It’s moments like this I’m glad I was dumped.
The aisle walk is procession by importance, in ascending order. I am the least important, Becky is maid of honour and Kate and her father walk in last.
That means I’m the one walking in first after the priest, but no one looks at the priest, do they?
I’m so bloody nervous.
Yesterday we rehearsed this walk a million times, and I was even in my six-inch heels, but I was also wearing stretchy yoga pants, not packed into a bandage dress like a sausage casing. We look lovely but are highly dysfunctional.
“This is us!” Becky says breathlessly as we pull up to the chapel, downing the last of her Bucks Fizz.
Poor Becky got no chat out of me on the way over as I repeated my useless affirmations. I release my worries with every breath.
We are already thirty minutes late. One of the drivers slept in. It happens to the best of us.
The first limo stops outside the church, and I see Kate’s dad and the limo driver helping Kate out of the car.
Kate looks beautiful and free in a long, flowy, hippy-chic white dress tapered at the waist. She could be pooping under that thing, and you couldn’t tell. I’m jealous.
My lip quivers watching my fair-haired freckled best friend of two decades.
I blow Kate a kiss out of the window, and she waves back, her face a contortion of nerves and shock. It’s finally happening. The first four hours of her wedding day were pretty slow as we rotated in and out of styling chairs. And poor Kate had the nervous poops.
After being watched and judged all day, she’ll have to put on the bedroom performance of a lifetime.
It sounds exhausting.
The priest and an altar boy greet her at the steps of the church.
Our limo driver opens the door for us and Becky shuffles out of the car first. I step out quickly behind her. Too quickly.
I feel a sharp object punch my eye socket as Becky accidentally elbows me in the face.
Fuck. That hurts.
Really hurts.
The temporary blindness and confusion are quickly followed by a stinging pain in my socket.
“Fuck!” I hiss loudly, trying to flush out the eyeliner seeping into my eye with rapid blinking. “Fuck, fuck.”
The priest is staring at me, snarling, and I remember I’m cursing loudly outside his father’s house.
“Has she been drinking?” Father Donaghy snaps at the wedding planner.
Kate peers worriedly over the planner’s shoulder.
Becky turns. “Are you okay?”
I can only see her out of one eye.
“Why do you have your eye closed?”
“It’s fine.” I grimace. “You nudged me with your elbow. Don’t worry.”
“Sorry.” She appears more preoccupied than contrite, but I’ll forgive her today. “We’re fine,” Becky calls, then turns to me sternly. “Let’s go. Kate is already anxious that we’re so late.”
I force a strained smile and brush a stream of water off my cheek.
Father Donaghy opens the double wooden doors to the chapel. It’s clear from the sound of shuffling and throat-clearing that the crowd has been waiting for a good show for a while and are restless to the point of being fed up. We are eating into their boozing time.
“Ready, ladies,” the wedding planner prompts, guiding us like children into the right order, with me at the helm. “Bouquets up. Heads up,” she commands in a tone fitting for army marches. “Big smiles. Wide eyes, Bonnie. Wide eyes!”
With a smile showing all my teeth, I force open my tingling right eye.
“Honey, you look like you have menstrual cramps. I need you to smile harder. Brighter.”
I’m scared.
The music begins to play. That’s my queue. You proceed when Father Donaghy is three pews up from the back.
Heads turn as I set foot into the chapel. The pews are full of hats, fancy hairdos, tuxedos and very made-up faces.
With all eyes on me, the nerves fluttering in my belly threaten to launch into a tornado.
Father Donaghy makes good speed down the aisle. I suppose this is just another daily commute for him.
The slow dramatic walk I perfected yesterday has gone to shit. My swelling eye won’t allow me to focus on synchronising my walk with the music.
I try not to fall over my feet, and blink away the water mixed with eyeliner and mascara from my weeping eye. Everything is clenched. Ass cheeks, stomach muscles, face cheeks. As a stress ball, I hold the bouquet in an iron grip.
Row upon row of people smile back at me, pushing cameras in my face.
Head up, bouquet up, try not to look like a massive tit.
My theory about sexy thoughts applies to weddings. Most people are in their own heads, dreaming about better sex than their reality permits.
I catch the eye of Kate’s creepy Uncle Dom and blink.
He winks, breaking into a salacious grin.
My skin crawls.
Halfway up and I turn my head ninety degrees. Michelle Allard, the supermodel. She’s friggin’ hot. Legions above anyone else at the wedding.
Or on earth.
Sean’s side all look like money.
As I approach the altar, Sean, Max and Jack come into focus. All three smile at me.
My heart breaks a little as I take in Max’s suit. It would have been similar to his groom’s suit for our wedding.
Jack looks sensational in a black tuxedo. Inappropriately sexy for mass.
I shuffle into the second pew and sit down, relieved that Becky is now the focus of attention.
Before I know it, Becky is beside me in the seat, and finally, Kate reaches the top of the aisle to a lot of oohs and ahs and incessant camera flashes. The whole thing must have taken a minute or two but felt like a feature-length film.
“You look amazing,” Nisha whispers to me from the pew behind.
I turn subtly and mouth, “Thanks.”
As Father Donaghy welcomes us, Nisha leans in and quietly wipes under my eye. I feel a few eyelashes fall.
“What happened?” she whispers as the choir launches into “Gloria.”
That means it’s obvious something happened.
I lean back in the pew, saying through gritted teeth, “I got knocked in the eye. Is it bad?”
“No. It looks a little . . . irritated. Like you have a sore stye on your eye.”
For fuck’s sake. I think I preferred when I was just the other bridesmaid.
“Can you give me my bag? I need to check the damage.”
She hands over my satin bag made from the same material as my dress. The impracticality of being a bridesmaid: the only thing you can carry down the aisle are flowers.
As I join in a bad warble to “Gloria,” I discreetly search my bag for my phone. If Father Donaghy sees me with my phone, I’m fast-tracking to hell.
Unable to find it, I fling the bag down.
Behind me, a guy chooses this moment to start a conversation. His voice mixes with the chorus.
Becky shoots me a look and I shake my head in disapproval and agreement. It’s damn rude.
Her brows lift pointedly like she wants me to do something. What does she expect me to do? I’m not the noise police. I glance lazily over my shoulder to silence the obnoxious chatterer who clearly doesn’t understand the social mores of not talking through someone’s wedding.
Father Donaghy glances down.
The chatterer has an American accent . . . it actually sounds familiar.
There’s an audible groan over the music.
Holy fucking hell. My phone.
Is this seriously happening?
I fumble with my bag. Oh, my God, where’s my phone, where’s my phone, where’s my goddamn phone?
Please, God, if you are here with us in the chapel as Father Donaghy claims, answer my prayers.
The longer I don’t locate the phone, the more flustered I become. I’m going to have to hurry out of the chapel carrying my bag like it’s a screaming baby.
My ears burn so hot they cremate themselves.
I know what happens next.
The singing peters out as the choir finishes the last few lines of “Gloria.” The sounds of ruthless alpha wolf Caleb from the Red Moon Canines taking his virgin mate take over.
Nowhere in the order-of-service booklet does it mention howling horny wolves.
Finally locating the phone, I hold my finger on the power button.
Shut down.
Shut down.
The damn thing dies, and I let out the breath I was holding.
“What the hell?” Becky mouths, giving me a sharp look.
This is worse than farting.
“Quiet.” I shush her dismissively, deciding that going on the offensive is the best tactic to sweep this little audio mishap under the carpet.
The service picks up speed, first reading . . . second reading . . . gospel acclamation. I try to pay attention, but Father Donaghy could have performed a satanic ritual; for all I know, I’m now in a cult.
When we get to the good part, I do, I can’t help but shed a tear. My best friend is married.
Will she still be my best friend after the werewolf fiasco?
Father Donaghy tells us to go in peace.
“Thanks be to God,” I agree loudly as everyone claps and snaps pictures. Now I need alcohol. All the alcohol.
Every last drop.
Father Donaghy is the first to walk down the aisle, followed by the newlyweds. Max and Becky link arms and follow.
I step out into the aisle. As dark, smouldering brown eyes level on mine, I suddenly feel a hundred times more nervous about my second trip down the aisle.
“You look beautiful,” Jack says gruffly as he extends his arm for me to loop mine through. His gaze brazenly rakes my curves. “A real head-turner.”
“Stop lying,” I say sullenly. “My eye is swollen. I look like Sloth from The Goonies.”
“Nonsense.” He laughs as we proceed slowly down the aisle. “You can hardly notice it.”
My skin feels hot against his arm. I glance up and see the lie clear as day on his face.
“How bad does the other guy look?”
“It was Becky’s elbow,” I say between my teeth with a smile plastered on my face for the guests waving. “Just as we got out of the wedding car.”
“Ouch. I’ll find some ice for you when we get to the marquee.”
I stiffen. “Don’t worry.” I don’t need him doing me any favours. “But thank you. Sorry I can’t walk any faster. I can’t feel anything from the knees up in this dress.”
His eyes flicker down my body. “It’s worth it.”
Okay.
“You don’t scrub up too badly yourself,” I grudgingly say.
Not too bad at all.
“Thank you.” He chuckles. “Glad you approve. I think.”
I glance at his hair in a topknot but more groomed than it has been these past few days. “They let you keep the hair.”
His smile widens into a grin as we reach the doors, and he takes my hand as I shuffle like a penguin down the steps. “The hair was non-negotiable.”
I trip on the last step and fall against the slab of unmovable muscle. “Sorry,” I splutter. “I’ve been waiting for that to happen. At least I waited until after mass.”
He wraps his arm around my lower back to steady me. “Good thing I’m close.”
“Jack! Bonnie! Get in line. Chop, chop,” Sergeant Wedding Planner shrills.
“Better do as we’re told,” Jack murmurs, his lips skimming my ear.
As the guests pile out of the chapel, congratulate Kate and tell us what beautiful people we all are, I steal a glance at the square-jawed face, feeling his grip around my waist.
He catches me staring and responds with a wink.
In that instant, I know I need to stay away from Mr. Big Dick before I do something I’ll severely regret.
***
I make it through dinner and speeches in a dignified manner worthy of a bridesmaid, with a permanent regal smile and a very patient bladder.
The crowd has hit the after-dinner lull where cheeks are sore from obligatory laughter at Kate’s dad’s long, mumbled speech, followed by Max’s best man speech—confident, precise, every pause premeditated and measured.
When Sean pays homage to Jack’s dad, missing from the wedding, I can’t help but dart a glance at Jack. His smile does nothing to hide the storm raging in those dark eyes. Maybe time doesn’t heal everything.
I grab Nisha’s arm as she walks past. “Hey, can you take a pic of me to send to Dad?”
“Sure.” She takes my phone from me. “I thought he was invited?”
“Weddings and big gatherings aren’t his thing.” And secretly I’m glad. At things like these where he’s out of his comfort zone, he ends up drinking too much. “Did you hear that in the middle of the ceremony?”
“Your wolves? Yup. Heard it.”
Oh my God.
She holds the phone up and takes a picture. “I think it’s the only part of the ceremony I listened to,” she says cheerily. “Catholic masses are so damn long. Don’t tell Kate.”
I polish off the last of my champagne and grab a flute from a passing waiter. “This is not good. You could actually identify it as werewolves fucking?”
“Only because I’ve listened to your dirty audio books before. Don’t worry, most people wouldn’t have caught on that it was werewolves fucking. That’s not the first thing that springs to mind. I mean, most people don’t even know that’s a thing.” She smirks. “It could have been worse.”
“How?” I ask, exasperated. “How on earth could it have been worse?”
“Could have been your vibrator.”
“Why would I take a vibrator to the church?”
She shrugs. “Kate and I think you’re addicted. At least you didn’t go arse over tit down the aisle. That rates higher on the bridesmaids from hell scale.”
“Are you saying I’m on that scale?” I hiss.
Father Donaghy walks past and gives me a curt nod as I curse under my breath. That priest is going to get me sent to hell in flames.
“How bad is my eye?”
She examines me. “It’s a little swollen. It probably feels worse than it looks.”
“It feels like I’ve been hit in the face by a heavyweight boxing world champion, so that’s good. I guess.”
She looks between both my eyes, frowning. “But there’s something else not quite right. I can’t put my finger on it.” Leaning over, she breathes right in my face. “You have no false eyelashes left on your right eye. It’s like you’re making a weird fashion statement. Why don’t we go into the toilets and see what we can do?”
I feel thoroughly depressed now.
“I can’t.” I groan. “The first dance is finishing soon. I have to join for the second. Then I think my duties are finished. Which is good because I’ve barely had time to pee today.”
“Looks like your sexy dance partner is raring to go.”
I follow Nisha’s line of sight. I’d almost forgotten I’m dancing with Jack.
That’s an unconvincing lie.
He licks his lips like a predator at the top of the food chain.
A predator who has spotted dessert.
