Chapter 11 Bliss #2
The next hour passes in a blur of small talk and forced smiles.
Various relatives drift over to interrogate us, each one clearly trying to poke holes in our story.
Olog handles every question with unshakable calm, embellishing our fictional relationship with details so specific and romantic that I almost start believing them myself.
We met at a charity diving event. He noticed me immediately because I was the only person who looked genuinely terrified of the water. He offered to be my diving partner. I fell out of the raft twice. He pulled me back in both times. By the end of the day, we were inseparable.
It's a good story. Plausible. Sweet. Exactly the kind of meet-cute that would make my family grudgingly approve.
Except it's completely fake.
Unlike what happened in the bathroom, which was searingly, devastatingly real.
I down my champagne and grab another glass from a passing server.
The wedding coordinator appears on the terrace with her clipboard and a microphone, announcing that the reception is ready and guests should make their way inside to find their assigned seats.
Olog offers me his arm, and we join the migration into the ballroom.
The space has been transformed. Enormous floral arrangements explode from every surface, crystal chandeliers drip from the ceiling, and the tables are set with enough silverware to confuse even Emily Post.
We locate our assigned table, mercifully not at the head table with the wedding party, but not far enough away to escape scrutiny—and settle into our seats.
My second cousin Camden is already there with his wife, Jennifer, both of them looking mildly drunk and very bored. They brighten when they see Olog.
"Holy shit," Camden says, with the kind of blunt honesty that only emerges after several cocktails. "You're huge. Like, professional athlete huge."
"Camden," Jennifer hisses, elbowing him.
"What? I'm just saying. The guy is massive. It's a compliment."
Olog inclines his head graciously.
"Thank you."
"So what do you bench? Three-fifty? Four hundred?"
"I don't typically measure," Olog says. "But I appreciate the interest."
Camden leans forward conspiratorially.
"You know Bliss's ex is here, right? Total tool. Works in finance. Has a face you just want to punch."
"Camden!" Jennifer looks mortified.
"I'm just saying, if anyone wants to punch him, I think we'd all understand. Emotionally. As a concept."
"I'll keep that in mind," Olog says, his tone perfectly neutral, though I catch the slight twitch at the corner of his mouth that suggests he's fighting a smile.
The servers begin delivering the first course—some kind of artfully arranged salad that's mostly edible flowers and intimidation—and I push the greens around my plate without actually eating anything.
My stomach is in knots. The reception timeline is printed on elegant cardstock at each place setting, and I keep glancing at it, calculating how many hours we have left.
First dance. Toasts. Dinner. Cake cutting. Bouquet toss.
Then it's over.
Then we're done.
Then I find out if Olog meant what he said or if I've been deluding myself this entire weekend.
"Bliss." His voice is quiet, meant only for me. "Breathe."
I realize I've been holding my breath and release it shakily.
"Sorry. I'm fine."
"You're not fine. You're spiraling again."
"Can you blame me?"
He shifts his chair closer, his thigh pressing against mine under the table.
"No," he says honestly. "But I need you to trust that when this is over, we'll figure it out. Together."
I want to believe him. God, I want to believe him so badly it physically hurts.
But I've been disappointed too many times to fully let my guard down.
The speeches start. The best man tells an embarrassing story about the groom's college years. The maid of honor cries through her entire toast. My Aunt Susan makes pointed remarks about the importance of finding a partner who can provide stability, and I feel Olog's hand find mine under the table.
Dinner is served. I manage to eat a few bites of the filet mignon, mostly because Olog keeps subtly sliding my plate closer and giving me meaningful looks until I pick up my fork.
The cake is cut. The bouquet is tossed. The reception hits that chaotic sweet spot where everyone is drunk enough to dance but not so drunk they're making regrettable decisions.
Yet.
I excuse myself to use the restroom, needing a moment alone to breathe without an audience.
The ladies' room is blissfully empty, and I lean against the marble counter, staring at my reflection.
My makeup has held up remarkably well considering the day I've had. My hair is still mostly in place. I look like a perfectly polished wedding guest.
I look nothing like someone whose entire world is about to implode in, I check my phone, nine hours and thirty-seven minutes.
I'm splashing cold water on my wrists when my phone buzzes.
A text from Olog: Your father is approaching my position. Requesting backup.
I laugh despite myself, texting back: On my way. Try not to kill him.
No promises.
I dry my hands, square my shoulders, and head back to the reception.
I spot them immediately, my father and Olog standing near an elaborate ice sculpture shaped like a swan, locked in what appears to be an intense conversation.
My stomach drops.
I quicken my pace, weaving through clusters of dancing guests, but I'm not fast enough.
By the time I reach them, my father is pulling out his checkbook.
"Alright, tough guy." My father clicks his pen with decisive finality. "How much is my daughter paying you to tolerate this family for the weekend?"
The words hit me hard.
Olog's expression goes completely blank, that professional mask slamming down so fast I almost miss it.
"Excuse me?" His voice is dangerously quiet.
"Don't play dumb." My father's tone is flat, businesslike. "I've been in corporate negotiations for thirty years. I know a hired actor when I see one. So let's skip the performance and cut to the numbers. How much?"