Chapter 27 #2
I smile at him as he holds out his elbow for me to hook in.
We slowly make our way back to the wedding.
More people have arrived since our wander.
I’m always baffled at how people can have hundreds of guests at their wedding.
How do you even know this many people? If this was my wedding—hypothetically, I know I’m never getting married—our invitation list would be me, the groom, Em, and the parents.
That’s it. Right now, with the amount of people milling around, I feel like I’m at a festival.
It all seems so unnecessary.
“How many people would you have at your wedding?” I ask. My eyes widen after the words are out. Now, I don’t date, but I sure as shit know you don’t go shooting your mouth off about marriage at a fucking wedding.
“At least four times bigger than this,” he says, deadpan.
“As if. You’re getting married at city hall.” I poke my finger into his chest.
He immediately places his hand over mine, over his heart, and tilts his head to the side. “Oh yeah,” he says, teasing. “How do you know?”
“I know you,” I say because it’s the only thing I can say to win this argument. And yet, he positively beams.
And somehow, I know, he’s won.
“Congratulations, Dad,” I say as I go in for a hug, daughterly love on full display.
People are congregating haphazardly around the newlyweds, trying to find their time to jump in and congratulate them before they’re whisked off for professional photos, leaving us to our own devices with an open bar and waitstaff roaming around with trays of canapés.
“Thanks, kid,” my dad says, embracing me. There’s no denying it: Dad loves this woman. The poster boy for lying, cheating, and leaving is in love. I am utterly humiliated for him and his pathetic display as Keeley, my new stepmom, walked down the aisle. For shame.
I pull back, plastering a fake as fuck smile on my face and immediately feel Keeley staring at me.
“Ash, I’ve heard so much about you,” she says, reaching out and giving me a massive hug. Unlikely, I think.
“Congratulations, Stepmom,” I say, emphasizing stepmom to be inclusive.
I mean, she does appear to be around the same age as my dad, so the title checks out.
I internally eyeroll. My inner monologue has the snark of a bratty teenager.
There’s no need to cause her any grief. I still don’t think she’ll be here by Christmas.
Being in love never helped my dad stay faithful before.
Tears well up in her eyes. She laughs at herself and dabs her eyes, which is the maid of honor’s cue to swoop in and start patting her face with a tissue. That’s my cue to bounce.
Xander and I were ushered to the front to sit with the family.
By the time the seats were filled, my mom was a few rows back and it was Xander and me up front.
The only daughter and her date. We sat through the whole ceremony, side by side, touching, my body settling into his.
It was more comfort than chemistry, which I’m still trying to wrap my head around.
How can I want to rip his clothes off one moment and need deep comfort the next?
There’s nothing in Mom’s book about that.
When they were about to say, “I do,” I bit down on my lip to stop myself from laughing at the absurdity of it all.
That’s when Xander leaned in and whispered into the shell of my ear, “Do I need to distract you?” His breath felt like he was peppering kisses from my ear all the way to my lips.
That shut me up enough to get me through to the official declaration of husband and wife. You may now kiss the bride. Barf.
Now Keeley’s eyes are leaking and her maid of honor has executed an evacuation order to the bridal suite for a touch up with the makeup artist. I look out over the crowd and see Mom.
Holding hands with a man. Young. Polished. Smile rehearsed. He looks like she handpicked him from a catalog.
I watch as she touches his collar. She’s acting like she’s on a date. What the fuck is the bestselling author of a book that’s essentially a legal injunction against dating doing parading a plus-one at a wedding? That deserves a no-holds-barred eye roll.
“Thirsty?” I say to Xander, who’s watching me like a hawk.
“Parched,” he says.
We grab two more margaritas—what number is that?—and raise our glasses. “Cheers,” I say.
Xander cheers me back and then looks serious. “You okay?” he asks. “With this whole thing?”
“The ceremony? A bit excessive. The vows? Cliché,” I say through a laugh. But Xander doesn’t join in. He just watches me. “Oh, and the declarations about loving each other through sickness and health? Bullshit.”
“You still think he’ll cheat?” he asks. Again. Like watching this overly produced performance has changed my mind. No, I do not believe in a thing called love now that Dad’s remarried. I see a pattern.
“I know he will,” I say, determined.
“I disagree,” he says, catching me by surprise. The guy who offered to distract me during said ceremony has opinions.
I study him. He means it.
“How can you know after watching a staged production?” I say, like we’ve just been watching an Andrew Lloyd Webber number.
“I felt it,” he says.
“Felt what?”
“The love. It’s real,” he says.
“Okay,” I say, not convinced.
I pause, deciding whether I’m going to argue instead of brushing it off. Xander looks like he’s got more to say. “You’re the expert.” I sigh. “That’s your official diagnosis of this union of two people, Romeo?”
“There’s definitely yearning,” Xander says, his eyes darting all over my face.
“You think he thinks about her constantly?” I say, the skepticism coming through thick.
“I think he craves spending time with her whenever they’re apart,” Xander says, eyes locking onto mine.
And somehow the way he’s looking at me, I get the distinct feeling we’re not talking about my dad anymore.
I watch him swallow. “I think she has such an intense feeling of joy when she’s with him that she can also feel a bit unsure, because it feels so strong. ”
I do not.
“I bet she’s dynamite in the sack,” I say, going for a redirect.
“Is that what’s happening between us?” Xander says, ignoring my attempt to put a visual in his head he can’t come back from. “Just sex?”
The words hang between us, almost contradictory, considering we’ve been doing a lot more than “just sex” over the past few weeks.
A slow, queasy roll starts in my stomach and I wish I could blame the margarita.
I really do. But I know I’d be lying to myself.
Because I didn’t spend my college years training my insides to withstand copious amounts of cheap alcohol to not stomach the best margarita of my life.
“Hello, darling,” my mom purrs, interrupting the game of truth or dare—hold the dare—we were playing.
She holds my shoulders before going in for a two-cheek kiss and then moving onto more important matters like greeting Xander, also known as the very first male specimen I’ve ever introduced to her.
She grabs him by the biceps and looks him up and down.
“Aren’t you gorgeous,” she says, by way of greeting.
“That’s because you can see your reflection in my sunglasses,” Xander says, sending the compliment right back to her, and she eats it up. She’s wearing a gold sequin wrap dress, hair big and curly, and makeup natural. She does look gorgeous.
Clearly she’s not going to introduce herself. “Mom, this is Xander,” I say. “Xander, this is my mom, Hillary.”
Xander gives her the megawatt smile that makes grown-ass women melt.
I look around for her date, who’s nowhere to be seen. Getting drinks, I presume. “Where’s your date?” I ask, interrupting this introduction.
“He’s not my date,” she says.
“If not your date, why date-shaped?” I say. Mom stares at me like I’m speaking gibberish. I try again, using words she’ll most definitely understand. “Unless you brought a fuck buddy to a wedding?”
“Ashleigh, watch your tone,” Mom says, warning me.
More wedding guests I don’t know have congregated around us. Like without the bride and groom, the next of kin is where the party’s at.
“Beautiful ceremony,” Mom says to no one in particular. I stare at her. Is she high right now? “Love is such a gift.”
And with that comment, a laugh slips out of me. I can’t control it. And so I laugh again. Because if I don’t, I’m going to lose it.
“What’s so funny?” Mom says, tilting her head at me.
“What a joke,” I say, disdain dripping through every vowel and consonant.
“What do you mean?” There’s an edge to her voice. Another warning. But the therapist in her can’t help herself.
“Love is a scam,” I say, quoting her back to herself.
I believe it was from one particular night after they tried to “make it work” only for Mom to find a gold necklace that Dad bought.
And it wasn’t for her. Funny story, that quote ended up on the giant-ass billboard along the 101 when the Netflix series premiered.
“Oh honey, what do you know about love?” she says, shaking her head. Then she turns to Xander and says, “Can you believe Ashleigh has never brought a romantic partner home to meet her mother? You’d think she was incapable of love.”
I don’t hear the laugh that escapes her mouth.
She’s just a pantomime as the roar in my ears drowns her out.
My breathing shallows. Before I am completely flooded by anger, I feel hands snaking down my forearm and weaving around my fingers.
I look up and see Xander, looking down at me. Grounding me.
He clenches his jaw before turning to face my mother. “Hillary, I forgot to congratulate you on the success of your book, Dating, Mating, and Masturbating,” he says. I know that tone.
“Thank you,” she says, clutching her heart, completely forgetting that she just shattered her only daughter’s self-esteem with her previous remark.
“I thought it was an interesting take on love, sex, and intimacy,” he goes on. I snap my head to him. He actually read the book?