“I don’t know what I need,” I say hoarsely, unable to pull off the unruffled demeanor I’d hoped to convey.
His sad eyes meet mine and he opens his arms. I step into his embrace, desperate to connect with someone so I’ll feel less . . . adrift. He holds me with a light touch, and somehow I know he’s restraining himself, as though he wants to keep me afloat rather than pull me under. Through the fog, I notice Max is damp, fresh from a shower possibly, and I’m struck by the absence of any detectible fragrance on his skin. I wonder briefly if my scent will cling to him when he leaves, then wonder just as briefly whether my brain’s short-circuiting.
“Are you okay?” he asks in a whisper-soft tone.
I don’t move as I consider his question. Maybe remaining still will help me assess the damage. By all rights, I should be hurt, angry, ready to rail against the injustice of what Andrew’s done to me. But I’m none of those things. Not yet. The truth is, I’m numb—and more than a little confused.
Andrew’s supposed to be “the one.” For two years, we’ve shared interesting conversations, satisfying sex, and stability. Most important, he’s never pushed my buttons—not even once—and I can’t imagine a better choice for a lifelong partner than someone who doesn’t trigger my worst impulses. Until this morning, Andrew and I seemed to be on the same page about the mutual benefits of this union. Today he’s apparently in a different book altogether—and I have no idea why.
Max fills the silence, babbling for us both: “I don’t know what’s going on with him. One minute he was fine. And then we talked last night. We went barhopping, you know? Somewhere between the shots of Patrón, I said some foolish things. It went sideways from there. I’m sorry. So damn sorry.”
The anguish in his voice snags my attention, gives me a hook to sink my psyche into. He’s apologizing for something rather than consoling me, which doesn’t make sense. I slip out of his arms and back away. “What do you mean you said some foolish things?”
He drops his chin and stares at the floor. “Honestly, I don’t remember all that much. I was drunk.”
I skirt around him so I’m not blinded by the sunlight streaming in from the arched bay window—the better to see this fuckery. Oh, the cloudless sky chafes, too; wasting perfect wedding-day weather should be a petty crime punishable by at least a few days’ jail time. “How’d he tell you? Did you speak to him face-to-face?”
“He sent a text,” Max says softly, the floor still the object of his undivided attention.
“Let me see it,” I demand.
His head shoots up at the command. For a few seconds, we do nothing but stare at each other. He flares his nostrils. I . . . don’t. His gaze darts to my lips, which part of their own volition—until I realize what I’m doing and snap my mouth shut.
My body temperature rises, and I’m tempted to tug at the lace on my arms and chest. I feel itchy all over, as if millions of fire ants are marching across my skin to the tune of Beyoncé’s “Formation.” I mentally push away the discomfort and hold out my hand. “I need to see what he wrote.” When he doesn’t budge, I add, “Please.”
Max blows out a long breath, then reaches into the back pocket of his jeans, pulls out his phone, and taps on the screen. “Here.”
With my lips pursed in concentration, I read the jumble of sentences confirming that I, Lina Santos, a twenty-five-year-old up-and-coming wedding planner to DC professionals, am officially a jilted bride. Wow. Okay. Just. Yeah. I couldn’t be more off-brand if I tried.
Still studying Andrew’s text, I narrow my eyes on the sentence that annoys me the most: Thanks to you, I can see the truth now.
Oh, really? And what truth did you help my fiancé see, Max? Hmm? God, I can just imagine those two talking crap about me in some grimy pub. Makes me want to scream.
I shove the phone back into his hand. “So to sum up: You and Andrew got shit-faced last night, chatted about something you claim not to remember, based on that conversation he’s decided not to marry me, and he doesn’t have the decency to tell me any of this himself.”
Max is slow to agree, but eventually he nods. “That’s the sense I get, yes.”
“He’s a dick,” I say flatly.
“I won’t argue with that,” Max replies, the beginnings of a smile daring to appear at the corners of his trash-talking mouth.
“And you’re an asshole.”
His face sours, but I refuse to give a rat’s ass about his feelings. Whatever nonsense he spouted off last night convinced my fiancé to tank our wedding. I’d been so close to marrying the right man for me, and a single drunken conversation derailed everything.
I straighten and grab my own phone off the dressing table, sending out an SOS to my mother, aunts, and cousins:
Me: Eu preciso de vocês agora.
Telling them I need them now will get their attention; doing so in Portuguese will get them here within seconds. In the meantime, I scowl at the worst best man I could have ever asked for. “Max, do me a favor, will you?”
He takes a step in my direction, his eyes pleading for forgiveness. “Anything.”
“Get. The fuck. Out.”
Chapter One
Present Day
Lina
The limousine door opens, and the wedding guests let out a collective gasp.
Because the bride’s wearing green—chartreuse, to be precise.
Bliss Donahue gracefully exits the car and fluffs the tiered taffeta skirt swallowing the bottom half of her frame, oblivious to the slack-jawed expressions of the people witnessing her arrival at the Northern Virginia inn she’s chosen for the affair.
Like a veteran member of the Royal Family, Bliss stands in front of her imagined subjects and waves a single hand in the air, her face upturned to catch the sunlight just so. After a thirty-second pause for maximum dramatic effect, she takes several dainty steps along the cobblestoned path, the back of her ruffled dress fluttering in the April breeze. A few of the older female guests cluck their tongues and tut at the sight of her jaw-dropping gown. Others visibly cringe.
Discreet as always, I stand a few feet away, ready to troubleshoot any mishap threatening to ruin Bliss’s day. Although I warned Bliss the dress might overshadow the finer details of the otherwise elegant event, she was adamant that the unusual color accentuated her best features. In my view, the dress highlights her questionable fashion sense, but as the wedding planner, my job is to bring the couple’s vision to life, no matter how wonky that vision may be. To be clear, I’m not averse to voicing my concerns if the situation calls for it, but in the end, this isn’t my day, and if Bliss wants to walk down the aisle in a dress that looks as if it was cobbled together with Post-its to satisfy a Project Runway unconventional-materials challenge, I can’t stop her.
That’s not to say I don’t appreciate the unexpected. I’ve had great experiences with forward-thinking bridal attire (a wedding in which a lesbian couple both wore three-piece cream pantsuits is a personal favorite), and I’ll gladly support outside-the-box plans whenever possible—largely because I’d prefer the box didn’t exist. Sometimes, though, a ruffled chartreuse dress is just . . . tacky.