Three Grumpy Groomsmen

2. Ivy

CHAPTER 2

Ivy

I’m suppressing the urge to laugh.

I press my lips together and work on swallowing against the snort that’s trying to escape. It causes my eyes to water a little and I figure that will make me look sad, which is appropriate.

Laughing is not.

I have three men staring at me with varying stricken expressions because my fiancé has skipped town—on our wedding day—and I really do have an overwhelming urge to giggle.

Not because it’s funny.

Oh, it’s not funny.

But ever since I was a little girl, whenever something shocks me or makes me uncomfortable, I laugh. It’s a nervous thing, but so, so inappropriate. It either freaks people out or makes them blind with rage, which was the case when I giggled at my grandfather’s funeral when I was seven. My aunt Becky spanked me for that because I couldn’t explain how the sheer horror of seeing his coffin overwhelmed me, and laughter leaked out.

It’s the same feeling I have right now.

Horror.

Liam, who knows me better than anyone on the planet, including my disappearing groom, takes me at face value that I need a drink and stalks over to a side table that has a whiskey bottle and glasses on it. It’s not tequila but I’ll drink anything short of rubbing alcohol right now.

I’m struggling not to laugh, my face flushed with both rage and embarrassment, and because I’m wearing a skintight fitted wedding gown, my chest is rising up and falling painfully.

This can’t be happening.

But it most definitely is.

I watch as Harrison scrubs a hand over his face and mutters, “I’m going to fucking kill him.”

Okay, so this is why they were talking about killing Brad.

At least I’m not the only one who wants bodily harm to come to Brad right now.

I look at Ford. He’s looking at me with clear concern. He takes a step toward me. He even murmurs, “It’s okay. You’re going to be okay.”

Liam hands me a glass and I toss back the liquor in one big gulp, shuddering as it burns down my throat. Whiskey dribbles on my chin and I don’t even care because it has the desired effect—it grounds me and negates the urge to dissolve into hysterics.

“One more, please.” I hand Liam the glass back.

He turns on his heel and heads back to the table.

Two hundred.

That’s how many guests are sitting in the garden right now. Two hundred people who are here to witness a wedding that isn’t going to happen.

There are thousands of dollars in floral arrangements, crates of wine and champagne, a hand-painted sign by a renowned local artist that declares, “Welcome to Ivy and Brad’s Happily Ever After!” and an entire barn festooned with ivy in my honor, along with a seven-course meal to be served by some of the city's most celebrated chefs as a nod to Brad.

Do you know how hard it is to find a suitable barn in Los Angeles?

Not easy, let me tell you.

And this incredibly gorgeous and insanely expensive wedding is not happening because Brad decided today he didn’t want to get married ?

He asked me ! I wasn’t even thinking about getting married until he planned a trip to Santa Barbara for us and got down on one knee and proposed with a hired mariachi band behind us in his favorite seaside Mexican restaurant. He said the theme of the evening was “quaint” and that with me, he felt rooted, grounded. Himself.

So apparently “himself” is a dick and his roots are rotten.

I throw my hand out for the glass Liam is shoving at me for the second time. He has the entire bottle in his free hand.

“This is bullshit ,” I manage to spit out, before taking another fortifying sip. “He could have had the decency to tell me himself!”

Ford nods rapidly. “I agree. I totally agree. This is just cowardly.”

“The minute I see him, I’m going to punch him for you,” Harrison says. “There’s no excuse for this.”

There really isn’t.

I know we’ve been fighting lately, but I chalked that up to wedding stress. Even with a wedding planner, it’s consumed tons and tons of my time. Plus, we’re moving across the country right after the wedding. Brad seemed almost jealous of the time both took away from him, or so I’d thought. Even though both the big wedding and the move were his idea.

Now it seems like all that meant a hell of a lot more than I realized.

That Brad doesn’t want to marry me.

Which is ironic as hell.

Because more than once over the last six months I’ve had the tiny, what-I-thought-was-a-traitorous fear that I don’t want to marry him . But I stuffed it down. Deep. Because he loves me and I ground him.

“What am I supposed to do?” I groan. “There’s all those people out there. All that food. Oh, my God, we’re moving tomorrow. To Honeysuckle Harbor, South Carolina.”

I don’t know why I announce the location. It’s not like they don’t know. Both Harrison and Ford are from South Carolina, still live there the majority of their time, and Liam knows everything about me.

But I’m starting to feel weird. Hot and slightly dizzy. I sway on my feet and Harrison reaches out and grabs my arms to steady me.

“Whoa there,” he says softly.

His hands are warm, and I lean into his touch.

“I quit my job!” I exclaim.

I love my job as a food stylist on the hit cooking show Southern Charm . Or I did until I quit my job to move across the country for Brad.

“Shh,” Harrison says, rubbing my arms comfortingly. “There are other jobs.”

It’s such a dumb thing to say a crack of laughter escapes my mouth. It sounds like a wild cackle. “Sure, there are other jobs but not the job I love . And yes, there are other fish in the sea and maybe this was meant to be and God only gives us what we can handle and it’s only money, right? Did I miss any other major platitude?”

Harrison winces. “I think you have the big ones covered.”

I feel instantly guilty. He was only trying to help. It’s not his fault Brad’s an asshole. What is Harrison supposed to say to me? I sigh. “Harrison, I’m sorry, I appreciate it?—

“Don’t you apologize, Ivy,” he says firmly with a frown. “This is on Brad. I just wish I could do something. Anything.”

“Hey,” Ford says, nudging Harrison aside. “Look at me, Ivy.”

Harrison’s hands do fall off of me, but he doesn’t really move out of my personal space. Liam is pacing back and forth behind us, his phone to his ear.

“Answer your fucking phone, you piece of shit!” Liam says, confirming for me that he’s trying to reach Brad.

I shift my gaze to Ford.

His hazel eyes are drilling into me with care and concern. I’ve never really noticed his eyes before, but they’re actually very lovely, with flecks of gold in them. Most of all, they’re kind.

“Ivy, take a deep breath with me.” Ford squeezes my hands gently. “In and out. Come on.”

I obey. We breathe in together, my chest and shoulders rising. We breathe out together, Ford’s exhalation a controlled stream, mine a hot, anxious burst of air.

But I do feel better.

“I need to go tell everyone,” he says, his voice calm, controlled. “I’ll be right back.”

“I should tell everyone,” Harrison says, adjusting the knot on his tie. “As one of the best men. And Brad’s former best friend. You stay with Ivy.”

Harrison starts to move toward the door, but I reach out and grab his arm. “Wait.”

His eyebrows raise. “You don’t want to do this yourself. Trust me.”

I shake my head rapidly. “Oh, God, no, I don’t want to announce that Brad is dipping out on our wedding. But I don’t think we should cancel the reception, just the ceremony. People have traveled from all over to be here. The money is already paid, everything is set up, there’s so much food that would go to waste…just tell them the ceremony is canceled and we’re going straight to the party.”

Maybe it’s the whiskey winding its way through my veins. Maybe it’s being raised by practical parents. Maybe it’s my stubborn pride that is refusing to allow anyone to think I’m lying on the floor sobbing about being a jilted bride.

It’s probably a little of all of the above.

“You’re sure?” Harrison studies me.

“Yes.”

Ford’s arm has slipped around my waist and I realize I’m leaning into him. The support is nice, especially considering these guys are Brad’s oldest friends.

Harrison looks to Liam. “What do you think?”

Liam’s face is red with anger. He’s shoving his phone into his pocket. “If that’s what Ivy wants, that’s what we’ll do. Why the hell are you asking me?”

Harrison stiffens. There’s no mistaking the venom in Liam’s voice and I suspect not all of it is directed toward the missing Brad.

Liam definitely had his feelings hurt by Harrison after they hooked up, though the details are a little unclear to me. Liam isn’t big on sharing his feelings, not even with me.

Their obvious tension is actually giving me something to focus on other than my own shock and grief—though is it grief or just a bruised ego? At the moment, I’m not even sure, which is very confusing.

“Liam, go with Harrison, please,” I say, determined to focus on the practical matters at hand. “I need you to tell my parents first before Harrison addresses the whole crowd. And my bridesmaids.”

I only have two. My little sister, Cece, who is only fourteen, and is going to be devastated, and Brad’s sister, Julianna, who has never warmed up to me and vice versa. I suspect Julianna will be shedding no tears today.

Liam grimaces, but he nods. “Of course. Harrison, you’re telling Brad’s parents that their son is a selfish, cowardly asshole.”

“Sure. I’ll say it just like that. Word for word.” Harrison rolls his eyes. He reaches out toward Liam, who immediately jerks away.

“What are you doing?” Liam demands.

“I want a sip of whiskey. Relax, William.”

Oh, boy. That’s not going to go over well. I know for a fact Liam hates the nickname Harrison has given him.

Liam stomps past Harrison, taking the whiskey with him, and yanks open the door to exit. “Get your own fucking whiskey.”

“That is my whiskey! I brought it with me this morning!” He catches the door that Liam is letting slam in his face and stomps out of the room.

“Good to see they’re getting along so well now,” I joke to Ford, because if you can’t laugh, you’ll cry. Another useless platitude. That’s not even true in my case.

“Like long-lost brothers.” Then Ford looks at me when he realizes what he’s said and makes a goofy face. “Maybe not brothers ,” he adds hastily.

I start laughing.

He joins in.

It feels good to laugh. It’s releasing some of the tension I’ve felt since I walked in and knew something was terribly, horribly wrong.

“So I take it you know?” I ask. “About them?”

Ford’s expression is making it pretty clear Harrison told him about his night with Liam.

“All I know is that they had a moment and then Harrison fucked it up somehow.” Ford rubs his jaw. “He doesn’t mean to, but he does that regularly.”

“Liam doesn’t have the best track record either. He keeps things too close to the cuff then is shocked when people can’t read his mind.”

“Well, hopefully they can put whatever the hell their feelings are aside and handle all this.” Ford clears his throat. “Brad’s an idiot. In case you didn’t know that.”

“I’m getting that impression, yes.”

I study him, curious. I don’t know Harrison and Ford particularly well. Sure, they’ve come into town several times over the year that I’ve been dating Brad and we’ve all hung out, but I’ve never really talked to either of them. Not one on one, or at anything more than a superficial level.

I’m impressed they’re sticking around to clean up Brad’s mess.

“Thank you for staying,” I say softly. “I appreciate it.”

Ford scoffs. “Are you kidding me? Of course. I’m so fucking pissed right now at Brad. You shouldn’t have to handle this alone. Which, I have to say, you’re doing remarkably well.”

“Should I be crying?” I probably should be, but one, I don’t cry. Two, I feel weirdly relieved. I’m not sure I want to admit that to Ford, though. Because then he might ask why the hell I was marrying Brad in the first place, and I’m not sure I have the answer to that right now.

“Definitely. Or at the very least cursing Brad’s name or throwing a glass across the room.”

“The night is still young. And I’m cursing Brad’s name silently in my head. I’m also debating calling him and leaving an angry voicemail, or at the very least, logging out of our joint Netflix account and changing the password so he can’t watch a movie on his escape flight.”

“I think that’s fair.”

“So I’m winning at being a jilted bride?”

“You’re in like the top one percent of jilted brides.”

I laugh softly. Ford is trying to meet me where I need to be met. “You’re a very nice man, Ford Anderson. With terrible taste in best friends. Harrison notwithstanding.”

“I can’t argue with that.” He offers me his arm. “Should we do this? Or do you want to change first?”

“The only thing I have on site is a satin robe that says “Mrs.” so I think I’m stuck in this dress. Besides, this dress cost two months’ rent and I look fabulous in it.”

“You certainly do. You look incredible, Ivy.”

“Thank you.” I actually glance at the mirror positioned for the groomsmen to do tie checks, which is a mistake.

It’s a beautiful dress, elegant and form-fitting. My hair has never looked this shiny or effortlessly wavy. The diamond pendant earrings Brad gave me for Christmas sparkle in the sunlight from the window and my makeup, done by my makeup artist friend, Patrice, is slay-all-damn-day amazing.

I do look a little stunned, and a little flushed.

Like a bride who was left on her wedding day by her shitheel of a groom.

Who has not called or even texted me. Which means I’m not calling or texting him because he can’t have any explanation for me that could justify this behavior. I refuse to beg for answers as to how he could hurt and humiliate me this way.

Instead, I take a deep, fortifying breath and slip my engagement ring off of my finger. “Here. Do something with this before I flush it down the nearest toilet.”

My finger feels empty after the weight of the hefty diamond resting on it for the last four months.

But I’m determined not to make an ass of myself in front of anyone.

Ford takes the ring from me and I shiver at the unexpected brush of his warm flesh over mine. The little jolt of electricity startles me, makes me warm in places only the whiskey should be touching.

He just smiles reassuringly at me. “You’ve got this.”

“I do.”

I do.

Oh, the irony of that.