none of that can disguise the intensity of her stare.

“I did something bad, Elle,” I eventually mumble.

She doesn’t blink. “Did you shoot a man in Reno just to watch him die?”

“Right state, wrong city,” I volley back, but her deadpan joke has my shoulders loosening a little. Nothing I say will faze her past some surprise at first. “And no. Not murder. A different M word.”

She perks up. “?‘Manslaughter’?”

“You’re such a lawyer.” I shake my head, gearing up to confess. “Not manslaughter. Try…‘marriage.’?”

Her eyes lock on mine, and a series of emotions flash through them. Surprise, as expected, comes first. With a blink, it’s replaced by acceptance. And then, horrifyingly, it’s pure, unadulterated glee.

“You married Thomas Maxwell-fucking- Brown last night,” she says so loudly I’d be surprised if the whole Vegas Strip hasn’t heard her.

I violently shush her, hands flying up to cover her mouth before I think better of it, not wanting to ruin her makeup. Instead, they flutter dramatically around her face. “Keep your voice down,” I hiss. “I don’t need the whole world finding out about this. No one else knows yet.”

“This is so good,” she gushes, drawing her knees up to her chest so she can kick her feet in the air. “I knew y’all hit it off, but not so well that you felt compelled to marry the man!”

“I didn’t know either.” I pinch the bridge of my nose to ease the lingering throb of my headache. “It was a drunken mistake.”

Her grin is far too wide. “Hey, at least we’ll have the same anniversary.”

“I am not staying married to him.”

My vehemence turns her amusement down a few notches. “Oh, honey.” She slips her arm through mine, tugging me closer. “Tell me everything.”

So I do. I let it pour out, getting choked up when I mention Mika’s news about étienne and laughing when I describe Thomas’s impressive switch-up from polite smiler to dirty talker. By the time I’m done sharing this morning’s awkward conversation, Aunt Caroline is seconds from dragging us back inside because we’ve been out here for so long.

“Janelle, get your behind in here and let this poor woman finish your hair,” she complains. “You’re never too old for me to bend you over my knee, remember that. I don’t care that it’s your wedding day.”

“I bet you wanted Thomas to bend you over his knee,” Janelle says out of the corner of her mouth, just for me to hear, as she springs to her feet.

I nearly choke as I struggle to stand as well. When Aunt Caroline ducks back inside, Janelle turns to me one last time.

“We’re not done talking about this.” It’s not a promise but a threat. “Once I say ‘I do,’ you’re going to tell me what you plan to do about this.”

I’m almost too afraid to make plans at this point, but I have my lawyer looking into how quickly—and quietly—I can get this marriage annulled.

“Who knows,” she goes on breezily as she starts for the door. “Maybe Thomas will end up being a better husband than étienne ever could have been.”

“I told you, I’m not staying married to him.”

But my words are lost to the wind as she steps back inside.

If I have to field another pitying glance or mock-sympathetic How are you…really? from one more wedding guest, I’m going to scream.

I’ve never been more thankful for my parents, who intervened after the dozenth attempt to mine me for juicy details about étienne and what I did to make him leave me so dramatically. Dad gently guided the husband of the couple off with generic chatter about golf while Mom gave the wife a loud backhanded compliment about her dress.

It gave me a chance to escape the people milling around in the receiving area of the church, and I slipped into the sunshiny flower-draped nave instead. On the bride’s side, I slid down the pew until I was as far away from anyone else as possible, then pulled out my phone to watch the countdown timer for when I could open Instagram next.

Things are…bad. So bad that I’ve had to set screen time limits for myself to prevent any doomscrolling. All the news I’ve gotten so far about the situation has come from my publicist, lawyer, and assistant, each of their texts and calls limited to only the most pertinent information. The last thing I need is to have a meltdown in the middle of Janelle’s big day because I stumbled on something that set me off.

Only in the past hour have I been identified as the “mystery woman” on Thomas’s lap. I might be offended by how long it took everyone to figure out it was me if I weren’t sick over it instead, but I guess that’s what happens when you’re objectively less famous than the man you were spotted with. And had he been less famous, I’m sure this wouldn’t be as big a deal as it’s blowing up to be.

It could be worse, though. There’s still no news of our marriage, and getting caught with a race car driver is certainly better than being spotted with an athlete from a more well-known sport in the good old US of A. It would be game over if he was a Super Bowl–winning quarterback or an all-time points scorer of an NBA team. But a Formula 1 driver? Sorry to my good man, but in the grand scheme of sports, he’s not at the top of the charts.

Still, I just want to know what people are saying about me. It’s silly, and I know I shouldn’t care. I never really did in the past, because unless it affected my company, I figured people’s opinions of me were none of my business. But again, étienne’s betrayal has shifted something in my mind that suddenly has me desperate to be in the know.

The countdown finally hits zero and I tap on the app, opening it up as quickly as my fingers can manage. I only have two minutes before it will lock me out again, and I’m going to make the most of those 120 seconds.

“?‘Get your grubby little hands off my man, you chocolate bitch,’?” I read quietly to myself, frowning at the latest comment in my Instagram notifications. The racial undertone isn’t great, but hey, at least they said my hands were little.

I scroll, desperately searching for a comment with more substance, but a gentle touch on my shoulder has me glancing up.

“I think it’s time to put the phone down, love.”

Thomas stares at me with a knowing smile, like he’s well aware of what I’ve been up to. He’s wearing a beautifully tailored three-piece suit in dove gray, and it pains me to admit that he looks spectacular in it, possibly even better than he did in the tux last night.

He’s back to being clean-shaven, with his hair perfectly swept back, and the whiff I get of his cologne has me breathing deeper. If he’s still feeling rough, like I am, I’d never be able to tell.

I scowl in return as he drops down next to me on the pew. “Shouldn’t you be sitting on the groom’s side? Somewhere far away from me?”

He points toward the aisle, and I follow his finger to a sign that reads Choose a seat, not a side. “According to that, I can sit wherever I want.”

Damn Janelle and her quaint tastes. “I’m not sure we should be seen together.”

I swear there’s a flash of something wary in his eyes, but it disappears when he blinks, and I convince myself that I imagined it.

“We’ve already been seen together,” he points out. “What’s one more instance? Promise to keep my hands to myself this time.”

I see his point. It’s not like there’s anyone else here I want to talk to, and he’s a good buffer for avoiding more stilted inquiries into how I’m doing. Not to mention a good distraction from checking my phone—which I am now once again locked out of.

I slink lower in my seat and glance at him from the corner of my eye. “How are you holding up?”

“Not great,” he says cheerfully. “I am so wickedly hungover that I doubt I’ll be able to legally drive a car by this time next week.”

A wheezing laugh escapes me before I can stop it. “I feel the same way.”

“Bit more of a problem for me, considering that’s my entire job.”

“Should have thought of that before ordering that bottle of whiskey, now, shouldn’t you?”

“Live and learn, I suppose.”

We fall into silence as a handful of people sit in front of us. The ceremony’s due to start in about ten minutes, and knowing Janelle, the procession will begin on the dot.

“Can I ask you something?” Thomas says quietly after a couple of minutes.

I nod, and he turns so that our knees press together. It’s reminiscent of our time sitting together at the bar.

“I understand having the stag party here,” he begins, “but why the wedding? Should I expect Elvis to show up here like he did at ours?”

I don’t love the reminder that Janelle isn’t the first person from our family to get married this weekend, so I focus on his other question. “This is where Janelle and Ron met,” I explain. “We were here for a concert that weekend, and Ron was celebrating his soccer retirement. We saw him with his friends at some restaurant, surrounded by a bunch of those Happy Retirement balloons, and my sweet, nosy cousin couldn’t help but go over and ask what he did for work where he could retire before thirty-five.”

Thomas chuckles and shakes his head, like nothing about what I’ve shared surprises him any. “That means you’ve met my brother already.”

My eyebrows shoot up. “Are you serious?”

“Yep. He was there that night.”

“Huh. Small world.” I narrow my eyes at him. “But if he was there, wouldn’t you have known that’s how Janelle and Ron met?”

His lips part to answer before he stops himself, pressing them into a firm line instead. It’s a long beat before he speaks. “My brother and I…don’t really talk much.”

Like last night, I’m intrigued by the dynamics of his life and relationships. Whatever’s there is just begging to be dug into.

But it won’t be by me, because on Monday morning I’m going back to clean up the broken pieces of my life in DC, with Thomas nothing but a distant memory. My lawyer is going to figure out how to get the annulment on the grounds that we were both drunk out of our minds—whatever the legal term for that is. Those pictures may be forever, but this marriage doesn’t have to be.

So I keep my mouth shut and don’t press for more. The silence between us this time is tense and awkward. He’s moved his leg away, leaving me surprisingly cold. I refuse to read into it and keep my gaze trained ahead, watching the church fill up and letting out a relieved breath when my parents choose to sit up front with my grandmother and Aunt Caroline. As the string quartet that’s been quietly playing in the background picks up in volume, I finally relax a little, glad for the distraction of the ceremony starting.

A dapper tuxedoed Ron appears up front with the minister, practically bouncing on his toes in excitement. By the time the bridesmaids and groomsmen finish making their way down the aisle, he looks like he’s about ready to bolt. But unlike étienne, he’s not looking to run out of the church, but straight toward the vision in white tulle standing just inside the doors.

I climb to my feet with everyone else, eyes drawn to Janelle. She’s glowing, practically levitating as her father escorts her down the rose petal–covered path, and my vision swims with tears at the sight of her. She deserves this happily ever after, one that I had the privilege of watching blossom from the very start. One that I can’t wait to watch grow and bloom even further.

“Are you crying?”

Thomas’s whispered words have my eyes cutting from Janelle to him. “Shut up.” I swipe underneath my eyes. To be honest, I’m about five seconds from blubbering like a baby.

The next thing I know, he’s holding up his silk pocket square to me. “Here.”

I shake my head. “I’ll get mascara all over it.”

He pushes it closer to my hand. “I can buy another.”

I hesitate before taking it and mumbling my thanks as I dab at my eyes. By the time my vision clears again, Janelle and Ron are together at the altar, smiling at each other like there’s no one else in the room. I hate to keep thinking about him, but in the brief moments we were up there together, étienne certainly didn’t look at me like that. But…I don’t think I looked at him that way either. All I felt in the moment was sheer relief that we’d made it, that our wedding was finally happening and that we’d be able to settle into our lives together with no more stress. That everything would be okay once we walked out of the church together.

But instead, he walked out without me.

A rumble of laughter has my attention snapping back. I must have missed some joke Ron made in his vows, and I force a delayed chuckle. I want to be present in this moment, to be as joyful as I’m capable of feeling, because Janelle deserves nothing less. But damn if my chest isn’t aching.

Down by my side, Thomas’s hand brushes mine. I don’t have time to draw my fingers away before he’s hooking his pinkie around mine and holding tight. I glance over at him, confused, but he’s staring at Janelle and Ron, paying me no mind.

So I turn my attention back too and leave our hands linked in this little way. Because, as much as I don’t want to admit it, I think I need this. I need this grounding. The reminder that I’m not standing in this mess alone.

I may be moving on from this man by the end of the weekend, but I’m glad to have him right now.

Thank God for assigned seating and bless the DJ for wanting to get the party started ASAP, because this reception is exactly what I needed.

Janelle was kind enough to move my seat from a table of young couples to the one with our grandparents and other older folks, people who are more than willing to glare and loudly shoo away anyone determined to talk to me. It also helps that most of them have no idea how to use the internet past logging into Facebook, so my newest online shitstorm hasn’t reached them yet. Maybe this is the crowd I need to hang with from now on.

I have to admit, I’m not having the worst time. The country club venue a few miles from downtown is beautiful, dinner was delicious, and the DJ is spinning all the cookout classics, including a few tracks that have members of Ron’s family looking more than a little flustered. They’ve been extremely accepting of Janelle into their family otherwise, so I’m writing off the clutched pearls as a little culture shock.

Most importantly, the bride’s enjoying herself. After planting a kiss on her new husband’s cheek, she bops her way toward where I’ve taken up residence in the middle of the floor, our grandmother my dance partner. If there’s one thing I’ve learned tonight, it’s that Grandma can throw ass with the best of them.

“Surprised you’re not dancing with Thomas,” Janelle says as she bumps her hip against mine. “He keeps looking at you.”

I roll my eyes and bump her back before excusing us from Grandma, who wastes no time hustling into line for the next song. She almost slapped the life out of me while doing the Wobble, so I make sure Janelle and I are a safe distance away for “Candy,” because that woman is absolutely planning to touch the floor. I don’t want to be in the danger zone for it.

“He can look all he wants,” I tell Janelle as we ease into the steps. I don’t know how she’s managing it in a ball gown. “I’ll talk to him tomorrow once our lawyers are on it.”

“So you’re going ahead with the annulment?”

“Of course.” I shoot her a look as I lean and shoulder-shimmy. “It was a mistake, one that I plan to remedy as soon as possible. I’ve got other shit to worry about.”

“Yeah, all right, I get it.”

Based on her tone, it seems like she doesn’t get it, and it has my frown deepening.

“What, you want me to stay married to him?” I scoff. “Elle, I don’t even know the guy.”

“You can get to know him,” she says innocently.

I could. But I’m sure once he gets to know me —once he sees the mess I am—I can’t imagine he’d want to stay.

“And just think about how you can rub this in étienne’s face,” she goes on.

“Right, because spite is the best decision-maker.”

“Maybe not usually, but what he did to you was—” She cuts short to gather what she wants to say. “I just want you to live again, Stella. Because whoever you’ve become, whoever he turned you into…that’s not someone I recognize.”

Janelle’s words hit me so hard that I can’t believe I manage to keep dancing, albeit a little half-assed. It’s muscle memory, I guess. And muscle memory is what I’ve fallen back on when it comes to my entire life lately. I’ve been going through the motions, doing exactly what was expected of me, only to realize I was doing it without thought. Without feeling. Without passion.

Last night, though…That was nothing but passion and impulse and sheer fucking delight. That was being alive.

Mika essentially said she wanted the same thing for me that Janelle is saying now. I knew I’d retreated in on myself some, but I didn’t think anyone had really noticed or hated the change. I thought that was just what growing up looked like. Doesn’t everyone pushing thirty calm down and settle in for the ride of adulthood ahead?

The answer to that is standing right beside me in her wedding dress, tipsy again after a hectic bachelorette party. With her law degree and successful career. With her love for going out every Friday night just to dance and drink martinis. Who married a sweetheart British footballer because she was bold enough to approach him first. If that’s what your thirties can look like, then why have I been so adamant about suppressing the parts of myself that I love?

But staying married to a stranger is one step too far.

“I’m getting back to my old self,” I tell her. “I don’t need a man to do that.”

“No, you don’t,” she agrees. “But there’s nothing wrong with a little help.”

The next dance step has me turning my back to her and my ensuing shoulder shimmy is far less enthusiastic than the ones before. Not even Grandma’s loud laughter can shake the unsettled energy from my chest. And it only compounds when someone moves in front of me, forcing me slightly out of line.

“Stella,” Thomas says, low enough that I barely hear him over the music and merriment. “We need to talk.”

I glance away from him, shifting so that I can keep on beat even though he’s in my way. “I’m trying to dance here, Thomas.”

“It’s important.”

“So is the Electric Slide.”

He grabs my elbow firmly, though not anywhere near enough to hurt, but it makes me look up at him, taking in the concern written across his annoyingly handsome face.

“The news is out.” He takes a breath, then confirms the worst, even though deep down I already know. “The world knows we’re married.”