Except, Liam Kelly never actually came to escort me. I had forgotten my rules and let my guard down.
It was all one long, elaborate joke.
Me walking out on stage alone was the punchline.
My mother never forgave me. “Obviously, you didn’t do enough to keep his attention, or this never would have happened.”
And I never let my guard down again, ignoring whatever pull I felt to the contrary.
Maria’s glossy black heels clop over the polished white marble tiles of the bridal gown boutique as she rushes back and forth past prints of Degas’s ballerinas in gilded frames. A crystal chandelier casts its light on Eli’s slumped figure, the epitome of an unwilling participant hunched in a white wicker chair.
“I swear to god Elijah Ignatius Blythe, if you don’t hold that phone upright—” snaps Clara “Clare” Williams, Holly’s little sister and the third and final member of our high school brat pack. The phone, in Eli’s distracted possession, has tilted downward at least twenty times in the last five minutes, and apparently, she’s not standing for his mediocre FaceTiming skills any longer. “I’m never making another pie for you ever again.”
“I like Evie’s pie better anyway,” he mutters, eyes glued to his own phone perched on his left knee, a lazy smile spreading wide across his face.
She gasps. “How dare you.”
“Oh hush, you know my pies are fire,” I tease. “But who are you texting, bud?” I smirk, assessing a blush-colored chiffon dress in the mirror, the fifth bridesmaid dress of the day. It’s draped over my curvy figure somewhat flatteringly with a drawn waist, flutter sleeves, and a long flowing skirt. Overall, it’s nothing remarkable. The color is on the wrong side of washing out my already porcelain skin. But it’s comfortable and would hide any case of endo belly that will occur given the stressful circumstances.
The last thing I need is to overhear some distant relative asking my mother if I’m expecting . . . again.
“Unfortunately, no. Evelina would need to find a man first. And even then, there’s little hope, bless her heart.”
A sharp twinge tortures my left ovary—a quick stab and twist of a knife. I press in on that side and breathe, dropping my mask slightly.
One. Two.
It doesn’t go away, but I have a life to live, so I can only devote two seconds of my sanity to caring. There’s always a pain. Just some are more manageable than others.
I’ve had to learn to cope and surrender my energy reserves to ignoring them, since living life in the fetal position isn’t an option long-term.
But now and again, the resolve fails, and I am acutely aware of my situation—the draining on my mental health falters, and I wear myself thin. Today is one of those days.
Eli ignores my question, pushing up the sleeves of the black sweater I made him change into earlier when he met Maria and me outside his apartment in flannel and a Boston Red Sox hat. The colorful ink on his right arm peeks through. My gaze narrows to the spot below his elbow where my name sits nestled among Patriots Super Bowl logos and shamrocks. I was joking when I suggested it, but Eli was drunk, and now a part of me lives on his arm forever.
He glances up from his phone, eyes traveling to the same spot mine have landed. “This is definitely one of those times I regret having that.”
“Rude,” I huff back. “And don’t change the subject. Who are you texting with your goofy grin?”
Eli straightens with a sigh. “Fionn, actually.” The edges of his ears prick red as a flush creeps across his face. I squeal. I took it as a good sign when Fionn asked to walk Eli home the other night from dinner, and he agreed, but not glued-to-the-phone-with-a-shy-smile good.
“Oh! Who’s Fionn?” Clare shouts.
“He’s my Irish, Hugh-Grant-look-a-like friend, with the fluffiest hair. And he’s super nice. Oh my goodness, my heart is bursting.” I bounce on my toes.
“Yes!” Clare perks up. “’Bout damn time, Ignatius.”
“Yeah, you both need to seriously chill. Nothing’s going to happen.” He sighs, slouching in his chair with resignation.
“But why?” I whine.
“Because Liam and I go back to Mass in a month, and I’m not starting anything with a deadline.”
“Oh pooh—screw the future.” I wave him off.
A rare scowl forms on Eli’s face.
“Come on, please.” I fold my hands in hopeful prayer. “Have a little Paris romance with an Irishman that looks like Hugh Grant. What’s the worst that could happen?”
