Chapter 4
SAVANNAH
I'm nearly out of my last tub of Ben & Jerry's, after overindulging while Netflix has been playing tricks on me, making me watch too many rom-coms, from Sweet Home Alabama to Nappily Ever After.
It has been two weeks since my last wedding, and the cancellations haven't stopped rolling in.
Alphas calling asking if I do a background check on their omegas before signing up to do their weddings.
I'm not a bank nor leasing a property nor a car.
Why the fuck would I do a background check?
Either way, when I tell them that their money is non-refundable, they don't care and some of them I do have to refund, which would be great if I hadn't already paid for the cake, photographer and even the damn venue, who refuse to give me my money back.
My bank account is like a piece of chocolate in a sauna.
One minute I was small business of the year, the next I could become Bourbon Bliss Bankruptcy. No pressure whatsoever.
The worst call came yesterday from some omega in Boulder who wanted to know if I offered "pack protection services" in case her birth pack, mated pack, bound pack, and "emotional support pack" all showed up uninvited to her wedding.
How many packs does one omega need these days?
I had to explain that I'm a wedding planner, not a security firm, and that maybe she should consider eloping if she's expecting a small war to break out at her reception.
It's six AM and I'm standing in my underwear, glaring at my bathroom mirror knowing that if I keep eating too much that none of my clothes will fit and I will have to give up my apartment.
But I don't care. I had to let go of the one thing I was proud of, which was having an assistant.
The bags under my eyes could pack for a weeklong vacation, and my skin has that attractive grayish pallor that screams "I survive on chocolate and ice cream. "
I have to go to Pine Hollow and organize Emma's wedding.
Not only will it mean damage control for my rapidly sinking business, but it could help me face my demons in the form of the one alpha who broke my heart and the other two who were just jerks with commitment issues and poor communication skills.
What could possibly go wrong with that brilliant plan?
It's time for some serious damage control.
First priority: suppressants. I dry-swallow two pills, gagging at the bitter chalk taste that makes my eyes water. Can't have my omega scent broadcasting my emotional train wreck the second I step foot in Pine Hollow.
Next mission: hair. I plug in my ancient curling iron, the one that makes electrical noises but still works if you sweet-talk it properly.
While it heats up, I slather moisturizer on my face like I'm frosting a particularly sad cake, trying to convince my skin that I get eight hours of sleep and eat actual vegetables instead of surviving on stress and whatever's on sale.
The curling iron immediately burns my finger because of course it does. Because the universe clearly woke up this morning and chose violence.
"Ow! You vindictive piece of..." I wave my hand around like I'm conducting an invisible orchestra of pain while sucking on my injured finger. "Get it together, Savannah. You're supposed to be a professional, not a walking disaster movie.”
My phone buzzes against the bathroom counter, Emma’s probably wanting to discuss centerpieces or cake flavors or any of the thousand magical details that make weddings perfect. Details I'm actually good at when I'm not having a complete existential breakdown about my career choices.
Instead of a call, there's a text message waiting like a little digital present that might explode.
Emma: Can't wait for you to get here! Three months is going to fly by.
I type back while attempting to curl my hair one-handed, which is about as graceful as it sounds.
Me: Me too! Quick question though - are Xavier, Logan, and Griff still in Pine Hollow? Just want to mentally prepare myself if I run into them buying milk or whatever.
The typing bubble appears and disappears like it's having an existential crisis. Appears again. Vanishes. This is not filling me with confidence about the upcoming conversation.
My stomach does that thing where it tries to escape through my throat.
Then my phone buzzes with a text from an unknown number, which makes my heart attempt to exit my body via emergency protocols.
Unknown: Hi Savannah, this is Xavier. Emma gave me your number. Do you need a ride from the bus station when you arrive?
I drop the curling iron. It hits the bathroom tile with a clatter that probably sounds like gunfire to my downstairs neighbors, leaving what's definitely going to be a security-deposit-eating burn mark. Perfect. Just absolutely perfect.
Xavier. Dr. Xavierdore Blackwell with his perfect penmanship and his concerned-professional voice and his mint-scented composure that used to make me feel like a walking natural disaster every time I tried to help him organize his medical supplies.
I stare at the message until the words start doing a little dance across my phone screen, my reflection showing half-curled hair and the expression of someone who just saw their ex-boyfriend's name attached to perfectly polite text punctuation.
Me to Emma: Why is Xavier asking about bus station pickup duty? Are you not coming to get me?
Emma: Shit, I forgot to tell you.
Me to Emma: Don’t make me regret coming.
Emma: Please come! He volunteered to pick you up. So thoughtful of him, right?
Me: Answer the actual question, Emma.
Emma: Don’t kill me!
I throw my phone onto the bathroom counter and pace to my bedroom, then to my closet, then back to the bathroom to rescue my hair situation. My vanilla bourbon scent sharpens with anxiety, filling my tiny apartment with notes of stress-baking and impending romantic doom.
The curling iron has cooled down completely. Because naturally. Because the universe decided that today is National Make Savannah's Life Difficult Day and didn't bother sending me an invitation.
Me: I’m going to kill you. What is it?
Emma:…
Radio silence. A typing bubble, which in Emma-speak translates to "I'm hiding something massive and you’re going to kill me.”
I plug the curling iron back in and dig through my makeup bag for concealer, the industrial-strength kind that could probably hide a crime scene.
Maybe if I use enough foundation, I can convince people I'm a competent adult instead of a woman whose life is held together with bobby pins and increasingly desperate optimism.
My phone buzzes again.
Xavier: I don't mind picking you up at all. What time does your bus arrive?
Polite. Professional. Exactly the kind of clinical courtesy that used to make me want to reorganize his entire medicine cabinet while screaming into pillows. The man could make "have a nice day" sound like a medical diagnosis for terminal politeness.
I type and delete approximately seventeen different responses before settling on something that won't reveal my complete emotional upheaval.
Me: Bus arrives at 3:47 PM on Friday. Are you absolutely sure it's not too much trouble?
Xavier: No trouble at all. Looking forward to seeing you again.
Of course he is. Xavier approaches social obligations with the same methodical precision he uses to organize prescription bottles. Unlike me, currently standing in my bathroom holding mascara and staring at my phone like it might spontaneously develop the ability to explain men.
I attempt to apply mascara without permanently injuring my eyeball. It's surprisingly difficult when your hands are shaking from caffeine withdrawal and pure emotional terror.
Back to the bedroom, where my professional wardrobe is spread across my bed like evidence of my declining financial situation.
I grab my burgundy blazer, the one I bought back when I still believed success was inevitable instead of a myth perpetuated by people who don't understand the wedding industry.
The fabric is starting to show wear at the elbows, but from a distance it still looks expensive. Fake it till you make it, right? Right?
Emma's silence feels like the calm before a Category 5 hurricane of complications I'm spectacularly unprepared to handle.
My work clothes fit exactly half the suitcase, which tells you everything you need to know about my current circumstances.
Three blazers, four blouses, two pairs of dress pants, one skirt that still fits after my stress-eating phase last month, and the black dress I wear to evening events when I need to look successful instead of desperate.
Not exactly an extensive collection, but weddings require looking polished, and yoga pants don't exactly scream "trust me with your special day. "
I add my black heels, the ones with the mysterious scuff mark from that disastrous wedding in Aspen where the groom's ex-girlfriend decided to recreate a soap opera during the ceremony.
At least that particular catastrophe wasn't my fault, which makes it practically a victory in my current circumstances.
Then again, it wasn't my fault at my tenth wedding either, but here I am, going back to the place I said I would never go.
My phone buzzes like an angry wasp.
Emma: It’s just that Xavier is the best man.
Me: What?
Emma: And Griff and Logan are the groomsmen.
Me: What?
Emma: Sorry, I knew if I told you that you wouldn’t come.
Me: What?
Emma: Your ex-boyfriends are coming to the wedding and part of the planning committee.
My blood turns to actual ice water in my veins. I sit down hard on my bed, making the suitcase bounce and my carefully folded clothes scatter like refugees fleeing a natural disaster.
Me: What?
The typing bubble appears and disappears so many times I want to reach through the phone and shake the words out of her with the desperation of someone whose entire future depends on this conversation.