19. The Corkboard
EVA
West and I left the kitchen and came back to our own rooms. So I’m in my bed, alone, and I’m tossing and turning. Thank God West and I got interrupted—that would’ve been a terrible mistake!
Right?
My body sure doesn’t think so, and I’m ready to raid Paige’s honeymoon suite for all the sex toys she has and find out how they work. Ugh, I just need to go to sleep and try to forget it all. I am exhausted, after all.
Finally, my eyes drift closed, and everything blurs into the nonsensical dream world. Except it’s not a peaceful sleep. I’m vaguely aware of my racing heart as I toss and turn violently, but I can’t bring myself out of it.
“Eva, wake up!” I open my eyes to see Skye hovering over me, her face twisted in concern. I look around and don’t recognize where I am.
“What’s happening?” My vision clears enough for me to realize we’re in my bathroom.
“I heard you screaming, so I ran through our adjoining door. I found you in here, panicked and mumbling about how you need to get out.”
“Oh, no.” Not this. Not the nightmares kicking in. I shouldn’t be surprised—they start up when I’m staying in unknown places. And I fell asleep all torn up about West, which doesn’t help either.
Skye helps me sit up, and together, we walk back to my bed.
She sits. “So, what’s going on?”
I take a deep breath to steady my galloping heart as random images flood my mind. There’s always shattering glass. Falling. Screaming. Icy cold water.
God, I hate water.
Skye’s concerned eyes search mine, urging me to open up. And after everything she and I have been through, even in this unfamiliar place, I trust her. She genuinely cares, and she’s someone who might understand if I let her in. And since the heaviness of my past weighs on me, the thought of sharing it with someone is freeing.
I take a seat next to her on my bed, trying to gather myself. Inhaling, I tell her about how the nightmares have gripped me for so long. How they’re bits and pieces of memories. I blow out a long breath, ready to do something I’ve never done before—tell her everything. But the words won’t come out of my mouth. I try, over and over, but it’s not happening. Finally, I give up and say, “It’s nothing. Just a bad dream. I’m fine really.”
She squeezes my hand. “They’re coming from inside you, so they’re something. And we can work on that when you’re ready.”
“Okay. Thank you.” I meet her gaze. “Which is not right now. In the middle of this wedding mess.”
“But promise me you’ll do it?”
“I will. As soon as I’m ready—I promise.”
It’s Thursday, so early in the morning that the sun hasn’t even had its coffee yet, and my phone is buzzing. It’s Skye.
I yawn, touching my lips, which are still numb from last night’s tryst with West.
God, that was good.
I grab the phone off the nightstand and answer her call.
“Get your tushy over here,” she half-whispers, half-demands. “West is here.”
Automatically, I punch out a text to him.
Me: Skye’s on a mission
West: No kidding
I clean up before I make my way into Skye’s room, wondering if this is about the wedding saboteur or if Skye’s discovered a new yoga pose that aligns your chakras with the universe.
Walking in, it’s like stepping onto the set of a low-budget detective show with way too many dogs. They run around the living room, which is transformed into what I’m sure Skye believes to be the epicenter of crime-solving: Post-Its in every fluorescent hue plastered on the wall, dental floss zigzagging between them like a spiderweb designed by someone after three too many espressos.
I give Coco Chanel a tummy rub and Dior a pet, but Balls is sitting on West’s lap getting a chin scratch.
“Welcome to my lair.” Skye gestures with a Sharpie.
“Is this... dental floss?” West squints at the minty green lines connecting names to either Paige or Zach.
“Peppermint,” Skye says.
“Of course.” I roll my eyes but secretly admire her dedication. Because if there’s one thing I know, it’s that where Skye leads, chaos—and clarity—inevitably follow.
West points at a particularly convoluted section of the board. “This is really something.”
It’s too early in the morning, and I’ve had too little sleep to be fully tuned into Skye’s frequency of quirky gumshoe logic. And Coco Chanel is pawing at me to give her more love.
“Each one of these little sticky squares,” she flicks a neon pink note, “represents a suspect with potential motives.”
I blink at the board, my name sticking out like a sore thumb amidst the group of Post-Its. “Seriously, Skye? I’m on the wall?”
“Of course.” She uses her “duh” tone. “You could be the jealous, evil twin sister. Motive is practically written on your forehead.”
“Right. I’m sabotaging the wedding and then making myself clean up the mess. That makes no sense,” I sputter, hands on hips.
Skye shrugs, unbothered. “Honey, you never know.”
“Okie doke,” I say. “So, the call to the New York bridal shop to find out who requested the alteration didn’t go anywhere. The shop said it wasn’t them, and they even provided a time-stamped copy of what they sent. They think their message was intercepted by a third party.”
“Hmm.” Skye puts a finger on her lip.
West leans in, squinting at his name linked to Paige’s with a green thread. “And why am I a suspect?” He’s way too loud. Or am I hungover?
Oh, yes. Last night was debauchery and a raging hot hookup. How could I forget?
Skye sighs. “Because, loverboy, you were once part of the reality TV dating pool for Paige’s affections. That puts you in the hot seat.”
“Christ. That mistake is going to haunt me for the rest of my life.” West pets Balls’s ears, and the dog looks to be in pure bliss, his tongue hanging out sideways.
“Try eternity.” Skye waves her hand.
Shaking my head, I focus on the task at hand. “Okay, what about the others?” My eyes glide over the tangled web of connections.
“Olivia’s out.” Skye flicks at a yellow note with her name crossed out. “She’s too busy bouncing on top of the camera guy.”
“How do you know about that?” The blood drains from my face. This means she might know about West and me too.
A wicked grin spreads across her face. “I know things, that’s how. I also know about you two’s little closet rendezvous, so don’t even bother lying about it. And congratulations.”
“Oh, God.” I pinch the bridge of my nose.
Skye’s smile grows. “That was wayyy overdue—”
“Let’s move on, shall we?” West cuts in.
“Sure.” Skye drums her fingers on a particular Post-It. “Brielle—Zach’s old college buddy. Someone you both know.”
“Another scorned lover from the past?” West says.
“Close. A one-night wonder.” Skye narrows her eyes at the photo clipped beneath Brielle’s name.
I throw up a finger. “Oh, they were having a little bit too much fun together last night.” My eyes are wide. “And, man, Zach is one horny dude.”
“Oh, yeah.” Skye bats a hand. “He has raunchy sex with your sister. Did you know they have a position called the pound-town pretzel?”
“Please don’t tell me that, Skye!” I scream.
West’s face pinches, and he throws his hands up. “Great. I’ll never look at that dude the same again.” Balls lets out a bark.
“He’d put his dick in Swiss cheese.” I burst into laughter, and West joins me.
“Laugh it up, chuckles,” Skye says, smiling too. “But keep your eyes peeled. That dick left a trail of wreckage in its wake. When I cornered Brielle, she said their encounter was in grad school six years ago.” Then Skye opens out a folder that’s sitting on the coffee table and hesitates, like she’s got a bombshell to drop. “Brielle has a daughter.”
“Oh, wow.” West maneuvers around Balls to lean in and look at the photo.
“No way,” I whisper.
“Okay, and?” West prompts.
Skye lifts her chin. “And, I hesitate to say this because I want to deal in fact, not gossip, but this little girl—cherub cheeks, curly pigtails—is the spitting image of Zach as a kid.” Skye picks up the picture of Brielle and the girl and holds it next to the “Brielle” Post-It on the wall. “And she’s five years old.”
“The plot thickens.” West sighs.
“Wait! Zach has a kid? Oh, God no.” I close my eyes. “Please no. This is not news to drop on a televised groom two days before a wedding. But Paige deserves to know.”
“She does.” West is staring at the wall. “And what if Zach doesn’t even know?”
“Paige doesn’t know!” I cut in, not able to move past that point.
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” Skye puts up a palm. “Could be someone else’s. Brielle mentioned a grad school boyfriend, so we’ll just have to see.”
“Holy shit.” I blow out a breath. Seriously—what if Zach has a kid? I mean, I really don’t know what Paige would do. I’d like to think she’d stick around and be a great stepmom, but she’s a wild card. I just never know with her.
“Looks like Brielle just snagged the top spot on the suspect scoreboard.” West points to her Post-It.
“In fairness, the other two remaining suspects are you and me, West.”
“True. So, what’s the next move?” West falls back against the plush couch, now scrubbing Balls’ underbelly. I never, ever thought I’d say this before, but I’m kind of getting jealous of that dog. West can give my underbelly a good rub, that’s for sure. Okay, that’s weird, but I know how good West is with his hands.
“You two have to do your bridal party duties, so I’ll trail her.” Skye marks some sort of symbol on her Post-It.
I groan. “I really like her.”
“So do I,” West says, and I shoot him a questioning look. “As a friend,” he adds.
I don’t like that, but I put myself in check because he has a right to like whoever he wants. Moving on, I say, “We have to catch her before she does anything else to mess up the wedding. And hello—we need the truth about whether Zach’s the father of her little girl.”
“Consider it done,” Skye says, and I believe her.