Page 107 of Kiss Slay Replay

“I’m not panting,” I say, pulling away from him. Is my anxiety really that loud?

“You sound like a sprinter. Or an adult film star.”

“If only.” I drag my feet, and he gets a few paces ahead of me.

I turn back to the floral arches, and they’re moving. I see them moving. I’m watching it happen. Watching them step toward me. Follow me. They’re following me.

And then…they stop.

But the evidence is there. The arches are uneven, bases unaligned.

I’m about to call out for Evan when the wind blows hard, and the arches sway, and my credibility is swept into the long, devious shadow of ambiguity. He’ll blame the breeze. And how do I argue with that?

How do I explain that I think there’s something wrong with the flowers?

5

I’m suspicious of the flowers, and there are flowers fucking everywhere. It’s a wedding. There are multiple vases on every table, vines wrapped around the ceiling beams, arrangements in the corners. Steph’s still got her bouquet. I can smell them over the food, over dinner. I pick at my lukewarm pesto orecchiette and herb-crusted salmon.

“Are you not hungry?” Cassie asks me. “You should eat if you plan on drinking.”

“Yeah,” I say. “Is there bread down that way?”

She passes me a loaf on a wooden tray. I take a slice, smear it with butter. “Thank you.”

“I’m not cleaning up anyone’s puke this weekend. It’s my time off.”

“That’s fair.”

“Thanks for that,” Evan says. “I love hearing the word ‘puke’ while eating dinner.”

“There were worse things I could have said. Being a parent, you discover all sorts of horrific shit about the human body. Babies are so gross. No one ever tells you that.”

“I wonder why,” Evan says.

Wyatt changes the subject to a medical scam podcast he’s been listening to.

I nibble on bread, watch the flowers, watch as the petals twitch, as the roses appear to grow, doubling in size over the course of dinner.

I’m afraid that if I step out for a second, that’s when it’ll happen. That’s when the universe will prove to me that it’s not enough to take it on the chin with a shrug and a smile. When it will enforce that, of-fucking-course, I need to actually do something if I want out of the loop. Something beyond an attitude adjustment.

As much as I fear leaving the reception, I really don’t want to sit through Luke’s toast again. Love isn’t for the faint of heart. It takes bravery. You know what isn’t for the faint of heart? You know what takes bravery? What I’m dealing with.

I excuse myself and go to the bathroom.

I stand in front of the mirror studying my reflection. The bags under my eyes are so big they should qualify as dependents on my taxes. I smooth my hair, go into my bag for some lipstick.

There’s a flush, and I hold my breath.

One of the stall doors opens.

It’s Tanya. She looks up, and our eyes catch in the mirror, and it’s like she’s just seen a ghost.

“Hi,” I say.

“Hi…” She cautiously approaches the sink.

“I’m…I’m…” I want to reassure her that I’m not mean or psychotic, but I’m pretty sure I am in fact both of those things. “It’s nice to meet you.”