Chapter 15
THEA
I spend the night tossing and turning, wishing I hadn’t deleted my number from Owen’s phone all those years ago. Did he catch Camila? If he did, was he able to convince her not to say anything? If he didn’t, does everyone think something happened between me and Owen?
We could always pretend we got back together for the week.
A little part of me likes the idea, having an excuse to touch and enjoy him.
But that’s the most selfish part of me talking.
Us “getting back together” would pull attention away from Addy and Harrison, and I don’t want that.
Plus, we’d have to fake another breakup after the wedding, which would add more drama.
Right now, everyone thinks we’re two people who tried to make something work and couldn’t, but if they thought I broke his heart again, I don’t think the family would look at me as favorably as they do now.
I dig through my suitcase, grabbing the least ratty pair of jeans I own and a T-shirt from the shitty rock band I pretended to like for a couple of months while hooking up with the lead singer. My feet aren’t even fully stuffed into my sneakers before I bolt from the room.
According to the schedule—thank you, past Thea, for taking a picture—the crafting shower is in the same ballroom where the wedding reception will be on Saturday. I follow the signs as I leave the hotel, piling my curls in a bun on the top of my head as I run.
I don’t know what I’m walking into. The family could be gossiping about me and Owen right now. Addy may be ready to ream me out for fucking up her wedding. I can see her imperious face, looking down her nose even from her lower height.
You hooked up with Owen last night and it’s all anyone’s talking about.
There was a security camera, Thea, and now everyone’s watching you swallow my future brother-in-law’s tongue.
Camila figured out it’s all fake and she told everyone and now they think you’re a terrible person and decided they hate me, too, and the wedding’s off and it’s all your fault.
Okay, even I can recognize that last one isn’t likely, if for no other reason than Owen wants to keep our secret as much as I do. And if the wedding was canceled, they wouldn’t waste their time crafting things for the reception.
I skid to a halt in front of the French doors, sucking in air from the uphill sprint.
The door opens, and Diana peeks her head out.
She’s perfect, like always, with a pristine light pink dress that hits right above her knee.
I don’t know where she finds the energy to be so put together, even on a day when we’re just going to sit and write out a bunch of place cards and shit.
I can’t help but compare this version of Diana to the one Owen described.
If you’d asked me a couple of days ago, I’d have said she’s a dream parent.
But I also know from experience that people give different versions of themselves to different people, and I respect Owen enough to believe what he tells me.
Her eyes slide down my outfit, one manicured eyebrow lifting slightly, but then she smiles. “We’ve been wondering where you were, darling. I’ve saved a seat for you next to Addy.”
I smile, but it feels more like a wince. “My alarm didn’t go off this morning.”
“Nothing to worry yourself about,” she says, placing an arm around my shoulder and dragging me inside.
The entire party grinds to a halt when I enter the room.
And that’s when I notice Diana isn’t the only one put together.
Out of dozens of women, I’m the only one who isn’t in a dress with my hair and makeup done.
Addy’s sitting at the front of the room in another white outfit, this time an eyelet material with capped sleeves and a collar buttoned all the way to the top. And on her lap … a present.
Fuck.
One of Owen’s cousins is sitting in a chair next to Addy, a little notebook dangling from her fingertips as she stares wide-eyed at me.
I tug on my shirt, squirming under the scrutiny, but force myself to march over and sit in the open chair to Addy’s right.
The cousin jumps up, scrambling around to my seat to hand me the notebook and pen.
I glance up at her. “Thank you?”
What the hell is this for?
Addy’s smile is forced as she whispers, “It’s to write what gifts I receive and who they’re from.”
I whisper back, “I thought this was a crafting party.”
“A crafting shower.” Her tone is slightly exasperated, but she keeps that performative smile in place. “We’re going to all work on the place cards and the non-floral parts of the centerpieces after I’m done opening the gifts.”
I whisper, “I didn’t know I was supposed to bring a gift.”
The only shower I’ve ever attended was for one of the other servers at Cibare, but it was just a cake back by the lockers with us chipping in on a gift card.
This—with the elaborately wrapped gifts and fancy dresses—is all new to me.
I have something for her in my room, but I don’t have time to run back to the inn.
And it’s too intimate of a gift to give in front of everyone.
Addy’s smile shifts into something softer. “Hey, it’s fine. Making it up here on such short notice is gift enough. I’m so grateful you’re here.”
The squeeze of her hand on mine feels like it’s directly wrapped around my heart.
She focuses back on the boxes around her, calling out the name on each card and thanking them profusely.
The room cheers every time she breaks a ribbon while unwrapping.
The lore states the bride will have one kid per ribbon she breaks, and by the eighth ribbon I start to wonder if this is Addy manifesting the big, stable family she’s always wanted.
With the gifts gloriously done, we all move over to the round tables for our crafting jobs.
Addy whispers that she’s going to sit with new people and try to win them over, and I’m left alone to figure out where to go.
I spin away when I catch Camila watching me, but she rushes over, pretty damn spritely for someone with half a basketball strapped on her stomach, and slips her arm through mine.
“Hi, Thea,” she says with a little wiggle of her eyebrows.
“Camila,” I say with a forced brightness. “Great to see you.”
“Breathe,” she whispers while towing me to a table with her mother, Cece, Diana, and Mira. “I can keep a secret.”
What secret is that? I want to ask. Does she know our real secret, or does she mean finding me and Owen together in the hallway?
We set about the brainless task of filling the bottom few inches of small vases with flat glass marbles. The conversation flows around me, the comfortable exchange of people who have spent most—if not all—of their lives together, and even though I’m the outsider, I don’t feel like it.
“What were you up to that kept you in bed so late?” Camila’s mother, Ximena, says with a wiggle of her eyebrows.
“I wish it was something fun, but just an alarm that didn’t go off,” I say, and Ximena pouts. “I’m not used to waking up early since I work at night.”
Camila eyes me. “What do you do?”
Oh shit, I sound like I’m a stripper, don’t I?
“Server,” I blurt out. “Or I was. Now I’m … figuring it out, I guess.”
What the hell’s wrong with me? I didn’t plan on telling them I’m unemployed, not when Addy and I are trying to make a good impression.
But luckily, before anyone can ask more questions, a woman around Diana’s age heads our way.
She goes for the last open seat, but Diana plops her bag down on top of it.
The woman rolls her eyes, then heads to another table.
“You’ll have to let it go eventually, my dear,” Cece says, picking up a marble and regarding her daughter through it. “I’m all for a grudge, but you’re just being obnoxious at this point.”
Diana gasps like Cece has struck her. “Mama!”
Ximena wiggles her eyebrows and leans closer to me. It’s abundantly clear where Camila got her love of gossip. “That’s Patricia, Dennis’s wife. She and Diana were best friends throughout childhood until Patricia brought their family to Orlando and didn’t tell Diana. She’s never forgiven her.”
Diana huffed. “It’s not that she didn’t tell me.
She blatantly lied when I asked if they were coming.
If letting her boys see their family was too much of an inconvenience for her, fine”—it didn’t seem fine from the way she aggressively blinks back tears—“but lying to me about it? That’s something I can’t forgive. ”
It seems like such a ridiculous thing to be angry about, especially years later. If a little lie like that was enough to make her give up a lifetime of friendship, how would she feel about me and Owen lying to her for years?
I meet Camila’s widened gaze across the table, and my stomach plummets. She knows. Definitely knows.
And we are so fucked.