The Wedding Crush

Chapter Twenty

Avery

Idon’t know what I’m doing.

These past two weeks, Stefano and I haven’t been alone for more than a few hours at a time.

No, we didn’t break up.

It’s not over. We’re not teenagers jumping in and out of relationships because we butted heads over the right time to out ourselves. We text. We still say we love each other. It’s a completely mature response for two adults who’ve yet to find our way to the same page.

You know, except for the whole undercover lovers thing.

I’m in love, pregnant, running on a trip-wire hormone cocktail, and possibly a rebound for a man who might be one-upping his ex. Other than that, I’m on a luxurious bachelorette party bus. The bar is stocked, and I’m surrounded by my friends who’ve been pregaming for the past hour. What is there to complain about?

A frustrated sigh heaves out of me.

Like a radar alert, Morgan rests her head on my shoulder and peers up at me, sympathetically.

“Are you thinking about him?” she asks.

Why yes, I haven’t stopped thinking about him for going on two months now. However did you guess?

I flit a quick glance to Chiara.

That’s right, my friend—also, my secret lover’s sister—is here to celebrate Morgan’s bachelorette party with us. And why wouldn’t she be? We’ve all grown into great friends. She’s an honorary circle sister, here to whoop it up tonight over fine Italian at Bramoso’s, her family’s restaurant, followed by riveting karaoke in a smoky hole-in-the-wall bar.

Heat swarms my neck and cheeks.

I’ve got no idea if Stefano’s told her about us. Or if Morgan, who I’m sure told Dante, has whispered the news into his sister’s perked-up ear.

So, not only can I not drink myself into a mope, now, I also can’t speak hypothetically about Stefano with my girls, either.

The thing is, believing in fairy tales… Solidly my territory.

But Chiara is Stefano’s sister. She’s Victoria “The All-Knowing” Fortemani’s daughter. It’s in her genes to sniff out a lie—or a not-so-secret secret—with ruthless elegance and graceful finesse.

Not to mention, she’s got me beat in the hopeless romantic territory.

Even if she’s been strangely quiet tonight.

“Yes,” I finally say to Morgan. I’m hoping against all hopes that she takes the hint that I’m trying to keep talk of Stefano to a minimum. Or nonexistent. Just in case, I cautiously add. “It’s your bachelorette party. Can we not make tonight about me and…” Wide-eyed, I mouth his name, on the off chance the music Seneca’s blasting doesn’t drown me out.

Morgan nods, not at all discreet.

On the other end of this L-shaped bench seat, Valerie’s eyes snap knowingly to us as she sips her bubbly.

She thinks it’s pointless to keep talking in code. They still don’t know Stefano and I are “officially” together, but I’ve told them we’ve been growing on each other. Which, in Sister Circle code, means my heart is involved.

Same thing.

Quiet as kept, maybe Stefano had a point.

The girls and I have been talking about us for the past two weeks. Blatantly telling everyone about our relationship will absolutely overshadow the wedding like it’s doing to this gloom-and-doom party bus.

I refuse to let it happen.

“Listen, I love that you all care so much, but I’m telling you, I’m fine,” I say, aiming to nip this in the bud before we stop to pick up Monica.

“Mm-hmm. Freaked out, insecure, neurotic, and emotional?” Seneca quips.

I laugh.

In my periphery, Chiara’s and my eyes connect.

Smiling at her, I attempt to move the conversation along.

“Yes, all of that, Sen.” I giggle and nudge her shoulder with mine then reach over and squeeze Morgan. “But also, I’m so ready to celebrate our girl over delicious Italian food—”

“And sourdough bread,” Valerie moans.

“And wine flights,” Morgan adds, excitedly.

Notably, nothing over the top like Vegas-style clubbing or a gentlewoman’s bar with scantily clad hulks in stuffed Speedos. Nope, not for Morgan Elaine Forster, soon-to-be Fortemani.

She couldn’t be further from the dangling penis necklaces, crowns, and neon pink sashes girl.

Her party idea list included the likes of wine-tasting or wine and painting (we agreed, too on the nose), glamping/spa day, karaoke, concerts (British Columbia with Beyoncé), and a Clue-themed murder mystery party down in San Diego at a viral board game store, Love Games. “Quiet drama.” Her words verbatim.

With the jam-packed wedding month, though, out-of-town options quickly got nixed.

So, she settled for wine and dinner at Bramoso’s, followed by a pit stop at a karaoke bar in the city.

It’s not Queen B killing it like a badass blonde bombshell with fifty outfit changes, but we’ll be together.

Win-win.

Valerie’s phone rings on speakerphone, piercing the air.

A few seconds later, Monica answers. “ETA?” she asks.

“Two minutes away, so bring yourself outside, and let’s start this party!” Valerie shouts and hooks her toned leg around the floor-to-ceiling pole. Flaunting the fruits of the Pilates classes she’s been taking at Monica’s studio, she whips her body around like a seasoned professional.

“Ow! Ow!” Morgan and I holler.

Seneca produces a stack of ones from her purse and starts fanning them at Valerie.

“Okay, I see you!” Chiara perks up for maybe the first time she entered the bus.

I smile solemnly.

Sadly, this is as wild as it’s going to get tonight. Dinner and karaoke just don’t have that same I’m almost off the market feel, I think, when Monica’s panicked voice rips through the debauchery.

“Oh, my God. I can’t believe this is happening,” she scoffs.

The four of us freeze.

“What is it?” I ask.

The line muffles with curses for a beat before Monica says, “Shit, I need you all to come in for a minute.”

Then the line clicks off.

“Aw hell,” Seneca bites out, which feels wholly accurate.

Monica Mathers is nothing if not the life of every party. She’s electric pink stiletto nails, flawless makeup, glossy natural curls, and that banging Pilates body. She’s the outspoken alpha of our group, who knows how to let loose. If she isn’t ready and waiting on the curb, something is wrong.

The question is, how wrong?

Unbidden, images of a Speedo-wearing Stefano making a surprise appearance rush to mind. That, and either a flooded kitchen or a giant Australian-sized spider on the wall.

I’m already considering where I’m going to get a bucket, a blowtorch, or fainting salts when we pull in front of her house.

“What do you think is happening?” I ask.

Chiara looks as worried as I feel.

“It’ll be a few pounds of chocolate and wine delivery she forgot about,” she says, and I feel like someone’s zapped me with a lightning rod.

I look at her. Really, look at her, down to the sensible heels, muted pink dress, and a single, small section of limp curls that she missed with the leave-in conditioner.

My mouth falls open.

I’m not the only one in a secret mope.

Every atom in my body throbs with the urge to ask her what’s going on with her and her boyfriend, Lamar. This is what I do. I fix other people’s problems. That is, when I’m not going through personal crises.

But then, in rescue mode, Valerie shoulders to the front of the bus with Seneca and Morgan on her heels.

Chiara heaves a small sigh. “I’m fine.”

I smile, letting her exit the bus behind Morgan before I follow suit.

“I know all about fine…”

We march up Monica’s walkway, a dressed to impress, bombshell swat team.

Except, the front door is cracked.

Immediately, Morgan volunteers to be the caboose.

None of us argue.

It is her bachelorette party. The least we can do is spare the glittery wedding pumps she’s breaking in. From water and charred bug guts—or her soon-to-be brother-in-law’s thinly veiled family jewels—we aren’t sure yet.

“Mon!” Seneca calls out, tapping the door then fumbling back into us.

We all shriek.

Meanwhile, I’ve added psychotic murder to the list of dangers I’m listening for.

Thankfully, a few seconds later, Monica yells back, “I’m in the kitchen.”

Since her voice isn’t streaked with terror, we stealthily enter the house, and we’re immediately baffled about what’s going on.

“Um…” Morgan wedges past us into the living room where five chairs are huddled—with a wide berth—around what looks like a raised pedestal of sorts. “What did we miss? And why does it smell like there’s a cook-off underway in your kitchen?”

I pull in a long whiff of warm, savory spices.

“It does smell good.” I resist the urge to rub my belly, just as Monica, dramatic as ever, enters stage right.

Like a new-age Vanna Black in a sequin blush-colored dress straining to cover her thighs, she fans out her arm toward her kitchen, and announces, “Presenting, your team…”

Under her command, a bare-chested army of stupid-hot men in black slacks and bow ties file into the room holding trays of champagne, hors d’oeuvres, and… Are those paint supplies?

What is happening?

As if answering our many questions, finally, the sergeant of this army enters, his arms loaded up with folding trays.

In quick succession, they move assembly-style. Sergeant sets up the trays, and one by one, the rest dole out glasses, an assortment of fruits, meats, and cheeses, pours champagne, and sets up easels and a pre-filled palette with brushes and water cups.

“How did you—” I break off, scanning the room as I watch what’s unfolding in front of us.

When a microphone crackles to life in the corner near the television, I take one look at the girl power lyrics cued up on the screen, and it hits me exactly what Monica’s up to.

Well, most of it.

“Our sister deserves everything her heart desires. Wouldn’t you agree?” she asks.

The rest of the Sister Circle hum our agreement as she proceeds to explain why she had Chiara cancel our Bramoso reservation. As it turns out, while I’ve been juggling work and a blooming love for Stefano Fortemani—and dropping the ball on an amazeballs bachelorette party—single-handedly, THE Monica Mathers has teamed up with Chiara, pulling out all the stops for Morgan.

The list we whittled down to dinner and karaoke?

They found a way to ramp it back up to everything she dreamed of.

We’re performing a Beyoncé-oke (all-Beyoncé karaoke) playlist concert while being treated to a massage and foot soak at the deft hands of a beautiful army. We’ll be feasting on fine Italian cuisine courtesy of Chef Rossi on the ones and twos (burners). We’re tasting four seasonal wines while we paint.

Our subject?

That’s the part I couldn’t have foreseen.

He is a true, delectable work of art wearing a truly eye-catching birthday suit that makes us all feel like celebrating. Truly.

It’s not cheating without touching, right?

But that’s not all, folks.

After we’ve sung our hearts out, sowed our creative oats, and enjoyed a lovely fare, we’ll be glamping at chez Monica and playing a Clue-themed murder mystery game supplied by her new Instagram friends, Harper and Nadia from Love Games.

In other words, Monica saved the day.

And I’ve been an underwhelming wedding planner and maid of honor.

“Avery?”

At first, I’m confused when my girls rush to my side. Until I register the worry etched on their faces.

I’m crying.

In and of itself, this is not anything new. I cry. I’m a crier. Empath and all.

But not streaming waterworks.

“It’s just so amazing that you’ve done all of this for Morgan.” I shift my attention to Monica as she swipes under my eyes. “I’m so sorry I didn’t help you with all of this.”

“Shhh…” She blows a soft breath over my eyes. “You think I didn’t want to do all of this? I realize planning is your job, but we all want to celebrate Morgan.”

“And again”—Seneca starts in on me—“you don’t have to do everything alone.”

Immediately, my mind veers and hooks a hard left into Stefano territory. Without sharing everything about our relationship and the baby with my girls, I feel like history is…not repeating itself, but bordering on it, for sure.

I’m doing it all on my own again.

It’s losing Justin. It’s me and Ace against the world. It’s—

“All right, that’s it.” Seneca snaps her fingers and slices her hand through the air, cutting my internal spiral short.

Everyone, including our beautiful, half-naked army stands at attention.

She is our completely sensible, logic and straight-shooting line of symmetry, so I’m not surprised when she cuts straight through the mounting emotions in this room.

“Listen, Will got on my last nerve today, so I really, really want to fill my eyes with these oily pectorals while doing Beyoncé-oke.” Her slicked dark long ponytail whips around as she pivots to me. “Trust me when I say, the Queen is not a good mix with salty tears, so I’m giving you fifteen minutes.”

Dang.

I almost laugh out loud, looking at Morgan try, and fail, to stifle hers.

“Like, with a timer?” Morgan sputters as she flits an accusatory glance at me.

I shrug because timers are great order restoration tools. More people should use them.

But Seneca is so serious.

She flips her dainty wrist, all business now. “Let’s see, it’s six forty-four. In one minute, you start, and we’ve got until seven o’clock.” Period.

But the jokester in me can’t resist.

“Or else?” I challenge, stupidly.

Ready as ever for my games, she retorts, “I’m sending you home in the party bus with that germy pole, and we’re going to have all the fun without you.”

Double dang.

My mouth falls open with a sharp intake of air. “You wouldn’t!”

“She would,” the rest of my Sister Circle says in unison.

I huff out a resigned sigh.

Then, I throw up my hands. “I guess we’re doing this.”

Satisfied with my answer, Seneca quickly lays out the logistics for me. Which I secretly love. Nothing like order and structure.

“This is how it’s going to work,” she says. Then she takes the next thirty seconds to efficiently inform me that I’ll be temporarily dethroning our model from his pedestal. At which point, my girls will fire off questions, which I’m obligated to answer honestly. If they believe I’m lying, they’ve got the right to confer with other sources (i.e., all Fortemani family members, winery employees, wedding party members, Stefano’s best friend, Dylan, Mommy, and Ace).

Shoot.

“Okay, wow. No pressure,” I say, begrudgingly accepting her conditions.

Although, if I’m honest, it’s almost a relief. Finally, they’ll know. Even if this thing with Stefano doesn’t turn out to be my second chance at a fairy tale—for me, and not his ex—I won’t be alone.

“Everyone ready?” Seneca settles her attention on me. Then, surprisingly, at Chiara.

What was that?

Morgan bounces on her toes, clapping.

“Based on the entertainment value alone, this night is going to be one for the books. I couldn’t be happier.”

“Gee, thanks.” I laugh. “Glad I can help.”

Then, these five women, my mirrors, they get to work, and I’m not even close to prepared.

“Are you in love with my brother?” Chiara asks right out the gate.

My heart beats like there’s an entire drumline in my chest about to throw down at an HBCU homecoming.

Swallowing, I eke out, “Yes.”

The cackling and cheers nearly pierce my eardrums.

My girls kick off their heels, acting like total fools as they run around in circles celebrating like that’s the least of my problems.

Still, I can’t help but laugh, too.

“Is that it?” I roll my eyes playfully, knowing it’ll reel them back in.

“Not by a long shot, ma’am.” Seneca grins from ear to ear. “So, we know y’all did the Oompa Loompa behind Il Sapore, but was there any follow-up sexing?”

Chiara’s eyes widen.

Thank you, Seneca, for putting all my business on Front Street.

I pull in a lungful of air, releasing it through my nose as I nod.

It’s the snaps and resounding amens that make me love them to my core. We’re at a bachelorette party for our girl, and they’re still lifting me up. In their roundabout, prying way, but still.

“See!” Seneca is positively exuberant. “Girl, I told you they’ve been all up and through her place, his, the winery, the vineyard trails, doing the nasty.”

“She’s not wrong.” I shrug.

Morgan and Valerie high-five.

“Boop, okay now!” Monica blinks a good dozen times with pride.

If we’re being honest, might as well get it all out there. Although, there’s a part of me waiting for them to ask the inevitable question.

They go off on a timeline tangent, connecting the days Stefano and I’ve spent time together. Then Seneca asks about him meeting Ace, which leads us down a road of Cars, cleanup, and the carnival recap. They end up seated, fully invested, and swooning. Everyone certain “he’s so good with kids,” which nearly leaves me in tears again, which is strictly against Seneca’s rules.

She flips her wrist again, determined to keep tabs on the time.

“It’s six fifty-two,” she reminds us. “Get to asking if you’ve still got questions.”

In the back of my mind, I’m thinking my GOD this fifteen minutes is long.

But also, they’ve managed to cover our relationship, love, sex, and Stefano’s adorable bond with Ace. Beyond the fertilized egg in my uterus, what else could they ask?

I shift on my feet.

Morgan eyes me curiously, and for a split second, it feels like we’re at an impasse.

But then she screws her lips to the side and squints. “What about that last Dream Team meeting? You said everything was fine, but was it really?”

I consider her for a beat, reading between her lines.

She knows, but she’s beating around the bush.

“No, it wasn’t.” I meet her intense stare. “Before you and Dante joined the meeting, I’d told him I wanted to tell everyone about us.”

“Tell us what about you?” Chiara presses.

Pulling in a deep breath, I blurt out, “That we’re dating.”

“As in girlfriend, boyfriend.” Morgan’s smile deepens. She nods like she’s connecting the dots. “Y’all are official, aren’t you?” When I nod, she speculates for how long. “Since the movie at the vineyard, right?”

Wait.

I scan the room, taking in the elaborate change of plans. We’re all here, and no one is in rush to celebrate Morgan. No one was surprised because we’re all immersed in my…

Quiet drama.

This isn’t a surprise to them, it’s an ambush.

“How did you know?” I ask, suspiciously, sneaking a slice of brie and a grape off my assigned tray, popping them into my mouth.

I’m met with five are you seriously asking that expressions.

“Ma’am, you and Stefano Fortemani could barely stand to be around each for five minutes at the engagement party.” Seneca giggles. “Then he brushed you off after dress shopping, and suddenly every time you’re together, you’re disappearing for thirty, forty minutes at a time.”

Valerie laughs. “Right?”

“It’s been obvious for a while,” Monica says, quietly, but everyone pivots to her. This is her MO. She lets everyone else say their piece, then out of left field, boom! Tough love.

She steps back and folds her arms across her chest, and I sense the sharp turn ahead.

“Here’s what’s still confusing me.” She pins me with a no-nonsense stare as she commandeers the conversation. “We all knew or suspected as much, but why would he want to keep it on the down-low?”

It’s a loaded question.

By the time I bring them up to speed on Stefano’s many reasons, including competing with his ex-wife’s relationship—I leave out her impending motherhood—they’re all on my side.

“At least his intentions seem to be in the right place, though,” Morgan reasons.

I fidget with my cuticles.

“So, yeah. I’m a secret until your wedding,” I say, nonchalantly, knowing full well Monica isn’t done with me.

True to her character, she drops the hammer. “Is that the only secret you’ve been withholding?”

This is it.

I flit another glance at Chiara, my eyes already threatening tears.

“Can we just sing Beyoncé songs and draw hideous pictures of this beautiful man?” My voice wavers. I’m deflecting and everyone knows it. “Don’t you think I’ve hijacked enough of Morgan’s party? We’ve got Chef Rossi waiting, these gorgeous men are wasting away, the paint is drying—”

“The wine needs tasting…” Monica adds.

One of the soldiers snickers.

“A minute left,” Seneca asserts, very timely, kicking Monica into overdrive.

“How’ve you been feeling?” She raises an eyebrow. “Was it food poisoning, dairy intolerance, or…” Monica lets the rest of that question hang in the electric air.

As if just catching on, Valerie gasps. “Oh my God.”

Morgan and Seneca share a charged glance, and everything feels like it’s coming to a head.

My cheeks burn with humiliation.

“Last question…” Monica stands, her entire demeanor softening as she asks, “Does he know, or are you planning to keep the baby a secret from him, too?”

A collective, emotion-ridden gasp rumbles from my friends.

Chills spiral down my spine.

I blink back unshed tears as I chew the inside of my cheek.

“Wow…” Chiara blinks a good dozen times, and I assume she’s processing. But then she says, “That explains so much.”

The five of us snap to her.

“Wait, like what?” Seneca asks.

Chiara’s raises her eyebrows and shakes her head. “After dress shopping last month, I called him out for canceling on Avery…”

“He didn’t have plans?” Morgan asks.

My eyes connect with Chiara’s as she shakes her head.

“The man built—and immediately deleted—an online dating profile that night, apparently hoping to glean what insight about dating he hadn’t yet gained from the ridiculous self-help podcasts he’d been listening to.” She laughs, and it feels contagious.

Johnny Timmons’s scam of a podcast pops to the top of my mind, and I almost burst out laughing.

Based on sheer will, I manage to bite my tongue while she continues.

“My brother ended up watching Door-to-Door Dates, claiming he wasn’t ready to date, but that he wanted to be organized and prepared when the time came. Not long after that I run into him at the store humming that Jagged Edge song, ‘Let’s Get Married’ as he plucked a plush daisy pillow from a shelf.”

A giggle spills through my tears. “Oopsie Daisy.”

“Yeah, pretty sure we saw her on your couch last Turn-Up Tuesday.” Morgan’s lips twitch.

“The killer part is, the other day, we were all visiting Mom, and he was in the kitchen making coffee.” Seneca pauses. But then she squares her body to mine as she says, “He thought he was alone, but I distinctly heard him say, ‘I can’t wait for this wedding to be over.’ I just remember him being so adamant about Dante and Morgan prolonging their engagement. I guess we all know why the switch-up.”

At this point, it’s a feat to tamp down my emotions. I don’t bother holding back my crying.

No one acknowledges that time’s up.

They must know I need to get this out before I can’t.

“He doesn’t know yet.” I swallow to get the rest out. “I was going to tell him during our last ChatVideo before Morgan and Dante joined. When he didn’t even want to tell anyone we’re together…and after he said the thing about us being a rebound because his ex moved on, I couldn’t yet.”

“Aww, Avery.” Morgan climbs the pedestal to pull me into her arms.

“He tells me that he loves me all the time. I’m completely in love with him, too. It’s just…in that moment, though, it felt like he wasn’t sure about us,” I explain. “I don’t want the baby to be a factor when he decides.”

I’m almost squeezed death by five pairs of arms banded around me in a group hug.

Then, like they’ve conspired with Destiny’s Child, one by one, my Sister Circle ambles over to the karaoke machine, cues up a song, and collectively hovers over the mic.

As those first tinkling notes of “Girl” spring into the air, I’m ugly-crying.

Monica and Valerie fight it out to sing Beyoncé’s part, crooning about how we’ve come too far for me to feel alone.

Obviously, the song is about some idiotic man who dared cheat on Monica’s doppelganger, Kelly Rowland, but the friendship sentiment is strong.

By the time they get to the second chorus, telling me not to be ashamed of crying and needing someone to vent to, I’m singing, too.

Horribly, but with my whole chest.

Soon, the army, the sergeant, the chef, and the visibly cold model—shrinkage—join in, singing about us being each other’s loving girls.

The entire scene is ridiculous—and so cringy. I’m glad we’re not in public, spewing this audible venom onto innocent bystanders.

As we feast on delicious Italian fare with our feet soaking in lavender Epsom salt and strange men’s hands groping our shoulders, Chiara leans in close to my ear.

“The bachelor party is tomorrow, right?”

I hesitate, unsure where she’s going with this question, then nod.

“What if I told you I’ve got a plan to blow the cover right off this thing?” she whispers.

It’s a sweet sentiment with the slightest bit of edge to her tone. The gleam in her eyes is filled with confidence, readiness. It’s a battle cry of solidarity.

In Sister Circle code, it translates to: We ride at dawn.