Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
Savannah
Saturday. Party day. I’m at the party venue—a country club about half an hour from Brayden’s house, which I can’t quite bring myself to call our house—getting ready in one of the bridal rooms. Better that than having my dress get crushed in the car, Barb said.
It would be fine—fun even—if there was anyone here getting ready with me.
This bridal room is enormous: there’s a cluster of couches on one side, a bar and sink with a minifridge, a single-occupancy bathroom tucked in one corner, its door decorated with a sign bearing a veil and a ring.
Barb is somewhere; I can hear her snapping at the staff through the door.
Do you want your friends to come? What Brayden asked me, and I said no when I should have said yes. Much like I should have said no when Brayden got down on his knee at the bar…
Too late for that now.
If I can’t have fun with a group, I can at least have a good time. I put on music. I sip a little split of champagne and snack from the tray the caterers bring me. I tug on one layer of shapewear and then another, before slipping on my dress.
It’s a column dress, designed to show off every curve.
Only I can’t quite reach the zipper to do it up all the way.
I struggle for a while, then think about sticking my head into the hallway to see if one of the staff will do me a favor.
They’ll think you don’t have friends. Probably because the only person I really know in Atlanta is Brayden, who’s changing in the room next to this one.
And I’m not sure I’d even call him a friend.
I knock on the door separating our rooms. A moment later, Brayden answers, wearing a blue suit that makes his eyes look particularly gray, a gleaming white shirt that brings out his tan, a gleaming watch that I know retails for at least twenty grand. His boutonniere is a rose.
“We’re supposed to have peonies,” I say.
He looks down at the boutonniere. “I like roses better.”
“Can you help me with this—” I turn and hold out the back of my dress, the two trailing flaps of fabric that refuse to come together and zip.
Brayden moves in close, tracing his hand up the back of my dress, to where the zipper is supposed to end a few inches below my shoulder blades.
“What’s this?” He runs his fingertip under my shapewear as if he’s never seen anything like it before.
Given the women he’s photographed with on his Instagram—none of whom Barb would probably bring low-calorie yogurt—it’s possible he hasn’t.
“It makes my dress fit better,” I say.
He tugs at an elastic strap, stretching it then gradually releasing it so it doesn’t snap back. “Can you breathe with this on?”
“Breathing is optional.” I don’t want to say that the shapewear feels like armor against whatever will happen tonight. Barb has invited every single one of Brayden’s cousins along with half their church.
Beyond that, the Peaches played a day game today against the Boston Monsters, so the entire Atlanta team is coming, along with their wives and girlfriends, which I’m excited about.
That also means Asher is coming. Or at least, he is if Brayden actually invited him.
He might not even come. He probably isn’t thinking about you. Except for that on-field fight…
The night after the fight, Brayden had gone out and came home even later than normal. I didn’t ask why and he didn’t volunteer, but the next day Asher was back playing first base and Brayden was riding the bench.
I could ask now. Instead, I wait as Brayden holds both sides of the fabric. I expect him to wrench the zipper shut as quickly as possible, but instead he draws it up, tooth by tooth, slowly enough that I barely realize when he’s done.
“There.” His voice is very near my ear, breath warm. He doesn’t draw back and I don’t move away, either. This feels like when he put my necklace on at the wedding, except this time I’m not stomping on his foot or telling him to keep his distance. “That dress is…” he begins.
That dress is what? Too tight? Too colorful? It’s a bright purple selected specifically to piss off Barb.
Brayden doesn’t finish the sentence. Instead, he spins me around, his hands at either side of my waist. “You should kiss me,” he says.
I take an instinctive step back, but Brayden tightens his grip. “What?” I ask.
“We’re going to have to go out there—” He glances toward the door to indicate where the party will be taking place.
Right. We’re newlyweds. People will be tapping their glasses all night to command us to kiss.
We haven’t since the wedding. In fact, Brayden’s touched me more in the past five minutes than he has since we said our vows.
We shouldn’t look like we’re new to this.
It makes total sense why we need to kiss each other.
Yet, that doesn’t stop my heart beating fast against my ribs.
“Fine,” I say with more confidence than I feel. “But no tongue.”
Brayden smirks at that. “Who said anything about tongue?” He runs his hand under my chin, tilting up my jaw. Leans down, lips almost touching mine. But he holds off at the last second, our mouths less than an inch away from each other. You should kiss me, is what he said.
My heels are high. Still, I need to rise on my tiptoes to close the last centimeter between us. I’m unsteady on my toes, in a dress that doesn’t allow me to take a full breath. In this sham of a marriage that, right at this second, doesn’t quite feel like a lie.
His arms wind around me—firm, but not tight, hands at the top of my waist but drifting no further below. At our wedding, he kissed me like he wanted to possess me. Here he’s the one making me work.
I kiss him, lips sealed shut, barely more than a peck.
A kiss that probably fools no one. I should be grateful he’s respectful of my boundaries.
That, despite everything else about him, he’s been nothing but a gentleman to me since I said yes.
But I don’t want a gentleman right now. I want someone who’ll kiss me and act like it isn’t a chore.
My lips part, unbidden, and Brayden smiles into the kiss, that familiar grin I can practically taste. “I thought you said—”
I cut him off. “We need to be convincing.”
Brayden hitches me closer. My dress has a front slit in it to allow me clearance to walk.
His hand drops from my waist to between the folds of fabric, the shock of his bare palm against the bare skin of my thigh.
He draws my leg up, pressed against his hip, the two of us closer than we’ve ever been, close enough that I can feel every inch of him through the layers of fabric and elastic that, right now, feel like they’re holding me in.
I don’t want to kiss Brayden. No, I shouldn’t want to kiss Brayden. For all I know, I’m not the first woman he kissed this week. For all I know, I’m not the first woman he’s kissed today.
His other hand finds its way into my hair, threading, tightening, and I can’t suppress the noise that comes out of me, something close to a whimper, as his tongue delves into my mouth.
We shouldn’t be doing this. We’re not really married.
Except we are and we’re about to have a room full of people here to celebrate that fact.
But at this moment, I’m not sure who exactly it is I’m lying to: everyone else or myself.
Finally, Brayden draws back. He’s breathing like he just ran a mile.
His forehead tips forward—for a second, I think he’s going to rest his face against mine.
He’s smiling, not that Brayden grin that makes me want to roll my eyes, but something small, a slight upturn of his lips.
“Think that’ll fool ’em?” he asks, like his real joy isn’t kissing me but getting away with tricking all the important people in his life.
“Yes.” I keep my tone flat. “That should work.”
That must shake him out of whatever state he’s in. His eyes widen as he seems to realize where he is. Who he’s kissing. The smile drops from his face. He goes to the mirror where I’ve been doing my makeup and finger-combs his hair to settle it back into place.
I go over and fix my lipstick, careful to keep space between our bodies. The door is still shut. There’s no one here to fool. We’re getting away with this, I tell myself. So long as no one looks too closely and notices my smile doesn’t quite reach my eyes.
Two hours later, I’m caught in the swirl of the party: Brayden has an endless parade of uncles and cousins, all of whom with blond hair and thin wives and opinions about Peaches baseball (good but getting better) and Brayden’s play (bad and getting worse).
I’ve been in the receiving line for so long that the passed hors d’oeuvres have come and gone.
Still, the room is beautiful, lit with candles and festooned with elegant bowls of peonies.
Grudgingly, I have to admit Barb did a nice job—both organizing everything and making decisions I didn’t want to.
An aunt—Maybell? No, Myra—beckons me down so I can kiss her cheek.
She’s eighty if she’s a day, and I have to lean all the way in half for her to examine me.
“Well, you’re certainly not what we were expecting,” she says.
Unlike Barb, it doesn’t sound laced with an insult.
She motions me even closer, then leans to whisper in my ear.
“Do you want to know the secret of a successful marriage?”
I nod, expecting advice about how I need to submit as a biblical wife or whatever.
“Take his money and put it in an account he doesn’t know about.” Myra smiles. “And keep a razor blade in your purse.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I sway a little on my feet as I release Myra.
“Too much champagne?” Myra asks knowingly.
“Too little food.” I wait for a comment—that I look like I’ve eaten enough for a lifetime.
Myra tuts. “Gotta keep your strength up. Those babies won’t make themselves.”