Chapter 5 Mila
Chapter 5
Mila
“I feel like a beekeeper.” My bottom lip juts as I blow out a breath that has no effect on the veil that sticks to my face. The dramatic, cathedral-length veil, the thing that protected my modesty in the bridal-lingerie shoot.
Extra points to Evie for choosing a veil with length and volume, as I was able to wrap myself in it. I’d felt sexy, glamorous, and sort of mysterious. Eventually. Wearing it now, I just feel overheated.
“Stop complaining. You look hot AF.”
“Yes, because I am hot. I’m bloody roasting!”
“Compared to that sack you were wearing earlier, you’ve had a total glow-up.”
“That was linen, not hessian. And the glow is thanks to being sweaty.”
“You’re delulu,” she says with a low chuckle.
Delulu-sional? But she wasn’t laughing when I hid in the bathroom after the photographer arrived. Like a four-year-old refusing to go to bed. Or an almost-thirty-year-old refusing to take part in a wedding-lingerie shoot.
“ Get out here ,” Sarai had hissed through the closed door . “You don’t want to arouse suspicions, do you?” She’d sounded very grown up and very bossy for someone of her tender years. Meanwhile, on the other side of the door, I was trying not to rattle my fun-size vodka bottles. Talk about role reversals.
“ I don’t want to arouse anyone ,” I muttered, staring at my reflection. The full-length view was ... not terrible. I looked sort of sexy in the tiny ivory knickers and matching balconette bra that I’d packed with the distant (galaxies distant) thought that I might get lucky during my week in paradise. I imagined it would be divine justice that a hot bartender or surfer dude I’d picked up on the beach would peel me out of my wedding-day lingerie.
In hindsight, it’s good that I did pack them. I’m not sure the wedding photographer would’ve bought my something old being my wedding underwear.
It’s ironic how I seemed to have lost weight, given how I tried in vain in the run-up to my big day. The scales just wouldn’t budge. Heartbreak, heartache, and cooking on a limited budget were all I needed, it seems. Although, on reflection, my clothes fit the same, so ... maybe it’s more the case that I no longer hear Adam’s nagging voice.
You’re eating again? Didn’t you just have lunch an hour ago? and Shouldn’t you order a salad? It’s up to you, but I hate to see you disappointed when you can’t fit into your dress.
Anyway, I did the lingerie shoot. I held my head high and pretended to be someone else. Someone who didn’t need her nerves blunted by a couple of vodka miniatures because she was about to fake a wedding ceremony with a hot stranger. I tried to concentrate on the opportunities the money would bring and not on how Fin’s eyes had seemed to devour me. Or why.
The path from the bridal suite to the pavilion makes the resort appear deserted, just the whisper of the breeze through leaves and unfamiliar birdsong accompanying us. Even Sarai is quiet as she walks alongside me. There’s a slight wobble in my step thanks to the skyscraper heels I’m wearing. My something borrowed, I suppose, given the Louboutin dupes belong to Sarai. I’m not sure the vodka helps that wobble, not that I’ve had heaps.
As we turn a corner, the soft strains of a lone guitar welcome us.
At last.
Apt, I think, ignoring the faux leather pinching my toes. The ceremony was supposed to start fifteen minutes ago, but this dress, this exquisite piece of beauty and tailoring, took forever to fasten. As predicted, it was several inches too long, even with the heels. So Sarai, contender for pretend bridal attendant of the year, managed to call in a seamstress last minute. She quickly pinned up the hem, meaning I’ll get to spend my pretend-bride fee on something other than medical expenses for a broken neck.
As there wasn’t much the sewing magician could do with the rest of the dress, I won’t be sitting down. Mainly because I feel like I’ve been trussed into a medieval torture device. I suppose the one benefit of my boobs sitting so high is that if I feel tired or bored, I can just prop my chin on them and have a little snooze.
No more lonely days. I hum a little to the Etta James classic, before a wave of sadness hits me. That’s what marriage is, isn’t it? Real marriage, anyway. Two becoming one. Forever.
“Wait.” I spin around, only half catching Sarai’s frown as I stick my fingers into my cleavage and pull out an emergency vodka miniature.
“Really?” Sarai snipes as I crack the lid. She reaches for it and swipes it out of my hand.
“I’m nervous!” I protest as she shoves it into the pocket of her dress.
“I thought we’d already dealt with that.”
“Obviously not,” I retort. Sarai gave me something to settle my nerves when the photographer arrived. Something herbal, but it hadn’t worked.
“Huh.”
“I know this is just pretend, but ...” I was supposed to do this today. Genuinely. For real. And I feel sad suddenly—not because I didn’t marry Adam. A life lived alone has to be better than living a lie. Maybe I’m sad because I might never get the chance again. I can’t see myself risking my heart again.
“You’ll be okay once you get to the end of the aisle.”
Will I? There’s so much riding on this, and I know a little too much about my groom. Like how soft his kisses are and how proficient his finger work is.
Sarai’s hand folds over mine, giving it a reassuring squeeze. The lump that forms in my throat is laughed free as she adds, “Predrinks are meant to be shared.”
“I thought my needs were greater.” My reply is a little warbly. But then we’re on our way again.
“Crunch time,” Sarai whispers as we turn the corner and the guitarist transitions seamlessly to Pachelbel’s Canon in D.
My lips curve at Evie’s solid choice of music. Classic, beautiful. It’s what I was supposed to ... I push the thought away.
“Man, he is flexin’ in that suit.”
I follow Sarai’s tiny nod to the dais, from which Fin watches our progress. His linen suit is somewhere between sand and stone in color, his white shirt open at the neck and unbuttoned a little lower than I’d normally think appropriate. His mouth curls as my eyes lift. They don’t hold his gaze due to the albatross flapping its wings inside my rib cage.
“Even with boring hair, that man’s kimchi is extra spicy.”
“What?” I whisper. Then, “Oh!”
His hair is dark—I hadn’t realized immediately. It’s not midnight dark like Oliver’s, but it is much less conspicuously fair. He must’ve colored it somehow.
My third reaction (following surprise, then eww-me-no-likey) is a pinprick of warmth in my heart. He might be a playboy or whatever, but the man deeply loves his friends.
I wonder what that feels like. To have people who love and support you. I thought I had friends not so long ago, but losing Adam, and the stuff that followed, proved otherwise. Our friends took sides. His, mainly. It seems it’s hard to remain neutral when that friend group originally belonged to one party. Or maybe it’s more a case of it being hard to be neutral but easy to forgive one giant cheating shithead. I doubt he confessed that he was unfaithful at every opportunity that passed his way.
He lied to me, and he probably lied to them. Or maybe they knew. Who knows? But it’s no surprise I no longer call those people my friends. The mistake I made (one of many, probably) was prioritizing my relationship over my prior friendships.
But what’s done is done. The only person you can really rely on is yourself, anyway. And I’ve been pretty much on my own since Trousseau began impersonating a beetle spinning on its back. I had to lay people off, and though they said they understood, it turns out their friendships were just transactional.
Other than my grandmother, the only person I have in my life is Ronny, Baba’s next-door neighbor’s daughter. Bright, caustic, irreverent Ronny. She’s an unpolished diamond who deserves better than life on a crumbling housing estate teeming with drugs and knife crime.
Home sweet home. The place I worked so hard to be free of, only to find myself back there again.
I give my head a shake, forcing myself into the here and now. I’ve done it before and I’ll do it again, but right now, it’s time to put my game face on. Or maybe something a little softer than grimly determined.
Sarai gives my hand a reassuring squeeze before stepping in front of me, her flowing summer dress perfect for the part. I know Evie didn’t plan for bridesmaids, but having Sarai by my side has meant I’ve been less in my head. She’s cajoled and snarked and generally pushed me along, and no one would guess she wasn’t part of the original wedding party.
My stomach flips as I follow, keeping my eyes on her slim back as she moves along the flower-strewed aisle. The effect turned out so pretty.
I glance at my feet, the punk rock silver-studded tips of my shoes peeking from beneath the beaded chiffon. The flowers draping the dais are gorgeous, and even the hastily added voile looks perfect. Though it obscures those million-dollar views, it also screens us somewhat from those potentially prying eyes out in the bay.
The guitarist plays beautifully, and I find myself thinking what a good decision it was to go with the hotel’s choice of vendor. But these thoughts are just a distraction—my mind’s attempt to stop me from focusing on my destination.
My pretend groom, that tall drink of water. And possibly the reason I feel so parched.
Step, together.
He’s too good looking to be real.
Step, together.
Except I’ve touched him, so I know he is.
Step, together.
I’m doing it for the money.
Step, together.
For Baba. For Trousseau. For me.
Step, together.
And not because of the way he’s looking at me.
Like he wants to open me up and conduct a full autopsy of my thoughts.
I reach the end of the aisle, and Sarai reaches for my bouquet, then steps to the side. Fin takes my hands, and even looking through the veil, I find his eyes so striking. His lashes—long like a camel’s—are about the same shade as his dyed hair and curled beautifully. The effect should be wrong on a man, but an unfair god has made sure of the opposite. Then I notice something else, and my hand lifts to his face before I can stop it.
“You’ve shaved.”