SIX
At last, Abbey follows me out of our room, lured by the scent of freshly baked bread and sweet, sweet coffee.
We wander into the main house and spot Ella’s dad, Steven Beaumont – aka Phil Dunphy – in the kitchen.
He’s smoothing back his greying hair with a small comb like he’s got a press conference to deliver.
He spots Abbey first, mid-pastry beeline.
‘Morning, ladies.’
‘Morning, Phil!’ Abbey calls, arm outstretched for a pain au chocolat. She’s the one who coined the nickname when we were thirteen after he brought home a Chinese water dragon on impulse. He’s been Phil Dunphy ever since.
The kitchen is half full of wedding-weekend stragglers. I’m ninety per cent sure the woman by the fruit platter was in last night’s conga line. You don’t forget hips like that. The sight of a coffee machine in the butler’s pantry distracts me and I nearly sob with relief. Salvation in pod form.
‘I would’ve thought you two would be getting ready with Ella by now?’ Steven says behind us.
‘Me too!’ chirps a glowing, silk-robed vision of womanhood.
Ella floats into the room, her hair wrapped in a towel, her skin already glowing like she lathers it with angel tears.
Ella’s eyes scan Abbey – who’s now double-fisting pastries – and then land on me.
‘You can grab coffee,’ she says with the casual generosity of someone who knows this is her world and we’re just living in it.
‘Then meet me in my room for hair and make-up.’
I nod diligently. Honestly, I’m flattered she thinks I’m still worth making presentable.
The coffee machine is not my usual pour-over cold-brew situation, but the moment the coffee hits my taste buds, I no longer care.
I cradle the mug reverently and whisper, ‘Chocolate bean juice tastes good, makes me go fast.’
And of course – that’s when I hear it.
A throat clears behind me.
I whip around.
Luke.
‘You following me now?’ I croak. Impressive that I can even formulate words, considering he found me whispering to my coffee like Gollum.
This time Luke’s once-over lands somewhere between medical triage and mild entertainment. He smiles and steps closer, his hand reaching for one of the coffee mugs on the shelf above my head ‘Maybe you’re the one following me?’ he asks, eyebrow raised.
I take another sip, let it burn a little. ‘Unlikely. I have everything I need – hot, strong, silent. His name’s Nespresso.’
‘You know, your coffee order says a lot about you.’
‘Yours probably says: enjoys solitude, trusts no one, secretly obsessed with Kylie Minogue.’
‘Shania Twain.’
‘Seriously?’
He grins that maddening grin. ‘When she says, “Let’s go, girls”, I feel like I could kick a door down.’
I fight the smile tugging at my mouth. This is a game, after all.
‘Let me guess.’ I squint. ‘Straight long black. Served in a chipped mug, warmed over a campfire.’
‘Spot on,’ he mutters, as if I’ve read his star chart and found something embarrassing.
I take another sip as the coffee machine sputters to life again. ‘You’d get more joy licking the side of a tractor.’
He tilts his head slightly. ‘You talk a lot of shit for someone who nearly face-planted at my feet yesterday.’
I shrug. ‘I’ve decided to rebrand that as a power move.’
‘You’re unwell.’
‘And yet you’re still here.’
He doesn’t answer right away. His eyes flick down to my mouth –
quick, but not quick enough. Then he looks away, shrugs as if it didn’t happen. ‘Maybe I’m getting used to the noise.’
Oh.
There it is. The crack in the armour. The space between what he says and what he means.
My ego stretches like a cat in the sun.
That’s the opening. Every guy has one – some fall for girls who quote Star Wars, some can’t resist a damsel in distress. And Luke? Luke enjoys the fight.
I’ve got him. Hook, line and sinker. Now I just have to reel him in.
‘Luke!’
We both jump as though we’ve been caught stealing.
Ella appears in the doorway and her eyes narrow when she clocks me beside Luke. ‘You’re supposed to be with Darcy, not hiding in the pantry with – Jamie?’
The pause before my name shouldn’t sting. But it does.
Luke lifts his hands in mock surrender, grabs his mug from the coffee machine, and backs away. ‘On my way,’ he says, throwing me one last glance. ‘See you later, B1.’
And then he walks away, all relaxed limbs and unbothered masculinity.
Ella turns to me with a raised brow. ‘You don’t want him.’
‘Why?’ I ask. ‘Is he a secret Andrew Tate disciple?’
‘Worse,’ she says with a grimace. ‘He’s never seen Love Actually.’
I freeze, horrified. ‘I knew there was something wrong with him.’
She smiles and grabs my arm. ‘Come on. The make-up artist is ready for you.’
Ella plants me in front of a woman with lumberjack forearms and the precision of a surgeon.
She doesn’t speak, just lifts a curling wand like it’s an extension of her will, while another woman dabs at my under-eye circles with the quiet determination of someone fixing a problem, not judging it.
By the time they’re both done, I’m transformed into someone who looks like they drink cucumber water and own a Dyson Airwrap.
Once deemed sufficiently radiant, I’m left in a silk robe, nursing a mimosa that tastes more like battery acid with citrus notes. The first few sips go down like nails, but after that I start to feel the soft, dangerous hum of buzzed optimism.
Abbey, Ella and Gloria take their turns with hair and make-up while I prepare to be stuffed into a bridesmaid dress that’s been in transit from Sydney and, by all logic, should’ve been lost somewhere between Surry Hills and rural oblivion.
‘Wow,’ I say, eyeing the garment bag. ‘I’m impressed. I had a whole identity crisis planned if this thing didn’t show.’
Abbey and I had tried the dresses on before shipping. Slimline, rose-coloured, one-shoulder. Elegant. Tasteful. Designed by someone who hates bras. The back dips so low that I have no choice but to place my faith in boob tape.
Abbey steps out of the changing room looking perfect – sleek and hungover in that chic way only she can pull off.
We stand in front of the full-length mirror, staring at ourselves objectively and still trying to forgive any minor flaws.
‘Not too bad, eh?’ I say, adjusting the strap and pretending the fabric isn’t actively waging war on my side boob.
Abbey nods, squinting at our reflection. ‘We’ve definitely looked worse.’
Enter Gloria, her iPad raised as if she’s about to take attendance and bless us simultaneously.
‘Oh my, you girls look divine!’ She beams, snapping photos at high speed.
We smile through the flashes, then shuffle back into Ella’s room.
‘Wow, Ella,’ Abbey breathes, stepping aside as the photographer lifts his camera. ‘You look – Jesus. Wow.’
She does. Her hair’s swept up, her face is glowing, and the dress … it’s all lace and perfectly tailored drama. Grace Kelly, if she ditched the palace and married someone hotter.
‘You look beautiful,’ I say, and mean it.
Steven dabs at his eyes and slips out of the room, possibly worried someone might see him feeling things.
Gloria looks up from her iPad, eyes softening the second she sees Ella. She walks over, wraps her in a hug and murmurs, ‘You’re perfect, darling.’
Ella looks around and smiles, but it’s a little shaky. ‘Guys, I’m nervous.’ Her voice is small, and it cuts through the room – surprising and oddly vulnerable.
‘What?’ Abbey says. ‘You’ve been dreaming of this day since we were kids.’
Ella doesn’t laugh. Instead, she turns to the mirror and stares at her reflection as if it’s about to blink first.
I step closer and rest a hand on her shoulder. ‘Remember when Hilary Duff was scared to sing “What Dreams Are Made Of ”, but then Hilary Duff helped Hilary Duff, and then Hilary Duff sang a duet with Hilary Duff?’
Silence.
‘Don’t act like you can’t remember The Lizzie McGuire Movie. The point is,’ I clarify, ‘you’ve got this.’
She lets out a breath. ‘Thanks, I think,’ she says softly and smiles, a genuine one this time. And just like that, any tension in the room breaks like a plate at a Greek wedding.
Abbey holds up a tray of freshly poured mimosas. ‘Alright, one last cheers to the single trio.’
‘I’m fine,’ Ella says brightly.
Abbey raises a brow. ‘Oh, come on. Just one sip before you walk down the aisle. It’s basically a rite of passage.’
Ella glances quickly at Gloria, who waves her hand and offers sweetly, ‘I’ll have Ella’s glass.’
I look between mother and daughter and my chest squeezes. At the welcome drinks yesterday, she was holding a champagne for the speeches, sure, but did she drink it?
I try to rewind the night in my brain. The flute in her hand. The toasts. The laughter. The way she smiled with her glowing skin and shiny hair.
Glowing.
My eyes snap to her now – the skin, the hair. Ella blushes. I lean in and whisper, just loud enough for her to hear. ‘Are you …?’
Ella meets my eyes, says nothing. Just gives the tiniest nod.
I squeal. The sound is somewhere between a dolphin and a boiling kettle as I throw my arms around her. ‘You’re joking! You’re actually—’
Abbey blinks. ‘What? What am I missing?’
Ella nods again. Gloria dabs delicately at the corners of her eyes.
‘Can someone please tell me what is happening right now?’ Abbey yelps.
Ella and I pull apart, laughing.
‘How far along?’ I ask, breathless.
‘Twelve weeks,’ Ella says, grinning.
Abbey’s eyes go wide. ‘Wait. Are you pregnant?’
Ella laughs again.
‘Yes, you idiot,’ I say, smacking her shoulder lightly.
Abbey lets out her own squeal and launches into a hug.
‘Finally!’ Gloria says with a theatrical sigh. ‘You have no idea how hard it’s been for me to keep a secret.’
‘I can’t believe it,’ I say, looking between them. Ella opens her mouth to say something, but there’s a knock at the door.
‘Time to go, ladies!’ Steven calls.
I squeeze Ella’s hand, ‘Congratulations, El.’
‘OMG! We’re going to be aunties!’ Abbey screams.
‘Does anyone else know?’ I ask.
Ella shakes her head. ‘Just our parents and you guys. I think I just want to get through this weekend first before we start telling anyone else.’
I nod as Abbey says, ‘Speaking of …’ She looks out the window and then back to Ella. ‘Shall we?’
Ella takes a deep breath and smiles. ‘Let’s do it.’
We follow Ella down the hall, past the flower girls – two tiny nieces of Darcy’s who I’m certain I Macarena’d with last night – and step into the sun-drenched chaos of the ceremony.
Abbey leans in and whispers to Ella, ‘You ready?’
Ella nods. I pick up my bouquet of pink waratahs and fall in behind the flower girls. A guitar starts, something soft and twangy. The sun is hot, my palms are sweating, and I know that my boob tape is giving up.
It’s fine.
This is fine.
We step out onto the lawn, and I glance down the aisle – Darcy stands there, nervous, fidgeting, doing the thing where he adjusts his tie. I give him a wink to remind him we’re still rooting for him not to faint.
And then … I see Luke. Cream chinos. White button-down shirt. That face.
He stands beside Darcy – a groomsman in a country magazine spread with his clean lines, sun-kissed skin and furrowed brow.
His eyes lock on mine, and it’s not casual. It’s not even polite. It’s confused. Like I’m a riddle he didn’t mean to start solving.
Oh, I know that look.
I’ve danced this dance before – I’ve played this part in enough short-lived romances to have the choreography memorised. It starts with ‘She’s not my type,’ followed by ‘Wait … why do I keep thinking about her?’ and ends somewhere around ‘Okay, fine, maybe just once.’
They always say I’m too much – too loud, too sharp, too something. And then they lean in as if they’re starving for it. And me? I adjust. I shift. I give them exactly what they think they want.
It’s not manipulation. It’s survival. It’s an art. I’m a chameleon, if you will.
And now I know what Luke prefers. The banter. The bite. The girl who snaps back instead of swooning. The one who’s got no business being quiet. And the best part is, I don’t have to pretend to be someone else for him. I’m already the mouthy, impossible character who doesn’t know when to shut up.
Game. On.
I drag my gaze away, slow and deliberate, as if I hadn’t just read him like a user manual.
Weddings are chemical warfare. They fill the air with commitment fumes, delusional hope and the sweet scent of romance. I’m immune of course. And when I walk past Luke, it’ll be with perfect posture, a steady heartbeat and the quiet satisfaction of knowing that he’s already losing.
I reach the end of the aisle and Abbey meets me at the front. The crowd shifts, then goes silent.
Ella steps out.
It’s showtime.