Chapter 3 #2
I wonder exactly what she dreamed about doing.
With Janey, there’s no telling. She’s a solid worker but whole-heartedly subscribes to the work hard-play hard mentality, and we’re going to a place designed for play.
Hopefully, she’ll take the dream of having to explain herself to a judge as a warning sign and behave herself.
Wiggling in her seat, she growls, “My legs are frickin’ cramped and my nether region’s sweating like a whore in church. Can you say ‘crotch rot’?”
“Janey!” I protest, looking around and hoping no one is listening.
She’s right, though. It is hotter than Hades in this sardine can.
I gave up on my lightweight wrap at the last airport when we had to run to catch our connecting flight, and between my thighs is feeling a little less than daisy-fresh too.
“Oh, my God, it’s so beautiful!” Janey exclaims excitedly, switching the subject as she flops across my lap to peer out the window to the shore thousands of feet below us.
“I know,” I agree, looking out and seeing black dots moving about on the beach and slowly realizing they’re people. “I can hardly believe we’re getting to stay here for a week.”
“Mmmhmm,” Janey murmurs dreamily. “I cannot wait to get down there and show off my new suit!”
“Just make sure you shower first,” I advise.
“Oh, yes . . . hey!” Janey’s gaze leaves the sand to glare at me with a suspicious scowl, “Just what are you trying to say?”
“Oh, nothing,” I say with sweet innocence, but I sniff a little and she sits upright, back in her own seat.
Undeterred, she sticks her nose in her bare armpit to get a whiff. “I do not smell. I’m floral fresh, just like the deodorant says.” Worse, she keeps her arm up and leans my way like she thinks I’m going to check too.
I’m definitely not doing that. I love the girl, would go to the ends of the Earth for her, but I’m not doing a pit check just to prove her point. “Floral fresh? Maybe, if it’s an Amorphophallus Titanum.”
Her eyes narrow as she thinks. I can nearly see the letters breaking apart in her mind like a Latin translation bomb. “Did you just say I smell like a giant misshapen penis plant?”
I smile, pleased that she got it. “Better known as a corpse flower, pungent nasties that bloom once every ten years and smell like rotting death. So yeah, you’re totally floral fresh.”
“Bitch,” she deadpans.
“You’re the one talking about your crotch rot!” I dig.
A moment later, we’re both busting up laughing. We need this release before the work begins, a small pocket of time to just be silly and weird, telling botany jokes that only we would get. “Really, am I okay?” she asks honestly this time.
“You’re fine,” I tell her, shaking my head.
“I’m sure everyone in here smells like dog farts right now.
” I throw a little shade at the Busybody across the aisle who’s eyeing Janey and me like we’re the only ones low-brow enough to discuss the truth of feminine hygiene odors.
“And has skin that foreshadows their va-jay-jay . . . dry as fuck.” I pat my own cheek, plump with the moisturizer I put on this morning.
Busybody’s nose nearly hits her book as she returns to reading her latest book club bore, leaving us blessedly alone.
It’s fun and light banter talk all the way down, with Janey oohing and ahhing over every landmark we see and talking about all the hot men we’re likely to meet.
Although I’m sure most of our time is going to be spent planning our flower layouts for every event instead of partying, I find it refreshing to not talk about business right now, knowing the stress that this week is sure to entail.
There will be more than enough time for that later.
When we finally get off the plane and into the crowded airport, my legs are screaming with relief, and it takes us at least twenty minutes to find the driver with our name on his sign.
“Aruba, we have arrived!” Janey shouts jubilantly outside before we get into the taxi.
It’s not a long drive to our destination, but Janey fills every minute talking to our accented local driver, who seems amused by her chattering questions and requests for recommendations.
I, on the other hand, spend most of the time looking out the window, observing the vibrant explosion happening in the streets.
Bright rainbows of color are everywhere—the clothing, the buildings, the lush florals, the people, the food—each bit of it filling me with inspiration.
We move on to a well paved road that winds along, mirroring the beach, and once again, I’m impressed by how beautiful the tropical shore is.
“Holy shit!” Janey gushes on a breathy sigh as we pull up to an estate-like building. “It’s amazing!”
Casa Del Mario.
It’s a towering resort, made of gleaming white stone and exquisitely detailed architecture, sprawling across a good-sized portion of the beach. Beautifully landscaped grounds surround the building with palm trees and green grass strategically staged for the most breathtaking view.
Simply put, the resort is out of this world.
“Wow,” I say as we exit the SUV and I look around even more.
Beyond the main building, I can see the beach mere steps away, a deep blue pool filled with people, an outdoor restaurant with pristine white tablecloths and fine china, and manicured paths leading this way and that.
I’d like to explore each and every one of them.
A bellhop is already unloading our bags from the back, and the driver assures us that everything will be waiting in our room before directing us to the lobby to check in.
“Sorry, girl,” Janey says, shaking her head as we walk through the doors. “I don’t think I’m going home after this wedding is over. You can run the little shop of horrors all by yourself because I’m staying in paradise!”
It’s even more opulent inside the crowded lobby, with pink marble tile flooring, practically gleaming from being freshly mopped, and soaring white stone arches that are at least fifteen feet high.
There’s an airiness flowing through the lobby, bringing with it the smell of fresh sea—salt and sun. And maybe suntan oil?
There are several lines at the front desk, and I wonder how many of these people are here for the Johnson-Kennedy wedding.
Claire had mentioned ‘keeping it small and intimate’ and Cole had agreed, limiting their guest list to only two hundred.
That number grew over the months, though, which I only know because I had to add additional centerpieces to their order. I guess that’s the price of celebrity.
I’m happily waiting in line, people watching while Janey has wandered off to scope out the bar she saw across the lobby, when I hear a voice from my past.
“Ugh! Honey, I’m beginning to think we should’ve booked our honeymoon in Paris instead of here. It’s beautiful and all, but the customer service is unacceptable!” The pouty entitlement is unmistakable, the tone irritating the small hairs at the nape of my neck.
Oh, God no. Please no.
I go rigid at the sound of the familiar voice, flashbacks assailing me.
For the love of God, please, please, please don't recognize me.
“Calm down, babe,” I hear a man’s voice say behind me. “We’re second in line. The wait is almost over.”
“Yes, but do you see how ridiculously slow they are? We’ll be here another thirty minutes and I have to pee!”
“Well, just go on. I can handle this if you need to use the bathroom.”
The woman huffs unhappily, as though that reasonable course of action is completely intolerable. “But this is our honeymoon!”
And that’s when I feel it. A tap on my shoulder. “Excuse me, we’re on our honeymoon and really can’t wait in this . . . Abi?”
I fought it as long as I could, but when Emily taps me on the shoulder and speaks directly to me, I can’t very well ignore her.
Emily Jones. My high school nemesis.
Maybe that’s too strong a word? More like my high school competition.
We’d been engaged in a battle of ‘anything you can do, I can do better’ for as long as I remembered.
The only problem was that it was one-sided.
I simply hadn’t cared until she started dating my ex .
. . while he was still my boyfriend. It didn’t matter that he wasn’t even all that great to start with.
It’d been the straw on the proverbial camel’s back.
We could compete for top grades, cheerleading positions, popularity contests, and all that was hunky-dory and in good fun.
But Emily had crossed a line, breaking girl code rules, and I’d pulled out all the stops from that point on.
“Abi Andrews?” She sounds shocked to see me. Unpleasantly so.
Fuck my life. Not her. Anyone but her.
I slowly turn around, gritting my teeth.
“Hello, Emily.”
“Oh, my God!” Emily shrieks too loudly. Attention whore, I think bitchily.
She looks good, though, I can admit that. To myself. She’s wearing a white sundress that swirls around her thighs and high wedge sandals that bring her up at least a few inches. And she’s standing with a tall, narrow-shouldered guy with blond spiky hair and white teeth.
“It’s so good to see you again, girl!” Emily exclaims, coming forward to give me a hug as if we’re long lost best friends. “What’s it been? Like five years? Six?”
Oh, my God, can you be more full of shit?
“At least,” I say, making our hug brief before pulling back.
“Oh, this is my husband, Doug. He’s a vee-pee of a boutique mutual fund index,” she brags. “Dougie, this is Abi Andrews, of those Andrewses.”
I swallow down the defensive words I want to hurl and put on a mask of serenity. Mom has taught me well, and Courtney has taken Mom’s skills to a whole other level. I try to channel them and not snatch the obvious extensions off Emily’s head.
“Nice to meet you,” I say cordially, offering Doug a handshake.
“Likewise. If you don’t mind my asking, who’s your financial planner? With a name like Andrews, you have to be careful who you let in your inner circle. I’d be happy to go over some options with you if you’d like.”
Doug’s salesman tactics are transparent and misplaced. I don’t need a financial planner. I am my financial planner. Got those skills and lessons firsthand from Dad, thank you very much.
“I think I’m good,” I say dryly.
Emily, who’s likely missing the attention of the last five-point-three seconds, jumps in.
“We’re on our honeymoon,” she informs me, as if the entire lobby didn’t hear her say that mere moments ago.
She slips her arm through Doug’s, smoothly arranging hers to show off a ginormous diamond ring.
I guess Doug does okay at his investing if he can lay out for that kind of rock.
“Congratulations.” I flash a fake smile.
Not getting enough of a reaction, Emily resorts to wagging her hand in front of my face, nearly scratching me with the prongs holding the diamond in place. “Doug proposed with a Tiffany princess cut, just over three carats. And then he gave me the eternity band with our vows.”
“Pretty,” I say, giving her what she wants but also not at the same time.
She looks down at her ring, frowning, and then to my empty hand. Feigning horror, she gasps, “Oh, Abi! I’m so sorry. I forgot that both your older brother and your younger sister got married. Can’t believe I forgot all that scandal, you know? But you never did get married, did you?”
Anger bubbles up—check that, pure murderous rage bubbles up inside me.
I hate to admit it, but Emily’s whole act gets under my skin.
Even after all these years, I’m sore from her constant fakeness.
And we’re not even a few minutes from seeing each other for the first time in years and she’s already trying to pick at scabs.
When I don’t answer right away, Emily continues with a frown on her face as if she’s so, so sad for me. “I mean, I know you’re probably so lonely. I shouldn’t have flashed my ring in your face like that. Please accept my apology.”
Oh, my God, the nerve of this girl!
“I . . .” I began, not knowing where to go with this. I could tell her to fuck off, but I don’t want her to let her know her bullshit bothers me.
I’m still trying to figure out how I should respond when I hear another familiar voice. This deeply accented one hits me very differently, though, especially when it’s from right behind me. “There you are, mia rosa. I thought I’d lost you.”
What the actual fuck?
I gawk as I look up to see the flashing white smile of Lorenzo, who’s dressed in white slacks and a tropical shirt that’s unbuttoned, putting his tanned olive skin on display.
My tongue feels thick in my mouth as I count down his abs.
I always hear about six-packs, but unless I’ve forgotten how to count, which is entirely possible right now, Lorenzo is sporting an eight-pack.
And the cutest belly button I’ve ever seen.
I’d like to lick it on my way down to somewhere even better.
I blink, lost in my daydreams, and Lorenzo smiles as he leans into me, comfortably swinging an arm around my shoulder. “Abigail? What filthy thoughts are running through that brilliant mind of yours? I can see each and every one written in the heat of your eyes.”
What?
He’s being so nice, flirty to the nth degree as he looks deeply into my eyes, begging for something. But what?
I haven’t seen him since he left me at the wedding, having decisively avoided him. The only way that’s been possible is that Violet has been so busy with Carly that she hasn’t had one of her dinner parties, but it’s worked in my favor.
I have no clue why he’s here. Or how the hell he is here.
But he is. And he is saving me from Emily.
Somehow, some way, he’s right here to step in when she cuts me down and makes it seem like I’m failing at life.
It might not mean that much to him, but it does to me.
I didn’t have a rescuer back in high school.
Violet and I preferred to handle things ourselves, and really, Emily wasn’t that bad.
Just annoying enough, and with an impressive skill to filet me and leave me with self-doubts that rear up when the shit hits the fan.
It was more of a death of a thousand cuts than a single slice with her.
Why I’m thinking about that now, I don’t know, but it appears that my brain is spinning like a turbo wheel with ideas, thinking them up and discarding them with frightening precision.
Suddenly, a thought hits my brain with the power of a lightning bolt, an idea so incredibly outrageous and crazy that I almost dismiss it outright.
No. Don’t you do it! I scream to myself.
But looking at Emily as she stares at me with pity, the urge is overpowering to wipe that smirk off her face.
I try my best, but I can’t seem to stop the words that come rushing out of my mouth.
“Emily, meet my husband, Lorenzo.”