44. The Saboteur
EVA
Foster jumps up from his seat. He dashes up the aisle without caring that the sand is working against him, nor that every camera, Android, and iPhone swivels in his direction.
“Skye,” he pants out, “I gotta say something.”
“Spit it out, Foster,” she drawls, unfazed. “The rising tide waits for no man.”
“Paige,” Foster begins, addressing me. And I’m struck speechless—with my eyes wide as pizzas and my body frozen in shock.
Foster’s a dramatic mess of suit and tie, eyes wild. “Paige. I’ve done everything, and I mean down to the last seashell on this godforsaken beach, to screw up this wedding. I’ve paid off hotel staff and even someone at your dress shop—everything.”
There’s an audible gasp from the crowd, and I’m caught in the eye of the storm.
Jesus, it was him? The whole time?
“Because,” he says, breathless, “I’m still head over heels in love with you. The biggest mistake of my life was letting you go.” He’s so close now, I can smell his desperation—and that awful cologne. “And shit, I’m sorry, but Eva’s just not you.” There it is: the gut punch. Except it’s not because I don’t care one iota.
“No kidding,” West mutters. “Eva’s so much better.” I turn to him, and the glint in his eyes is that of a man watching the world’s worst kept secret unravel.
If only I could hit pause, rewind, maybe skip this scene entirely. But nope, no remote control for me—only our millions of viewers at home.
This is the part where someone yells, “Cut!” but the cameras keep rolling, and the audience—God, the whole damn beach—is hooked on every word.
Because what the hell am I supposed to say? I’m not Paige! I don’t know what she thinks of this dick-magoo! Does she want to tell him she loves him back? Does she want to slap him across the face and tell him off? I have no idea, and right now, it’d be really nice if that twin telepathy thing would kick in.
But nope, nothing.
So I stand, frozen, literally weighing the pros and cons of each option. If I tell him off, then this wedding can continue, and it’ll be aired as scheduled. And then if that’s the wrong move, then I guess Paige can clear it up with Foster later?
That seems like the best bet, although I have this niggling thought that she might actually love him. I mean, he’s totally her type. I always wondered why she picked Zach, honestly, who seems way too chill for her.
The world tilts on its axis at Foster’s bombshell confession. I’m still standing like a mannequin in a bridal shop window when my asthma kicks in. I gasp for air, and I don’t have my inhaler because I’m supposed to be Paige.
Double shit!
But West steps over and hands me one, and I’ve never been more grateful in my life. “Thanks,” I croak out before taking a big puff.
Foster is looking at me like I’m an alien when the real chaos erupts.
Paige, looking like some sort of spa-warrior princess, bursts from the resort doors, her robe flapping behind her, face half-hidden under a layer of green goop.
“Foster!” she yells, voice muffled but unmistakable.
Everyone’s heads swivel toward her, eyes wide, camera shutters clicking like a swarm of mechanical crickets. She’s sprinting down the aisle, barefoot, with all the grace of a walrus.
“Jesus Christ,” I mutter, certain this is what a nervous breakdown feels like.
Paige skids to a stop beside Foster, who’s staring at her in shock. “I still love you too! I’m sorry too!” Paige declares, smearing seaweed across his suit as she throws her arms around him.
And standing here, all dolled up in my twin sister’s bridal gown, I can’t help but think about all the crap Paige has pulled over the years, and how this one takes the cake.
For a split second, everyone is silent. A seagull dares to squawk.
“Thank God,” comes a deep exhale from the front row. It’s Dad, shoulders suddenly sagging with relief, and I’m trying to process the fact that my sister’s love life just crash-landed into mine.
“You’re telling me,” Senator Easel adds, shooting my dad a look.
Oh, so the senator prefers Paige too. Well, screw him.
But I was right—she does love Foster! Good thing I didn’t smack him across the face, although I still kind of want to.
The jig is officially up. Phones are out, fingers are pointing, and the chatter is so loud, it scares off a flock of birds. There’s no hiding behind the veil now—figuratively or literally.
Paige, still panting from her sprint, says, “Eva was doing me a solid because—” She gestures dramatically at her face, “chemical burn.”
Foster’s face morphs from confused to lovestruck. “Oh, baby, I’m so sorry. I want to kiss you right now—but probably shouldn’t.”
Zach lets out a huge sigh, drawing in my gaze. Oh, crap, I bet he’s devastated. But he mumbles, “Well, shit.” Then he yanks off his tie before shooting Kat a smile and wink.
She returns the smile, but it falls off her face when my father scowls at her.
Paige looks at Zach. “I’m really sorry.”
“Oh, come on.” Zach shrugs. “We’d spent like seventy-two hours together when we got engaged. I knew you were in it for the kink.”
“True.” Paige nods.
“Right on.” He shuffles down the aisle, giving Kat another point and wave, and she stifles another huge smile. My dad, on the other hand, has a scowl so deep it looks like it’ll never recover.
West and the groomsmen follow Zach, then Zach’s parents go next. Then, West’s parents.
I finally have enough neurons firing to look at my sister and ask, “Why in the hell did you want me with Foster if you love him, Paige?” It comes out way too loud.
“Sorry, it’s super complicated,” she offers, but I shoot her a look that could cut glass.
Aunt Myrna has started to fan herself with the wedding program, eyes wide with scandalized delight.
I step forward to grab Paige’s hand, giving it a squeeze. “Okay, folks, nothing left to see here! Let’s wrap this up.”
“So you were just gonna marry Paige’s fiancé, Eva?” someone shouts.
I wring my hands. “No. Just standing in for the ceremonial duty. No real paperwork was going to be signed until later.” God, this is bad on so many levels.
“Wait.” Foster gets down on one knee. “Paige Abbott. Will you marry me? Here? Now?”
She lets out a giddy laugh. “Yes! Yes, I’ll marry you, Foster Easel!”
Sweet Jesus.
I plaster on a smile. “Paige, you remember you’re facially challenged?”
“Facially challenged?” she echoes, still too high on adrenaline and confessions of love to understand.
“You look like you went ten rounds with a jellyfish and lost,” I remind her.
“You suck, Paige!” a guest yells out before standing and walking away. A group follows him, then another.
“Ignore them,” Skye says. “And we can Photoshop your face back in later.”
I tug at the veil on my head. “This can cover you for pictures.”
“Yes!” Paige jumps up and claps. “Let’s do it—I want this.”
“I’m ready when you are, Paige,” Skye says.
“Guests of the bride!” I call out. “A new wedding will be happening in fifteen minutes!” Then I loop my arm around Paige’s. “Let’s go get changed,” I say, and we rush down the aisle together.
Amidst the wreckage, I’ve discovered something unexpectedly profound: love is messy, chaotic, and unpredictably ridiculous.