“Okay, stop!” She laughs harder now, throwing her head back, and I have another brief surge of happiness before I crush it.
I only need this dumb fucking banter to take the edge off.
Nothing more.
Then the doorbell rings, and I start walking, putting as much distance between Pages and me as humanly possible.
“There’s the wedding planner,” I say, relieved as I march forward to let her in.
I think I’m dizzy.
The wedding planner, Mrs. Anne Radish, is a small, owlish woman with glasses that make her eyes look too large for her face and permanently pursed lips too much like a beak.
She has both a tablet filled with pictures and videos, plus print catalogues for us to sift through.
Today, I’ve learned that weddings have more moving pieces than a custom-built house.
I knew they were complicated—everything in the public eye is—but I was coming at it from a business perspective.
Cameras.
Press.
Public image.
Fancy food.
Whatever suits our perception as the newly minted Blackthorn power couple—but forgettable enough to separate in six months without a spectacle.
Only, it turns out there’s so much more to it than that.
So many little details.
Appetizers, drinks, the different entrée options, wine lists and open bars and custom invitation cards.
Seriously,fuckthose cards to hell and back.
What they look like, what names they’ll have, whether we want special versions for our parents—
I’m about to head down to the nearest drugstore and burn every card in sight just for spite.
We’re grown adults and this wedding isn’t real.
We don’t need to obsess over the invites.
If Julia Sage wants to fuss over a lackluster design, let her come and cuss me out to my face.
Worst of all, the fairy godmother planner is just getting started. She opens a fresh book thicker than an encyclopedia and carries on.
My eye twitches.
Place settings.
Sample music scores for the ceremony and DJs for the reception.
At least Hattie seems to be enjoying herself.
While I’m melting into my seat, not giving a shit if we have black forest chocolate or Italian lemon cake, or something entirely different like strawberry or coconut, her eyes shine like diamonds.
