Chapter 21
TWENTY-ONE
Gia’s calm streak lasted about a week, but the moment she woke up in the hotel room we booked for getting ready on the wedding day, all the jitters and cold feet came rushing back with full force.
Right now, she’s pacing the room in her white satin robe, eyes practically bulging out of her head as she mutters to herself under her breath.
The idea of the bridal party getting their hair and makeup done in a hotel room suite was supposed to reduce the stress.
There’s no worry about Mark bringing bad luck to their wedding by catching a glimpse of her gown before she walks down the aisle.
No stress caused by the chaos of the disaster zone that used to be her living room, which currently looks like a wedding magazine puked all over her table and floor.
Gia would have felt a heck of a lot better if she hadn’t announced she wouldn’t be coming to her rehearsal dinner at the eleventh hour, causing our family to decide not to attend either.
Gia could have faced Mom and Dad and ironed out all of the issues but instead she opted to have an early night and hope for the best, claiming that if someone needed practice walking they wouldn’t be her friend to begin with.
It’s a good thing Mark’s parents are as chill as he is—they accepted her cancellation gracefully and said they’d still have a nice dinner.
Gia’s other bridesmaids—Liv, Cara, and Arlene—are perched on the stools in the kitchenette, dressed in matching blush-pink robes with their names embroidered on the backs in delicate gold cursive.
Their laughter mingles with the soft hum of hairdryers and the faint clinking of makeup brushes.
The scents of hairspray and fresh orange juice mingle in the air.
Gia heads for her stool and plunks down on the edge, wringing her hands so hard that they’re practically going white.
“Honey,” Gia’s makeup artist, our mutual friend, Nora, says, “you need more than just makeup, you need a massage. Your muscles are so tense, I can see it in your whole posture.”
Gia glances uncertainly at her reflection in the mirror set up across from her. “Is it that obvious?”
Nora leans in closer and whispers, “I’m sorry for asking this but are you sure you’re marrying the right man?”
I make a little noise that’s halfway between a snort and a gasp, and Gia glares at me.
“I’m sure,” she says with a hint of attitude. “I’m more worried about my family making my special day, a day I’ve dreamed about my whole life, a frickin’ disaster.”
Nora shoots me a dirty look. “Be nice to your sister. Poor dear has got the worst dark circles I’ve seen in months.” She pats Gia’s arm. “Sorry, but it’s true.”
“Yeah, Lexi,” Gia says and sticks her tongue out at me. “Be nice to me.”
I don’t really think I could be any more helpful to Gia.
My life for the last year has been completely absorbed by her wedding, and I for one am excited to have some free time back when I don’t have to worry about cake tastings, dress fittings, and my sister calling me asking for advice until the early hours of the morning.
In twenty-four hours, this will all be over.
Then I can talk to her about number six on my list: Set new boundaries with Gia.
I circle the room with a tray of mimosas, careful not to spill as I navigate around the scattered styling products and curling irons.
“Hey,” I say softly, handing Gia a glass with a gentle smile. She takes a slow sip, her eyes still tense. “You’ve been dreaming about this day since you were a little kid. Don’t let anything ruin it for you.”
“It’s going to be a disaster,” she mutters, taking a sip. “I can feel it brewing.”
Gia didn’t have any heart-to-hearts with Mom or Dad before today, which I keep telling her is a big mistake.
If this is how she’s feeling now, we’re in for a lot of outbursts today when she gets up close and personal with all the situations she’s been reluctant to face.
Though, honestly? I’m kind of glad Gia didn’t invite Mom to the hotel room for this part.
It gives me some breathing room to get our energy back on track.
Time to try another approach. Kill the negative energy and replace it with something like acceptance.
“It probably will be a disaster in some ways,” I say quietly.
“And you’re going to say, ‘fuck it,’ and you’re going to smile and you’re going to make the best of it.
That way, when you look back, there will be a few things that you hated but also a whole lot more stuff that made you happy. ”
Gia tilts her head to look at me and then smiles. “Yeah,” she says. “You’re right. Fuck it.”
“That’s the spirit,” I say, tapping my champagne glass gently against hers.
After Gia finishes her drink, I suggest some meditation to help calm her down, but she opts for more mimosas instead and now she’s three drinks deep. It’s looking like there might be a bumpy ride ahead.
“Maybe that can be your last drink before the wedding,” I whisper to her as her hairstylist, Misty, steps aside to plug in her curling iron.
“Why are you trying to stop my fun?” Gia says loudly. “It’s my party and I can drink as much as I want to,” she sings in the tune of “It’s My Party.”
“I’m pretty sure those aren’t the lyrics, and for good reason,” I say. “Because with you, drinking too much usually ends in puking. And white chiffon gowns and puking don’t exactly mix.”
Gia blows right past my warning like it’s background noise, drains another gulp of champagne, and launches into what can only be described as interpretive chair dancing.
She shimmies in place, twirls an invisible lasso above her head like a rodeo queen, and throws in a few pelvic thrusts that are completely out of sync with the actual music.
The bridesmaids in the kitchenette pause mid-sip, watching like they’re not sure whether to clap or call for medical assistance.
“Misty,” Gia says, pointing her champagne flute at me, “tell my sister to give me a break and just let loose.”
“Give her a break, Lexi, she’s having fun,” Misty says, fluttering her long fake lashes at me. “Have a drink too and it won’t bother you so much.”
“One of us needs to stay sober,” I mumble. Two drunk Callen women at one event would be nothing short of catastrophic.
Cara, Liv, and Arlene seem to have bounced back from their initial concern and are now fully committed to the spectacle, hooting and hollering like they’re at a bachelorette party in Vegas rather than the most important and ceremonial day of my sister’s life.
All three are on their feet, pumping their fists in the air in unison.
“Go, girl!” Cara shouts, grinning from ear to ear.
I know it’s less about genuine encouragement and more about the fact that she won’t be the one crouched on the bathroom floor later, holding my sister’s hair back when she inevitably vomits.
My personal ETA for that moment? One and a half hours.
Maybe less, if she keeps up the overly energetic lasso routine.
I sigh, take a slow sip from my water bottle, and settle down on the edge of the bed, which is a disaster zone strewn with wedding chaos: Gia’s delicate veil tangled near a pair of heels still tucked in their box, scattered hairpins, lipsticks in various shades, and four boxes of tissues ready for all the sentimental moments that await us.
The wedding gown, still carefully tucked away in its garment bag, hangs from the curtain rod in the bedroom.
The limo won’t be arriving for another two hours.
Maybe I can provide a distraction of some kind that doesn’t involve drinking, but what that would be is beyond me.
I could do an impromptu second bachelorette party and ask the strippers to handcuff Gia for their show.
That way she wouldn’t be able to lift her drinks to her mouth.
That could actually work. I start Googling mobile male strippers when my phone buzzes with a text. From Zach. My heart instantly flutters.
Thinking of you today. One more day of stress and then you can relax. I hope you manage to enjoy it.
I can’t ignore that my body has heated up at the sight of his name on my screen and his thoughtful words.
Thanks! I’m scared.
Hope it goes better than you think it will.
I bite my lip. If he only knew how bad it looks like it could get. “Doubtful,” I reply with the yikes emoji and the crying-laughing emoji.
Let me know if you need that moral support.
I never did get back to Zach about his offer to come to the wedding with me. Gia will probably be too busy chatting with her other guests to notice if Zach comes for the dancing part of the reception, after the vows and dinner are over.
Wilmont Center. Maybe around 8 PM?
Sounds good.
A rush of energy pulses through my body. Holy cow, he’s actually going to come. I may just have a dance partner. A good one if his merengue skills at the studio are any indication.
When the bridal party is ready, all looking lovely in their pink dresses, I help Gia zip up her wedding gown.
After the photographer has snapped at least three hundred getting-ready shots, we head downstairs and climb into the limousine.
The drinking hasn’t died down. Quite the contrary.
Gia’s clutching a bottle of champagne like she’s holding her water bottle at the gym, for survival.
Every few minutes she takes a swig. Cara has joined her on her intoxicated journey and it’s looking more and more like the two of them will need a babysitter.
Great.
They giggle as they stumble into the limo. I catch Gia’s hand and help her into the car, piling the long train of her dress in after her.
“Who’s ready to see my separated parents make out with other people tonight?” she cries, pumping her fist in the air to the pop music in the car.
“Me!” Cara cheers, falling back against her seat.
I nudge her softly. “Gia, calm it down a bit. We don’t need to discuss that right now.”