He smiles and gestures to the room. “This is you.”
“Oh.” I dig out my key, and he takes it from me, showing me how to unlock the door as though I may not be able to figure that out myself, then steps inside and holds it open.
“If you need anything, dial one—that connects you to Marco. A full list of amenities and a map are in your folio,” he nods toward the leather booklet in my hand, “along with restaurant hours and room service. I’m told everything is included by the groom’s family.”
Something small tightens in my chest. Iamthe groom’s family. I know I don’t look it—I don’t look like Dad, don’t look like Pearl—and I haven’t been here this week, and, okay, I didn’t pay for anything. But still.
“Okay. Thanks so much.”
He smiles, and it’s genuine, and then he’s gone, the door clicking shut behind him.
I turn and look around the room. “Huh.”
It’s a closet. A very nice closet—the bed alone is probably worth more than everything inside the last two rooms I slept in combined—but it’s still the size of a large closet. Actually, Pearl’s walk-in closet at Dad’s house is bigger than this. I glance back at the door, half expecting the worker to reappear and tell me there’s been a mistake, that my actual room is down the hall. Whatever. It’s clean and smells fresh, and I don’t need more than that.
I drop my bag on the small table next to the bed and kick off my shoes, then unzip my backpack and dump everything onto it. I don’t need to look around to see that there’s no wardrobe or drawers. I need my dress hung before tonight, but there are no hangers, so I shuffle past the narrow space between the bed and the wall, then take it into the bathroom and drape it over the towel rack.
The en suite is barely big enough to turn around in—closet door, single stall, toilet wedged in beside it. I realize when I get in there that the counter won’t fit my toiletries, so I leave the bag in the sink.
After showering, I wring my hair out and twist it into sections to keep the waves from frizzing. I dab more arnica blend on my forehead. The bruise has faded to a dull yellow, but the cut is still too raw and red to cover with makeup. At least it’s closed enough not to need a band-aid.
I’ve just stepped out of the bathroom, towel still in my hand, when there’s a knock at the door. Logan. He came. I grin and wrap the towel back around myself instead of getting dressed.
But when I open the door, my smile falls.
“Why aren’t you dressed?” Pearl snaps. She shoulders past me into the room, tosses a fabric garment bag on my bed, and looks around with her nose turned up like she smells something bad.
“No, please, come in.”
“Here’s the bridesmaid dress. Hopefully, you brought something tasteful for the rehearsal dinner tonight.” She flicks her eyes down my body, finding me lacking. I’m used to this.
She’s in a fitted white pencil dress, hair falling in a perfect sheet down her back, not a single strand out of place. She looks elegant and expensive. I can’t even say she looks veneered. It’s her personality that’s fake. Physically, she’s lovely. Thin and delicate in a way that makes people feel protective, want to take care of her.
“What time is dinner? I lost my phone in the crash, so I haven’t been able to check the itinerary.”
She studies my face, clinically picking me apart. “Seven. In the restaurant. Daddy expects you there.”
“I will be. Obviously,” I gesture about the room, as if to say, I’m here, I made it.
“Forgive me for not trusting you’ll make it, since you blew off everything else to do with this wedding.”
“I didn’t blow anything off—”
“The engagement party.”
“Which you didn’t invite me to, remember?”
“Oh, so it’s my fault you didn’t show up? Dad was heartbroken. If you were actually part of this family, you’d have known about it.”
“Pearl, when you throw a party, you tell people. The date. The address. Basic things. Aren’t you running an event planning business?”
“You could have called and asked about the date.”
“I didn’t know there was anything to call about—” I swallow it down. I already had this exact fight with my father. Jo and Dad had been together for about a year, but once they got engaged, the wedding planning moved fast. But after my falling out with Dad, I stopped calling as much. I figured I’d hear from someone when there was something to hear. I didn’t. Dad calledme from the party—while it was happening—to ask where I was. I’d been on the couch under a blanket with Easton and his most recent fling, laughing at a horror movie, me in sweatpants with chocolate on my shirt. The party was almost over, Dad said. He just wanted to know why I hadn’t come.
“That bruise,” Pearl says, stepping closer and tilting her head, “is hideous. You’ll need to cover it for the pictures.”
“I don’t have any makeup that would cover this. And the cut is still too raw to put anything on it—”
