Chapter 3 Misty
MISTY
“I’m getting married, oh my goooddd!!!” Brielle jumps up and down in front of the rest of the Harbor Hawks WAGs.
You’d think that someone who literally stole someone else’s fiancé on their wedding day would be shamed in polite society, run out of town.
But only certain people get punished. Town favorites get their transgressions swept under the rug, while their victims are expected to grin and bear it and make cookies for the happy couple.
It’s an awful lot of uncomfortable work to take the perpetrator to task.
So much easier for everyone if the victim is the one to make concessions.
I shrink back into the shadows and watch Austen sweep through the Canal Club, sunglasses propped up on his head even though it’s the dead of winter.
Oily hair dye seeps down the back of my neck. Hiring an escort and dyeing my hair back to brown—your girl is making changes this holiday season.
I’ll never get over Austen, though. He’s so charismatic and handsome and, well, perfect. I mean, look at him.
The designer slacks and the silk shirt are perfectly tailored to his body. I know. I made sure of it. Maybe that’s a little too much product in his hair, but it goes with the gaudy gold Rolex on his wrist connected to the hand I just want him to outstretch to me...
He needs a haircut, though. I frown. I make a mental note to schedule him for a trim. Brielle won’t do it. Clearly.
Why steal a man if you’re not going to take care of him?
I remember how Austen would lay his head in my lap, and I’d run my fingers through his hair. I sigh before I can stop myself.
He does a double take and takes a step towards the alcove where I’m hiding. “Oh god.” He jerks back then smirks. “Mousy Misty, sneaking in the shadows.”
He still likes me! I’m thrilled. After all, he’s calling me by the fun, mildly offensive nickname he invented.
I clutch at the plastic shower cap over my head. “I’m just multitasking a little bit,” I squawk, “trying to get things ready for the engagement party tonight. Doing a little beauty routine.”
“You’re dyeing your hair blond?” Austen asks, nose wrinkling.
I hope Brielle’s been making him do his skincare routine.
“Er, no? My hair’s always been blond. Well, not always. The day you met me, it was brown, but blondes have more fun! I’m going back to brown, though, so...” I shut my mouth before I can keep babbling.
“Oh. Right. Did my check from the Reebok endorsement come through yet?”
“Not yet!” I chirp. “But I’ll follow up with them.”
His phone rings, and he turns away from me to answer it.
In the sober light of morning, I wonder if maybe hiring an escort is a terrible idea.
Not an escort, a fake boyfriend, I remind myself.
Fake boyfriends are safe. Hallmark Christmas movie heroines have fake boyfriends, and sometimes, they even fall in love with them.
I’m not falling in love with a man I pay to be with me.
That would really be pathetic. Instead, I’m just going to pine for my one true love in the shadows from afar.
“There you are,” Lucy huffs, making me jump. “We need to take that off and put in your hair mask. You have to look like someone who can afford to spend the price of a house on a—”
I grab Lucy and clap my hand over her mouth as Brielle rounds the corner.
The friendly demeanor she had when gossiping with the WAGs is gone, replaced by cold, cruel triumph.
“Misty, I was just in the ballroom, and I am so shaken.” Brielle tosses her blond hair—natural with perfect honey highlights. “I feel like I asked you to make sure that we had hydrangeas. They look like snowflakes, and this is a winter-themed engagement party.”
She waggles the fingers of her left hand at me, the huge diamond on her hand sparkling. And this ring is real. I know. I had to help Austen shop for it.
“Your dad gave me a budget, and hydrangeas would blow it up since they’re out of season, so I went with roses. Everyone likes roses,” I explain.
“Roses are not what your stepsister requested.” My step-aunt and step-grandmother crowd next to Brielle, a wall of blond aggression boxing me in.
Lucy shrinks next to me.
“You know, some people are saying that you’re not happy for Brielle.” Aunt Kathy looks down her plastic-surgery-perfect nose at me. “Some people are saying that you’re trying to sabotage your sister’s relationship.”
Stepsister, Lucy mouths silently as she grabs my wrist.
Grandma Pam stares down her identical nose. “Now, Misty, you stood up in church before god and the NHL and said that you forgave her and forgave Austen.”
Why, yes, we are a hockey family, thank you for noticing.
“I do… I am,” I stammer. “Just… the budget. I mean, I guess we can call Ryan and—”
“You will not call my son.” Grandma Pam puffs up. “He is at a meeting with the GM of the Harbor Hawks. The winter month games are the most important in the regular season for making the playoffs. Ryan can’t afford any distractions. Certainly not about flowers. My lord.” She fans herself.
“What if Misty glues little rhinestones on the roses?” Aunt Kathy rubs Brielle’s back. “Would that make it better, honey?”
Brielle sniffs. “Maybe.”
“I know it’s not what you wanted, punkin. But you’re my flexible granddaughter, aren’t you? You can pull through, for Austen.”
“For Austen.”
“It’s spelled N-O. Two letters, ‘no.’ ‘No’ is a grammatically complete sentence.” Sienna is following me around the ballroom with a hairbrush as I frantically glue rhinestones on the flowers.
“They’ll just take it out on my mom if I argue with them.”
“Misty! Honestly—oh, hi, Mrs. West.”
“Sienna! Hi!” Mom lets go of my four-year-old brother’s hand to hug Sienna.
Lucy and Noah race off to lure Cocoa—who can on occasion be bribed to exercise—out from under the tables.
“Misty”—Mom turns to me—“I just spoke with your grandma Pamela—”
“You were talking to Spam?” Granny Keagan asks loudly. “That expired condiment and her ketchup packet of a daughter ain’t Misty’s family.”
My mom takes a deep breath. “Mama, please, not today. Misty, we have a lot of family flying in. I need you to be my sweet, amazing, helpful girl and make sure that everyone feels welcome.” My mom hugs me.
“I need you to help me drive the sleigh. Friends help each other out, right? We’re best friends, right? ”
“Right, yeah, Mom.”
Rachel laughs and bounces the wiggling baby on her hip. Billy sees me and reaches for me. “Can you?” She holds the baby out to me. “I have to go upstairs and get ready.”
Helplessly, I raise the bag of rhinestones and glue in my hand.
“Oh, honestly, Misty, can you please just do what I ask?” My mother’s starting to sound frazzled.
I take the baby, and she blows me a kiss then peers at my head.
“My god, Misty, what did you do to your hair?” My mom’s own naturally blond waves cascade down her back. “Sienna, could you be a doll and”—she waves at me—“do something with that? No wonder your aunt Kathy was in such a state earlier.”
“Why can’t I have hair like hers?” I sigh as I watch my mom float into the ballroom effortlessly in her high heels.
“You mean cheap hair dye isn’t giving you the natural blond locks of your dreams?” Sienna remarks dryly. “I’m shocked. That’s probably why this dye job here makes you look like Medusa.”
“Medusa was a boss, and she wouldn’t be taking this shit from Austen and imposter grandma,” Granny Keagan declares.
“Do you think it looks that bad?”
The baby babbles as I tie him onto my back with a makeshift wrap from one of the yards of white satin Granny Keagan is busy hemming for table runners—because we accommodate last-minute bridezilla requests here at the codependency emporium.
“It was not cheap.”
“What brand is it?” Sienna asks.
“I don’t know, it’s one Lucy recommended.”
“Your nine-year-old sister…”
“She saw it on TikTok.”
Sienna sighs and inspects it. “If we put it up in a bun, maybe people will just think these orange streaks are highlights.”
“It’s not that orange, is it?”
“You should have gone to a professional salon. You can’t just rely on an internet-addicted tween girl for beauty advice.”
“I don’t have any money, because I’m spending it all on a you-know-what.”
“What time is the escort showing up?” Granny Keagan practically shouts.
“Shh! Keep it down, Gran!”
“Did they send you a photo? What does he look like?” Granny Keagan sticks her head into our huddle.
I sigh. “We have to stop calling him an escort.”
“Yeah. Sienna, the proper term is gigolo,” Granny Keagan says with a fake Italian accent.
“Have you heard anything from them at all?” Sienna asks.
“No. Do you think they’re going to do, like, a confirmation text or anything?”
“I get a confirmation from my grocery delivery; surely, you should get one from sex delivery.” Sienna sniffs.
“No sex. We’re not having sex.” I wave my arms.
“Yes, you are. You paid extra for the Merry Christmas package. You make sure you tell him that you expect to get what you paid for,” Granny Keagan lectures. “You want your money’s worth.”
“Now, girl,” my friend says hesitantly, “I booked you a hotel room.”
“Sienna…” I chew on my lip.
“Nope. This is my Christmas present to you in addition to an appointment with my hairstylist.”
“The rooms are too expensive at the Canal Club,” I protest. “This is, like, the most expensive hotel in town. Besides, what if I just got scammed? I mean, I probably did get scammed. That would really fit in with the theme of this holiday season, right? All that money gone.”
“This is your problem—you’re not a risk-taker.”
“I played defense on our hockey team,” I remind her. “I’m not a goal scorer. I just stay in the background.”
“Not tonight, you’re not!” Sienna proclaims. “Tonight, everyone’s going to be looking at you being the belle of the ball at Brielle the bitch’s engagement party. She can see how she likes it.”
Granny Keagan pumps a fist. “Roast the cheater for Christmas. Stoke the fires of revenge!”