The next morning is a flurry of makeup, hair, manicure, and pedicure. I’m in my underwear, ready to start putting on the dress, the lace tiara, and the veil when Gina arrives.
“Half of the hotel staff is swooning in the lobby, I swear to god,” she says.
I feel a jealous twinge at the thought that others have been able to see my groom before me. “Who?”
“Receptionists, florists, waitresses, everyone with a vagina. Women were sitting down fanning themselves. Swear.” She laughs and then shoots me a deathly sober look that says I kid you not!
“Where are the rings?” I ask her.
“Hey, don’t look at me. I’m not supposed to bring them, Tahoe is.”
“He better bring them along with his hangover after the rehearsal dinner.”
She grabs her phone. “T-Rex, don’t forget the rings or we’ll have a bridezilla on our hands.”
“We?” asks Wynn, where she still sits by the breakfast cart that room service had brought up.
“What?”
“You just said ‘we,’ ” says Wynn.
“Ah, whatever.” Gina comes over and mothers me.
Wynn is eyeing the other dresses as she eats a piece of toast. “Are all these going back?” she asks. “I mean . . . they’re huge designers. And they sent notes!”
“I don’t think they’re going back,” I say as Mother holds open the dress for me to step into.
“If I need an emergency wedding . . .” Wynn trails off.
“No period yet?” I ask worriedly.
Wynn is a week late.
She told us last night after I came to the room to find her crying a little bit.
“None. But it’s all the stress and excitement of your wedding. Plus travel always messes with my cycle.” Convinced she’s nailed the problem, she fishes out a bagel from the bread basket and bites down.
“Right,” says Gina. “Does Emmett even want kids?”
Wynn has no response for that.
Gina shoots her a meaningful look. “Guess you should ask.”
“Really? Is that what we think?” Wynn shoots back.
“What I think.”
Mom has buttoned up the sides of my low-back dress, and I am momentarily left speechless by the image in the mirror hanging on the back of the en suite bathroom door. I take in the milky color of my skin, the pink of my cheeks. The dress is formfitting with a low back and a little bit of cleavage and a mermaid skirt, emphasizing my waist and hips, and even my small breasts. My hair hangs like a curtain behind me, and it looks lustrous as glass. My mother adds the tiara to the crown of my head and attaches the veil, letting the rear hang delicately over my backside, and the short one to cover my face.
She holds the purple orchids that I’m supposed to carry, and stares at me with tears in her eyes.
Wynn and Gina stop arguing, and they catch their breath when I turn. “So you like it?” I ask them.
This is the one dress they hadn’t seen on me.
And once they see it, they get misty eyes too.
“No crying,” I plead, my heart suddenly feeling like a thousand pounds in my chest.
I’m too excited to cry. I’m too happy to marry my Saint. I’m too determined not to have puffy eyes.
“No crying,” Gina softly concurs as she goes and takes the bagel from Wynn’s hand and slaps it down on the plate. “We have a wedding to take her to. Her player will be a player no more; he just got himself a missus.”
Down in the lobby, the hotel staff is waiting in a neat line to greet me. “Congratulations! You make a beautiful bride. Oh, and your friend was just here. She worried she was already late for the wedding but we assured her she was just on time.”
“Friend?” I ask quizzically.
I glance behind me, where Gina and Wynn stand along with Mother. Do they mean Sandy? Valentine? I mean to ask, but then I spot a familiar person ducking with her arm raised to cover her face. I spot a bun, and an executive outfit like some paparazzi pro. For a moment my body stiffens at the shock of seeing her. Pretty as you damn well please. But the shock gives way to indignation and protectiveness. I purse my lips in anger, I lift my skirts, and walk over.
“Victoria.” I stop her.
She freezes, turns, and gets this “oh-my-god-you-here?” look on her face. “Hey, Rachel.”
“What are you doing here?”
“I, well, there were rumors. I’m representing the people.”
“She’s like a bloodhound sniffing them out!” Gina cries.
“You’ve got some nerve,” Wynn huffs. “We’re calling Saint.”
“Wynn, no,” I say, reaching out to stop her.
I step aside and pull Victoria along with me.
“Rachel, I won’t do any harm. I’m so sorry for what happened,” she says.
“No,” I say. “You’re sorry my boyfriend canned your article and got you out of a job.”
“No!” Her eyes widen. “I like this job. I’m like Perez Hilton on Twitter. I’m free; I like it. I have you and him to thank.” She lifts her phone. “One picture?”
“You’re kidding me,” I say, outraged.
“Press can’t come in, cameras controlled, but I’m not press, see, not officially; my phone does the trick, please. I know your single name, and described you . . . so. I mean, we are friends.”
“Were,” I whisper, then I try to calm myself. “Please leave.”
We stare at one another.
She was someone I wanted to be like.
But I don’t anymore.
She has her path and I have mine.
I don’t want to hate her either.
And I don’t think she hates me. In fact, I see regret in her eyes. She bows her head in shame and wrings her hands as she presses her phone to her chest. “Rachel, I’m sorry. For what it’s worth.” She looks contrite. “I saw him walk past.” She signals. “You’re lucky.” I don’t reply, and she adds, as if to make me feel better, “So is he.”
“You still need to leave, Victoria.”
There seems to be a battle inside her. The professional versus the human being. “I’ll go because I owe you one. But I’ll see you at the christening of your firstborn, or maybe sooner.”
I smile at her naïveté. This is the last time she slips by me. “I don’t think so,” I say.
She smiles a little and walks away. And I watch her take my past with her, all of it.
I have a future to look forward to.
I have a storm to catch.
A leap to make.
A man to love.
A Sin to take.
And I’ve never looked forward to something in my life like I look forward to
MALCOLM
KYLE
PRESTON
LOGAN
SAINT.
