Chapter 20
Lo
Bong .
Aunt Sharon whacks the mallet against the crystal singing bowl again. With every strike, the makeup artist flinches. I hiss in pain as the eyeliner pencil jabs into my eyeball for the second time.
“Sorry!”
“It’s all right,” I assure her.
I cut a sidelong glare at Aunt Sharon, obliviously parading the thing around the room as the bridal party gets ready.
This new age singing bowl ritual wouldn’t be so bad if she kept circling the rim of the quartz vessel with her mallet, but she insists on “banishing the negative vibes” every few minutes with a few random whacks.
And it’s been going on for twenty minutes.
Not to mention her headache-inducing cloud of patchouli.
No wonder Rory and Anvi fled in search of champagne, and my mom slipped out to grill the caterer about their organic ingredients.
I’m this close to snatching that mallet away from Sharon and beating her with it.
The wide curlers in Lark’s bangs bounce a little as we make eye contact. My cousin’s never been great at confrontation, and this is an emotional time for her and her mother, so no one wants to start an argument.
“Hey, Aunt Sharon,” I say casually as the makeup artist swipes some eyeshadow across my lids. “Have you cleared out the garden’s energy yet?”
She gasps and halts the mallet. The sound continues to reverberate. “I’ll be right back.”
Aunt Sharon dashes through the bridal suite, crystal singing bowl in hand. Lark smiles at me in gratitude.
The hairstylist starts to unfurl the Velcro rollers. Her hair will be down in loose curls, while mine is half-up, dusting my shoulders but pinned away from my face by a rose-covered comb.
“She means well,” Lark says with a shrug. “Even if she is a bit…misguided.”
“I know.” There’s a lot to unpack here, but I leave it at that. This is Lark’s day. “Check-in time: How are you feeling?”
She’s absolutely glowing. Taking my hand, she says, “I never thought I’d find love again after losing Reese. But I’m ready, you know? I’m crazy about Cal.”
Emotions swell in my chest.
“Callum’s a good one,” I tell her, squeezing her palm. “You deserve this.”
Lark gingerly dabs at a tear. “I sure hope this is waterproof.”
The makeup artist snaps her case shut and rises to leave. “Don’t you worry, that face is bulletproof.”
With a final blast of industrial-strength hair spray for each of us, the stylist offers Lark congratulations before also leaving. Now that it’s just the two of us, we decide to tackle getting Lark into the dress.
“How are you holding up with Aidan around?” She steps into a petticoat. “And your parents?”
“Surprisingly, Aidan’s not the problem.”
At least not yet.
“I noticed you two spending some time together…” As if that hadn’t been carefully orchestrated by the bride herself.
“He’s been really understanding about the whole mess with my dad.”
Of course, Lark can sense what’s left unsaid. “You have no idea how invested I am right now. Tell me everything.”
Everything? The scissors tattoo on Aidan’s arm flashes through my mind’s eye. Which makes me think of ribbon fastening his wrists to the headboard and the wrecked lust in his voice.
Her mouth forms an O shape. “Okay, we need to discuss whatever just went through your mind because that’s the perviest grin I’ve ever seen in my life.”
Back when I was an undergrad in Austin, Lark and I would laugh over my sordid tales and memories of her college days. But it’s always been different with Aidan. I suddenly understood why she didn’t share any intimate details about her and Callum.
“Oh my god, chill!” I can’t help the smile that creeps up my mouth as I tighten the corset-style bodice. “It’s just…felt natural between us. I didn’t think that Aidan and I would fall into old patterns again, but we have and I can’t even be upset about it.”
Hope glimmers in her eyes. “You’ve forgiven him for leaving?”
I chew on my lip before I remember the expensive gloss on them. “We both have regrets about the way things ended. I pushed him away and he left without a fight.”
“I told you; you can’t keep holding grudges, Lo.”
“You might be right.”
“Now, back to your dad—”
“One piece of psychological trauma at a time, please.”
Lark catches her reflection in the mirror and goes mute.
Ivory satin straps drape off her shoulders and the full skirt contrasts with the cinched waist, creating a timelessly romantic silhouette.
Glamorous blonde waves studded with baby’s breath and fresh mini roses tumble over her clavicle.
She didn’t have a big wedding the first time around, just a dress she already owned and a trip to the courthouse.
So much has changed in both our lives since I stood by her side as maid of honor back then.
“You’re stunning.”
Joyful tears well in her eyes. We embrace and I remind her that she deserves to be happy and that Callum is one lucky man.
There’s a knock at the door. It’s Anvi and Rory.
Anvi carries an ice bucket cooling a bottle of champagne, and Rory has a tray of strawberry-rimmed flutes.
Anvi and I match, the streamlined bridesmaids’ dresses a flattering burgundy that works beautifully against our rich skin tones.
Rory sports a suit in a matching shade. Both squeal when they see Lark in all her bridal glory, which gets her squealing.
I am not the squealing type and never will be, but I smile wide.
We pop the cork and Rory pours.
“When I came to Ireland,” Lark begins, looking into our eyes one by one as she speaks from the heart, “I never thought my life would change quite this—”
Aunt Sharon bursts back into the suite waving sprigs of juniper and a lighter. “I almost forgot! I read about this Celtic smoke-cleansing practice called ‘saining.’ The parallels between it and Native American sage smudging are fascinating—”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” I throw a hand up to halt her before she can step farther inside. First she barges in, interrupting Lark’s toast. Now she wants to light things on fire? “Put down the Zippo and back away from the tulle.”
Her brows furrow. “Really?”
I place a hand on my hip. The universal signal for try me . No way was I about to let Lark’s wedding dress go up in flames moments before the ceremony thanks to some dubiously appropriated ritual.
My mom is in the doorway behind Aunt Sharon, watching this unfold without helping me try to reason with her sister. Probably because she knows how infuriating it feels.
“It’s fine. Right, Lark?” Sharon asks over my shoulder.
The rest of the bridal party looks uncomfortable. Lark says, “I think this is a non-smoking room.”
“How would they know?”
“Perhaps the smell of smoke,” Anvi replies.
Aunt Sharon bats the idea away with a wave of her hand.
“Come on, Aunt Sharon. Didn’t you clear the bad juju away already?”
She scoffs and holds the juniper aloft. “Lark, you obviously need an energy cleanse in here, with your cousin around.”
She flicks the lighter and I reach to snatch it from her hands, when I feel a soft whoosh .
Sharon freezes. I smell nasty burning and realize it’s not the juniper—it’s me.
My hair is on fire.
I’m not a squealer, but under the right circumstances anything goes. Screaming fills the bridal suite. The poor bride, her airhead of a mother, and the smoke alarm. Me. All screaming.
Anvi tosses a throw blanket over my head and smothers the fire.
Sputtering in horror, I reach for the hot, now-brittle ends of my hair and feel them crumble between my fingertips. The alarm continues to blare. Rory stands on a chair, waving a pocket square in front of the sensor to clear away the smoke and bitter smell of burnt hair.
Saoirse stands in the doorway Sharon left open, mouth agape as she takes in the chaos. “The groom is, uh, ready for you, Lark.”