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The room is no longer quiet. A hum of whispers surrounds us and disgusted glares are being thrown at me from every angle. Except from one table behind Emily, where a group of women sit . . . women I know from school. They were Emily’s friends then and apparently are her tag-alongs still, because they’re smirking with victory at taking The Abi Andrews down so publicly. Vaguely, I wonder what Emily told them about our week and the childish competition we’d resorted to. I’m sure it was nothing flattering to me.
My tongue is thick in my mouth. For all my brilliance, I can’t find a word of explanation that can somehow make this okay. But knowing I have to try, I sputter out, “No, that’s not . . . Emily.” I take a sip of my water, trying in vain to find the ability to speak.
Emily takes advantage of the opening I’ve left, smirking as she fires another bomb, “Oh, no, did your family not know about you and Lorenzo? I can understand. A bit awkward to keep it in the family that way with his being Violet’s cousin. Unless . . .” Her eyes narrow in glee, and I know that whatever she says next is her true purpose, the real reason she came over here.
“The whole thing was fake . . . like your brother’s wedding and your sister’s engagement.” She tsks and adds, “You Andrewses just can’t stop faking, can you?”
The crowd openly gasps in shock at the accusation. It should be ridiculous, but it’s a bit too plausible considering Ross and Courtney really did fake their relationships, so everyone quickly assumes I’ve done the same thing. That I did doesn’t make it any easier to refute.
Sorry, Mom and Dad! I know you taught me better, but I’m past looking for words in my fried brain. Impulsive, spontaneous, crazy action is the coping mechanism I default to. I stand, throwing my water in Emily’s face.
“Ah!” she screams. “What—”
Water drips from her eyelashes, her makeup ruined and her hair flopping down to make her look like a spluttering, drowned rat. Her white dress—yeah, white like she’s still a bride—is nearly see-through, but the country club is definitely not a venue that holds wet T-shirt contests.
I freeze, not believing I actually did that. I should feel remorse, should be horrified. But what I feel is . . . free.
Laughter bubbles up, fizzy and warm and bright, exploding past my lips and making me sound like a manic hyena. Courtney snorts, trying to contain laughter of her own and doing a much better job of maintaining a sense of proper decorum.
There’s a mix of laughter and horror from the crowd, who aren’t even pretending to ignore the spectacle now.
Ross throws his napkin to the table and stands. “Enough!” he shouts, and even Emily has the good sense to flinch.
But it’s my dad who truly saves me.
He doesn’t even put his fork down, make a face, break a sweat, or throw things . . . all things I’ve done in the last several seconds since Emily walked up and nuclear bombed my life.
But Dad is the cloth we’re all cut from and has perfected his skills around boardroom tables we can only dream of one day sitting at, so he coldly demands, “Are you quite finished now, young lady? I was rather enjoying a quiet dinner of celebration with my family before you came up and started spewing your venom all over my chicken marsala. It’s obvious you are no friend of Abi’s, and therefore, no friend of mine.” He makes a shooing motion with his fork, a bit of sauce slinging on Emily’s white dress too. “Leave us alone so we can continue to celebrate her good fortune as an artist and as a new bride. And you can go back to enjoying a night away from your new husband too.” Dad glances at the table of women who are sitting straight and slack-jawed now. “I’m sure your husband is particularly enjoying the evening away from you.”
Whoa! Dad is . . . stone-cold brutal. I’m really glad he’s on my team.
“Harrumph!” Emily makes a sound of displeasure before spinning on her toe and stomping back to her table. She snaps her fingers and calls across the room, “Check, please!”
We’re quiet as Emily gathers her purse and entourage, stomping some more as she heads toward the door and loudly remarks, “Some people . . .” But the door closes on whatever she was going to say about people like me and my family.
I shrink in my chair, wishing I could fall straight through the floor. I’m in hell already. Might as well get a little tan from the flames too. “Dad, I . . . sorry, I—”
He cuts his eyes to me, giving me a hard look. “Eat. Tell me about the flowers at this fancy wedding,” he demands. But the true order is in his eyes, promising me that we’re going to have a conversation about all of this, but not now, not here.
