Chapter 2
I n the morning, I held it together for Margo. We had plans to leave camp soon after she rode off into the sunset anyway. Chris and I would enjoy our time in Africa away from places like these.
As Margo and I prepped in her suite, she told me she had a choice of getting hitched in the bush at a scenic spot, on the banks of the river, or in the Baroque-style lodge chapel right outside her window. She chose to tie the knot under a beautiful tree with lots of shade.
Thank God . That short walk to meet her this morning was way too hot for me.
In this heat, we’d already ruled out wearing makeup. We twisted our hair into natural-looking updos. Margo added sprigs of beads as if she were a florist, red in my light hair and white in her red hair.
“I’m having major déjà vu,” she said as she sprayed my thin hair, escaping the bun and trailing around my face.
“We wore our hair up for number one,” I reminded her.
“Hush. That was ten years ago.”
This would be the third time I was Margo’s maid of honor and never a bride. A couple of marriages under my friend’s belt wouldn’t stop her from wearing white.
“This is why my mother isn’t invited,” she joked as our dresses arrived.
Having wrinkled on the flight, the staff had freshly steamed them.
“Can you believe she suggested I go to the courthouse this time?”
I nodded.
“Jayne, nothing’s worth doing unless you go all out. Why should the fact that I’ve been married before keep me from finding happiness now? Or celebrating as if it was the first time?”
“Nothing,” I said. “I love that you follow your heart.”
Margo’s fire engine red hair appeared beside me in the floor-length mirror. She winced. “I hope you still feel that way when you see your dress.”
Pressing her gown against my torso, she leered.
It wasn’t her dress.
Apparently, I’d be wearing white too. Our dresses were identical. Thin, white, and simply elegant but also like I’d imagine for Africa like we were Romancing the Stone or something.
“What the hell, Margo?”
“I figured it might be the only time you get to wear one.” She laughed heartily at my situation, throwing her head back and everything.
“Well, since you have a collection now….” I slammed with a smile.
The other bridesmaids came into her suite before she could react.
They were all wearing the same white dress.
Margo informed me that the men would be wearing white as well.
My alone time with her over, I backed off to let her newer friends fawn over her and tell her how they absolutely loved their lodgings and planned to shoot a million pictures tomorrow on safari.
Feeling relieved no one mentioned their dates or husbands shooting, killing anything, I thought I might stay, after all, to get more time with my old friend.
It wasn’t hard to back away and finish dressing on my own.
With a laugh that could travel a mile, Margo had always been the center of attention.
I, on the other hand, was plain. A plain Jayne like my name suggested.
I’d even changed how I spelled my name, J.a.y.n.e.
, instead of the J.a.n.e. on my birth certificate.
It hadn’t helped.
I was still the little girl who didn’t stand out in the crowd.
A woman who could disappear in a group of four.
Dishwater blonde with average brown eyes, an ordinary nose, skin, teeth, and body.
I was just plain unremarkable. My new bangs hadn’t helped, either.
While the other women made their identical white dresses look distinct, I made mine plain.
Margo twirled, the fabric flowing around her as her laughter filled the room. “How do I look?”
“You look remarkable, sweetie.” I hugged her before we all squeezed into our hooker heels. “But why these shoes?”
“My fiancé has a fetish,” she declared as we headed out the door.
I instantly regretted asking.
The whole party, minus the groom, gathered in front of the bridal hut. There were six couples, counting Chris and me. The only singles were George’s best man, a recent divorcee, Rob Dashell, and the groom’s single cousin, Tara Lipman. None of Margo’s family attended.
At Rob’s direction, we all took a caravan of Jeeps across the plains to one of those African trees.
The ones that looked like they started all life.
With some help from Chris, I made it out of the Jeep.
Agreeing to wear the stilettos had been a mistake.
Dodging rocks and clumps of grass, we bridesmaids seemed quite drunk as we wobbled our way to a simple arch of flowers.
I swear one of my heels was already coming loose. Wobbling like a newborn deer, I glanced down and noticed a slight tear in the strap. New shoes, my ass. Something about it bothered me. Had it been like that earlier? I couldn’t remember. Chris had been the one to put them out for me this morning.
There waited the groom, George Peterson, a heavy-set, middle-aged man who’d made his quick fortune developing a social media platform.
Beside him, the priest and five African women dressed in traditional red gowns received us with easy smiles as if it weren’t a million degrees outside.
Unlike every other wedding I’d attended, there were no seats.
The guests stood. Naturally, I stood beside Margo, holding her bouquet of hand-tied wildflowers, my absolute favorite.
Though these were no wildflowers, I’d ever seen before.
A serenade from the African choir started the ceremony.
The women draped in red gave me tingles.
The bride and groom read their own vows, making my stomach twist with nerves for them both.
I watched their faces light up for one another as they recited heartfelt words of undying devotion and knew my friend was in love yet again.
That was a comforting thought as sweat ran down my back.
With the beautiful backdrop of the bush and giraffes walking in the distance, the heat didn’t matter.
I was in love with the moment. The couple kissed, sealing their marriage.
I shed an overwhelmed tear.
Wiping my cheek, I stole a glance at Chris, who beamed my way. I smiled back, soberly, wanting to feel the same way I used to about him. I wanted to look at him all gooey-eyed like Margo looked at lumpy George. Like I had in the beginning, before all our “breaks .”
I couldn’t muster the sentiment.
For the reception, we congregated under the dimming African skies around a roaring fire, large enough that a tribe should’ve been dancing around it.
Finally, we had folding chairs. I kicked off my heels.
The women who sang earlier presented a lush dinner, course by course, ending with a whole roasted wild pig with an apple in its mouth.
Staring at its stitched eye, I could hardly eat my vegan option.
Not to mention, the lingering heat had zapped my appetite.
Instead, I chose alcohol since there was plenty of it.
Margo and George swayed by the fire light for ages.
They were in love enough to jump in with two feet.
Chris and I had been together for ten years, and I couldn’t even get him to dance with me.
Barefoot, I boogied to the drums alone while my boyfriend chatted it up with the groom’s cousin, Tara, about her portfolio.
Yeah, right. Portfolio, my ass. I wasn’t dumb or blind. More likely, it was her ass rather than her assets he was after.
I downed my fourth drink.
I lined up as usual when Margo announced she’d throw the bouquet.
This was not my first rodeo. I’d never caught one before but knew how I’d react if I did.
I’d seen grown women go berserk when they caught the flowers, as if marriage was the whole goal of their existence.
Sometimes I felt like one of those women because I expected to get married to Chris someday.
I hated the feeling.
Consequently, I made a point not to act the least bit excited.
Even when the spray landed perfectly in my hands.
Then I waved the bunch in the air, telling the wedding couple goodbye as they left on a freaking elephant’s back.
They were heading back to their honeymoon suite.
We’d see them again tomorrow if we stayed.
I watched them fade into the sunset for far too long before walking back to Chris.
For the first time this evening, he sat all alone. Part of me wanted to snidely ask him if he’d had a good night talking to Tara but thought better of it. After all, he’d be going to bed with me, and I’d caught this bunch of flowers. Maybe it meant something.
I sat beside him, holding the bouquet awkwardly on my lap, not knowing if I wanted to lay them down and risk flattening them or try to save them. Silently, we both watched the fire. Waiting for the Jeeps to take them back, the party still lingered around it.
Chris scooted closer as I squeezed my feet back into my heels.
“Marry me, Jayne,” he said. It wasn’t a question.
With a jerk, I turned to him, the shock on my face evident.
Chris still stared at the fire, the light dancing in his dark eyes. He sipped his drink. But he wasn’t drunk, I decided. Never turning to face me, he went on, his voice flat, “This weekend. Here.”
I didn’t know what to say. Truly speechless, I bit my bottom lip, trying to imagine how I’d explain an elopement to my mother. Never mind the fact that Chris had never, ever talked about marrying me before—ever.
Never.
Ever.
Ever.
I could add about a million evers to it, and that wouldn’t be enough.
I sucked in a breath, waiting. Was I about to be elated?
No. Through my shock, I searched for some sort of euphoria.
All I found was anger bubbling up. Returning my gaze to the fire, I opened my mouth and shut it.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Chris turn to face me.
He spoke as point-blank as before. “You’ll never settle down, Jayne.”
I opened my mouth to argue.
But things got worse as he shot out, “It’s best to end this now.”