According to my phone, it should take about ten minutes to get there. It is also, evidently, the top-rated chapel in a one-mile radius. Five stars on Yelp.
Good to know drunk Eleanor still has some standards.
My phone lights up in my lap—another call from Iris. A sharp needle of guilt hits me as I send her to voicemail. Almost immediately, it starts buzzing again with a series of texts.
I’m having a minor crisis.
You know how Henry’s friend Craig was supposed to walk Duchess down the aisle?
Well, apparently he sprained his ankle
He’s going to be on crutches at the wedding
I was sort of hoping you’d be able to take over?
Duchess loves you, and you know how stubborn she can be on a leash. Plus, you’re the only one in the bridal party without a date, so it’s kind of perfect—
I sigh and exit out of the messages without reading the rest. I’m obviously going to say yes. I’m going to escort mysister’s smelly, partially blind, elderly Chihuahua down the aisle. And then presumably be charged with taking care of her the rest of the night.
I just… can’t message her back right now. I can’t start a conversation with my sister, because as soon as we start talking I’ll want to spill everything that’s happened on this trip, and I can’t do that either. Not because she might get angry. If I’m honest, that’s pretty unlikely to even be her reaction. No, Iris would be worried about me, which is worse.
For the longest time after Griffin, my mother and Iris acted like I was this fragile thing, a dried flower liable to crumble unless handled with kid gloves. I won’t let this be another reason for them to treat me that way.
My gaze slides back over to Adam. He seems to have given up on napping now that the car is in motion. He sips his coconut water, and I watch his throat move as he swallows. Aside from the slippers, he’s wearing a light blue polo and khaki shorts. I can’t decide if he looks more like a frat bro or a boomer at a country club.
“When’s your tee time?”
Adam pauses mid-sip. “Huh?”
I hide my smile behind my own coffee cup. He glances down, fingers plucking at the front of his polo, and then he turns back to me with a scowl.
“Seriously, though, what’s with the slippers?” I ask, pointing my chin toward his feet. They’re even embroidered with his hotel’s insignia.
Adam’s cheeks go ruddy and he nudges his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “The walk back to my hotel earlier was a bit rough.”
I don’t know what that means, which must be apparent in my expression, because Adam elaborates with a huff.
“I threw up on my shoes.”
My lips curl in. That is truly foul. And a visual I could have done without, considering I still feel like I’m white-knuckling my way through my own nausea. “Was that the only pair you brought?”
“Obviously. Why, how many pairs of shoes did you bring?”
I wore flats on the plane, the Louboutins last night, and right now I’ve got on Birkenstock sandals. “Three,” I tell him.
“You packed three pairs of shoes for a two-day trip?”
I stare at him for a beat. “Says the man currently wearing terry cloth on his feet.”
A shard of memory forces its way to the front of my mind—the two of us walking back to the hotel from some destination that is still fuzzy in my mind. It must have been late, but there were still plenty of people out and about, noise spilling out of each bar we passed. The sun had been set for long enough that the intense heat of the day had dissipated. We’d been shuffling along, not exactly leaning on each other, but not exactly walking independently, either, when Adam stopped abruptly.
“C’mon,” he said, beckoning me with two fingers.
“What?”
He shifted in front of me and crouched down. “Hop on.”
“You’re offering me a piggyback ride?”
