Chapter 24
19 hours until the wedding
As the maid of honor, the responsibility of planning Allison’s last night as a single gal falls on me. Which is how Allison, the two other bridesmaids, and I end up at a sticky Belfast karaoke bar, chugging watered-down vodka sodas, singing along to a particularly heartfelt rendition of ABBA’s “Gimme! Gimme! Gimme!” with a hundred of our closest Irish friends.
I don’t know either of the other bridesmaids very well, except that Carmen speaks in fluent TV quotes and movie references, and that Britney was Allison’s big in the Greek system at college—something I find profoundly annoying. Allison is always going on about her big and how cool and awesome she is, and I’m like, Hello, your actual biological big sis is right here. What am I? Chopped liver?
At the moment, my sister and her friends are entangled in one another’s arms out on the dance floor, shrieking every time the song changes. Miraculously, it’s been “our song,” the last three songs in a row, none of which I recognize, which means I am officially too old for this.
I’m also too old for the sparkly pink cowgirl hats we’re all wearing courtesy of Britney, who thought they fit the theme of “A Night of Lasts in Belfast.” I’m not sure what the hat has to do with the theme, but the important thing is that Allison looks happy—and not like she suspects anything might be wrong with Collin, or otherwise. She’s also too drunk to remember she’s still mad at me, so that’s something.
Three pop remixes later, it’s our turn to take the karaoke stage.
Naturally, Allison goes first and performs Beyoncé’s “Love on Top.”
She’s shimmying to the music, trying to hit a high note, when Collin appears at our table, followed by Jack and the two other groomsmen, Tony and Braden—who, in my mind, can be interchangeably referred to as Meathead One and Meathead Two.
“What are you guys doing here?” Britney yells over the music. “This is supposed to be girls only!”
“Sorry, ladies, we didn’t know you’d be here too,” Collin says, sharing a knowing smirk with Jack that makes me wonder if their presence really is a coincidence.
The boys all order drinks and take a seat at our table. Even though there are plenty of other open spots, Jack sits beside me. He’s wearing the same outfit from earlier, except now he’s lost the tie and jacket, and his shirtsleeves are rolled up to his elbows, showing off the veiny ridges of his forearms. If I didn’t already wish I wasn’t wearing a sparkly pink cowgirl hat, now I really do.
“Hey. Nice hat,” he says, tipping the brim.
“I thought you were going to a strip club?” I ask.
“We were, but I thought this would be a better show.” He pauses, looking me up and down. “Clearly I was right.”
I’m thankful for the poor lighting, hiding the blush I’m sure is working its way up my neck. “How did you know we’d be here?”
His body bends toward me, knee brushing mine under the table. “Wild guess?”
“You sure you’re not just following me?” I ask. “The last three days weren’t enough for you?”
“Not nearly enough,” he says, nudging my knee.
His eyes skip to mine, a scorching look behind his gaze, and a hot whoosh rips through me.
Eager to focus on literally anything else, I turn to Allison, watching as she returns from the stage and promptly drapes herself across Collin’s lap. He wraps his arm around her shoulder, thumb skating back and forth across the same spot on her arm before leaning in and whispering something in her ear. Whatever it is has my sister blushing and giggling.
“Collin seems better,” I whisper to Jack. “Have you talked to him?”
Jack cups my hand with his, giving it a quick squeeze. “Everything’s going to be fine,” he whispers back. “I promise.”
It’s not a real answer, but the comfort of his hand in mine is a fast-acting relief and I let myself relax. Or as much as I can with Jack’s knee bouncing against mine.
Even now, after he’s made it clear he doesn’t want anything more, I can’t help but continue to feel magnetized by him, endlessly aware of his body, his heat, the subtle shift of his weight. Every flex of the hand and tick of the jaw. He’s an app I can’t stop opening. A habit I can’t break.
Every time his gaze latches on to mine, something in me catches fire, and those feelings I’ve tried to turn off turn right back on, magnified.
After Britney belts out “Jenny from the Block,” Collin puts on a very lewd performance of “Clumsy” by Fergie that includes plenty of provocative hip movements and body rolls. I watch with one eye shut. Meanwhile, Allison shrieks and catcalls like she’s at a Magic Mike Live performance. When Collin finishes, Allison pulls him in for a smoldering kiss that feels a little indecent in a club full of people, but hey, it’s better than hearing the wedding’s off, so I’ll take it.
Next, Collin ropes Jack into performing some obscure nineties punk song I’ve never heard before. It must be some kind of inside joke because they can barely make it through a single lyric without cracking up.
Alcohol is clearly a factor, but I like seeing this side of Jack. A side that looks relaxed and at ease, wholly different from the man I saw last night, weighed down by hurt and broken promises.
When they finish, Collin reclaims his seat beside Allison, but Jack remains on stage, eyes locking on me as he wiggles his index finger in my direction.
I freeze, drink halfway to my lips.
“Come on, Ada,” he says in a singsong voice. “You know you want to.”
I shake my head like a dashboard bobblehead. “No, thanks. I don’t sing.”
He juts out his bottom lip. “One song?”
“Come on, Ada, do it!” Carmen cries, followed by a chorus of “Yeah, come on!”
I’m not a performer. I don’t even like singing “Happy Birthday” out loud. But based on the way everyone is looking at me, chanting various versions of “Come on, Ada! Do it!” I have a feeling I’m not getting out of this one.
“Fine,” I resign. “One song.”
Jack’s face breaks into a grin, the kind that feels like it’s planting seeds and blossoming in my chest. Or maybe it’s not the smile. Maybe that’s just the way I feel when I look at him. When I do anything with him.
“I promise it will be worth it,” he says. Then he gestures for me to join him on the stage where the lights are too bright and the temperature too hot.
We each take a microphone as the electric intro beats of Donna Summer’s “Hot Stuff” flood the speaker system. Jack catches my eye, giving me the faintest hint of a nod, and even though we’re on a stage in front of a crowd of people, it feels oddly intimate. Like it’s just us.
The first lyrics pop up on the screen and my hands instantly turn clammy. Jack lifts his microphone and, with surprising bravado, belts out the first verse.
He’s not bad. But what he lacks in technical singing abilities, he makes up for with Elvis-style hip gyrations and cartoonish body rolls.
I cover my face with my hands, laughing so hard I don’t notice the next verse pops up on the screen until Jack gestures to me that it’s my turn.
The first verse comes out shaky, but by the time the chorus comes I’m no longer thinking about Allison or Collin or the wedding. It’s just Jack and me, laughing and dancing our way through the rest of the song in a wild display of bad vocals and even worse dance moves.
At one point, Tony throws a twenty-pound note on stage and I stuff it into my bra. Everyone cheers, but the sound is a distant roar in my ears, overshadowed by the heat of Jack’s palm as he spins me in a lazy circle.
It’s so cheesy, so over the top. And yet, I’m completely powerless to the swell of want that gathers in every hollow and nook of my body, and for one time-bending moment, nothing exists outside the heat of his gaze or the pressure of his hand.
When the song ends, the room blurs around us, swimming with a variety of colors and patterns entirely indistinguishable from one another. The only thing that remains sharply in focus is Jack. The sweat gathering on his brow. The piece of hair draped across his forehead. The warmth of his hand in mine as we take a bow.
As we walk off the stage, Jack leans into my ear and whispers, “Was that so bad?”
“That was payback for the cartwheels, wasn’t it?”
He grins unevenly. “I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about, Ada.”
His hip scrapes mine and my heart thumps, blood pounds in my ears, every check engine light in my body blaring. I need to think. To breathe. To instill some level of sanity back into my thoughts.
“I’m going to the bathroom,” I blurt.
I’m barely aware of where I’m going as my feet carry me down the long dark hall toward the neon sign that says Toilets , only that I need space from Jack and all his pheromones.
Inside the bathroom, I grip the counter and stare at myself in the mirror. Flushed cheeks and deer-in-the-headlight eyes look back at me.
What just happened?
Sure, maybe it was just a fun song between friends at karaoke. Maybe I’ve misread things. Again. But I know that’s not true. Not this time.
I take a deep breath and splash some water on my neck, willing my heart rate to slow down.
A second later, the door flies open and in comes Britney, carrying the sound of laughter and music through the door with her.
“Hey, nice job up there,” she says, dipping her hands under the faucet beside me.
I force a smile. “Thanks.”
“So,” she says, dropping her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Is there something going on with you and Jack?”
I freeze. Oh God. Is it written all over my face?
“No. Of course not,” I say, forcing the corners of my mouth upward.
She gives me a look like she doesn’t believe me, then reaches for a paper towel. “You sure? I haven’t seen that much chemistry on stage since Madonna and Britney kissed at the VMAs.”
Sparks of heat flood my cheeks and I run my hands under the faucet, splashing cold water onto my face with renewed vigor.
She tips her chin. “Are you all right? Do you need water or something?”
“I’m fine. Totally fine. Just dizzy from singing.” I wave my hand airily and mold my cheeks into a terse smile.
Britney’s face pinches. “You sure? I have some Pepto in my purse…?”
I shake my head again. She gives me one more careful look before disappearing back out the door.
As soon as she’s gone, I lean back against the wall.
Is that what we looked like? Like we were all over each other? Like we had chemistry?
There’s a part of me that knows I ought to be embarrassed. But somehow I’m not. Perhaps because it’s validating to know I didn’t make the whole thing up.
After I wash my hands, I exit the bathroom. The hall outside is dark and I bump into something hard. But it’s not something. It’s someone.
I stagger backward until firm hands grip my shoulders, steadying me.
“Sorry,” comes a familiar voice.
I look up. It’s Jack.
His hands slide down my bare arms, lingering on my waist. The touch is light, barely more than a graze, but it doesn’t stop the electric ping of awareness under my skin or the dizzying array of Olympic-level backflips my stomach is currently performing.
He rejected you , I remind myself. We’re just friends.
But the way he’s looking at me—dark eyes tracing patterns across my face like there might be a quiz later—is saying otherwise.
“I was just in the bathroom,” I say.
“Glad to see you didn’t lock yourself in this time.”
I blink. “Excuse me?”
“I’m joking.”
Right. Joking. But my brain no longer has any grasp of the meaning. Only the fact that Jack’s hands are still inexplicably on my waist, and suddenly I’m leaning into him, like his body is a Venus flytrap and I’m but a helpless spider being lured into its teeth. Except, unfortunately for me, I’d like to get eaten.
For a moment we just stand there, hovering alone in the dark, empty hall—the only light coming from the sign blinking overhead. Some rap song I vaguely recognize comes over the sound system and the bass thumps in time with my own racing heart.
I’m not sure what makes me do it, if it’s the post-performance adrenaline still coursing through me or simply because I want an excuse to keep touching him, but I reach into my bra and pull out the twenty Tony threw on stage. Jack follows my hand, eyes widening.
“Here. To put toward my debt,” I say, flattening the bill against his chest.
His hand brushes mine as he takes it. “I think you’ll have to do a lot more performances to pay off the rest.”
“How much do I owe you at this point?” I ask. “Or is it like the IRS where I have to guess and if I get it wrong I go to jail?”
Jack laughs, shifting close enough that I can smell the liquor on his lips. “I can get you an itemized list if you’d like,” he says. “Though I’ll warn you, my sewing fees aren’t cheap.”
“Damn. And what happens if I can’t pay up?”
Jack licks his lips, eyes reflecting the light of the neon sign overhead. “Probably the stocks. Or debtor’s prison.”
I take another step toward him. “Joke’s on you. I look super cute in orange.”
His eyes travel down my face, lingering on my lips. “I bet you do.”
The air between us feels charged and I can’t help but feel like we’re having two separate conversations. The one happening out loud, with words, and the silent one conducted through heated glances and rapidly shrinking personal space.
I don’t want to get hurt again. And I certainly don’t want to make yet another mistake. But I feel my defenses start to falter as the low buzz of sexual tension goes from crackling background noise to full-on ringing in my ears.
I think back to last night, to the excitement that had thrummed inside me. To the impulse I’d foolishly trusted and the burn of humiliation that had followed.
Part of me wants to memory-hole the whole thing and move on, but another part of me hums with curiosity. I want to know why he hadn’t kissed me.
Was it because I’d truly read things wrong?
Or was it something else?
“Jack, can I ask you something?”
He blinks. “Sure. What’s up?”
Maybe it’s the hazy cover of darkness, or the alcohol still pumping in my bloodstream, but I feel brave enough to ask, “Did you not want to kiss me last night because I’d been throwing up and crying? Or…” I pause, letting my eyes trail across his face. “Did you just not want to kiss me ?”
His gaze shifts from one of surprise to one that is visibly tense, and I worry I’ve stepped too far, that I’ve broken this delicate, glass-like thing between us.
He licks his bottom lip, forehead creasing before he says, “Of course I wanted to kiss you. But you were still drunk and upset about your ex. It wasn’t a good idea. For either of us.”
My breathing shallows, currents of energy zigzagging inside me. I try to think, to process the implications of what he’s just said, but there are no thoughts, just the rapidly expanding heat in my belly and the surges of want gathering between my thighs.
For a second, nothing happens, we just float there, a flimsy distance separating us, before I hear myself ask, “Is this…?”
His eyes narrow, searching through the darkness. “Is this what ?”
“Is this a good idea?”
“Ada.” His voice is low and gravelly, and my body warms from the sound alone.
His mouth opens slowly, as though moving at half speed, then he closes it again, a silent meditation happening behind his eyes. Then he says, in a voice so low I feel it rumble inside me, “Ada, if you want me to kiss you, I won’t be able to stop myself this time.”
I’m frozen, caught between his sticky breath on my cheek and the bass thumping in my chest. My brain screams for me to stop, to ask questions, to analyze and overthink every syllable of what he just said. But I don’t. Instead, I look into his dark eyes and say the first thing I can think to say—the only thing I can think to say.
“I want you to kiss me, Jack.”
Jack’s gaze pores over me, seeping into my skin, and my blood thickens as everything slows around me. Even the music now sounds garbled and faint. Neither of us moves. We hover there, bodies suspended, an electric hum of anticipation coursing between us. Then Jack takes my head in his hands, fingers scraping the sides of my face as his mouth captures mine.
I expect the kiss to be urgent, demanding—like Jack—but instead, it’s soft and reassuring, like each motion is asking for permission. Is this okay? his hand asks as it trails the curve of my chin. And this? His other hand brushes my sweaty hair from my forehead. I answer him with a kiss . Yes. Touch me. Kiss me. Do it and do it now.
The heat of his mouth draws me in, each breath pulling us a little closer, a little deeper. A slow, drugging kiss. Then another, this time hungrier, wilder, both of us testing the rapidly crumbling boundary between us.
“Fuck,” he rasps into my mouth.
“I know,” I breathe back. I’m not sure what it is exactly that I’m professing to know , only that whatever he’s feeling, I’m feeling it too.
The cover of darkness eggs us on, teasing us with a facade of privacy, and he walks us back until my spine meets the wall. A tiny moan crawls up the back of my throat as his palm presses against my chest, keeping me in place with the lightest of pressure while his other hand slides down my body, molding around my hips. Everything in me liquefies. No bones. No internal organs. Nothing but formless swells of heat.
But I need more. The graze of a hand, the brush of a tongue is no longer enough. His hardness presses into me, telling me he feels the same way.
Jack tilts my chin, nudging the cowboy hat off my head.
“This fucking hat,” he whispers, breath rough against my skin.
“I thought you liked it?” I mean for it to sound teasing, flirty. Instead, the words come out feverish and desperate, just like I feel.
“I did.” His lips skim the side of my jaw, slipping higher until he’s sucking on my bottom lip. “I liked it too much.”
The taste of him decodes something inside me. Like he’s reached into my most cavernous depths and opened a door to a room I didn’t even know existed. And suddenly I forget where I am. Or that there are hundreds of people on the other side of this wall. All I can focus on are the pulse points of heat and pressure. All the places his hands are. And all the places I still need them to be.
I arch my hips toward him, begging him for more. He responds by inching his hand under my skirt, moving at a pace that’s as torturous as it is delicious. He reaches the band of my underwear, and a needy, breathless whimper escapes me.
“You need to stay quiet,” Jack whispers. “Can you do that for me, Ada?”
I’m about to tell him that I’m not sure what I’m capable of right now, when a voice comes out of the darkness. At first, I think it’s Jack. But the voice is farther away, unfamiliar.
“There you are, we’ve been looking for you.”
“Typical,” another voice says. They both laugh.
The sound is muffled, warped, like I’m hearing it from under water.
Jack and I freeze, lips parted, still breathing heavily into one another’s mouths. Our eyes meet, a silent bargain passing between us.
Maybe if we don’t move, they’ll go away.
But they speak again.
“Jack, we’ve been here five minutes and you’re already groping some girl?” the one says.
They both snicker.
Okay, they are definitely talking to us. And if I’m not mistaken, I think our cockblockers are Meatheads One and Two. My eyes find Jack’s through the darkness. He presses a single finger to his lips.
“Wait. Is that Allison’s sister?” the other one asks.
Suddenly, my skin is too tight, pulse jamming against my ribs.
A beat passes before he says, “No, man, she’s wearing a cowboy hat, remember?”
“Oh, yeah. Right.”
My lungs deflate in a sigh of relief. Clearly they’re too trashed to tell the difference between me and a coatrack right now.
“Jack, sorry to cockblock but we’re heading out. Collin wants to go to another bar,” the other says.
It takes Jack a moment to answer, but when he does, his voice is groggy and slow, like he’s just woken up. “What?”
Tony and Braden both titter. “Dude, Collin’s waiting for you. Tell your chick you’ll booty call her later. Now come on.”
There’s a brief pause, one more uneven breath, then Jack and I yank apart. Even in the darkness I can see he’s all flushed skin and swollen lips as he adjusts his pants, attempting to conceal his erection.
He gives me an apologetic smile, then he slips away, and I’m left standing alone, heart racing out of control as my brain struggles to play catch-up.
For a second, I’m too disoriented, too off-balance to think. No actual words form in my brain, only flashes of sensory memory. His hands pulling me to him, his lips, his mouth. God, that mouth …
I stumble backward until I find the wall, legs shaking like I’ve just stepped off a treadmill.
What the hell just happened?
One moment we were talking… and the next …Heat sinks into my center at the thought.
I wish I could say that whatever illusion I created for myself about Jack has now been shattered. That I got him out of my system. But far from it. Because now that I know what Jack tastes like, what his body feels like against mine, a type of Rubicon has been crossed. And it will no longer be enough to subsist off a meager ration of lingering stares and clumsy touches. It won’t be enough at all.