Page 1 of Broken Vows

1 Lexie

The golden magenta morning sunlight splinters through my blinds and I blink against the light. Ugh. It’s too bright. I place the pillow cradled in my arms over my eyes, then nestle under the warm covers.

Wait! Why is it bright? I bolt up in bed so quickly my head rushes with a nauseating whoosh and grab my cell phone—my dead cell phone—to check the time. “No. No, no, no…” My heartbeat thunders in my chest. This can’t be happening. Please for the love of Christ, tell me this didn’t happen.

It’s January in New York City. I’m due at work at eight a.m., my subway ride is forty-five minutes long and, ever since fall ended, I’ve been getting up in what feels like the deadass of night, to arrive at work on time. I tear myself from the bed, scamper across my studio apartment to look at the stove and shit. It’s true. My worst fear. The stove clock flashes 6:32 a.m. An hour after I should have gotten up.

“Oh God, oh God…” I dash to plug my cell into a different outlet, add the landlord to my internal hit list because he promised these outlets were fixed, and race into the shower.

I hate this apartment I moved into a few months ago, with its shoddy electrical work, barely functioning stove, and outlets that trip more often than a drunk sorority girl in heels. But it’s all I can afford and an hour closer to work than my other apartment. But why, for the love of God, did this have to happen today? The day that my traditionally cool, calm, and collected manager, Sydney, owner of a boutique wedding-planning agency, has been frantically obsessing over for weeks. In my past life, I clearly shattered one too many mirrors, burned someone at the stake or forgot to toss salt over my shoulder because I swear bad luck trails me like a toxic fog.

The shower is the quickest of my life and I forgo beachy waves for putting my hair in what I hope looks like a sharp, professional ponytail and not what it actually is—that I overslept like an amateur for what might be the most important client meeting we’ve ever had.

I stuff my heels into my backpack and shove on my sneakers to run the four blocks to the subway station. Even though I’m bracing against the bitter wind and blinking fat snowflakes from my eyelashes, by the time I sit down, I’m fanning my sweaty face and double checking that I brought extra deodorant. I flip my phone to selfie mode to finish my makeup and confirm that I’m at least somewhat presentable for this mystery couple.

My white shirt is clean and crisp and makes my red hair pop. More than one person has complimented the way white brings out my green eyes and dusting of freckles. This shirt is the best one in my small business-wear arsenal, and the one that says, “I am more than an assistant planner.” Which is true. Five years after clawing and begging to get hired—which is not easy to do in this city with limited education and zero resources—I’ve busted my ass to prove my worth at Shades of White. I’m ready for Sydney to stop looking at me like the inexperienced assistant coordinator she hired and start seeing me as a lead. And today, if all goes well, I’ll solidify the next step in my career. You know, if I weren’t stumbling into the office forty-five minutes late.

Breathe.

As the train rumbles on the tracks, I tap my thumbs against the phone to text my co-worker Justin.

Lexie: Alarm didn’t go off. On my way. Please cover for me.

Justin: Already did. I told Sydney you weren’t feeling good and went to the main lobby bathroom.

Lexie: I seriously love you.

Justin: Brace yourself. She just color-coded the folders on my desk. FFS.

Lexie: Jesus, her anal retentiveness is sky high lately.

Justin: Truth.

By the time I reach the building lobby, I’m a certifiable sweaty catastrophe. I shrug off my jacket, swap my sneakers for heels, and shoot Justin a message that I’m heading up.

Ding. I tiptoe out the elevator doors, peek around the corner through the glass wall, past the tall pale oak reception desk with our Shades of White logo written in script and thank the wedding planner gods that Sydney added a twelve-tiered-cake-sized flower bouquet in the center that partially blocks the hall view. I grit my teeth at our twin receptionists, Amanda and Megan, who both give me knowing nods.

My heart is racing so fast that I’m convinced it’s going to jump from my chest and splatter on the floor as I pivot, duck behind some office greenery, dart across our bastardly, unforgiving open-plan floor, and practically swan-dive into my chair. True to his word—did I mention I love this guy?—Justin winks at me from the other side of the room as he wraps Sydney in conversation.

Justin oozes charm without even trying. Perfectly coifed blond hair. Bright baby blues. A great ass—although I swear I only observe from afar. He’s even achieved the impossible by coaxing a smile out of Sydney, who’s been one big ball of stress lately.

Still trying to catch my breath, I open my laptop and start reading through emails when Sydney’s signature heavy heel clacking against the hardwood floors grabs my attention. Her black glasses slip down her nose as she frowns and storms my way. Crap. Here it comes. “You look like shit. Please don’t tell me you have the flu.”

And good morning to you, Sunshine.

I grab a notebook and fan my face. “Nope, no flu.” No, I just woke up, plowed through a group of businessmen running down the street, slipped on snow on the sidewalk, stubbed my toe on a garbage can and probably caught tetanus while barefoot in our lobby. But I’m great. “I’ll be fine. I must’ve eaten something bad last night.”

“Good, because we have no room for errors, Lexie. None.” She purses her ruby red lips, and swipes a hand down her glass-like, straightened-within-an-inch-of-its-life, blonde hair. “Because this new project is going to be incredible.”

A squeal squeaks through her slim, pale throat and she gives me a pat on the hand.

“You should run back to the bathroom and fix all this, though,” she says, her clunky gold bracelets jangling as she waves at my face. “We don’t want these clients to walk away before they even sit down.”

She gives me a sly grin and a squeeze on my shoulder. I swear if anyone else said this, they’d get an elbow to the jaw. But Sydney gets a lifetime pass.

Sydney came into my life at a time when everything was falling to pieces. After getting unexpectedly expelled from my university in Boston, I was lost, depressed, and desperate for a fresh start. Restarting my life wasn’t going to be easy, but I refused to give up. My mom and I needed—deserved—a better life. So, I hustled my way into a catering gig that needed immediate help. And that’s how I met Sydney.

She was the wedding coordinator at an event I was working. A consummate professional while I, on the other hand, was a walking disaster. My day had already gotten off to a bad start after trekking out of city limits for the wedding. But during the reception, a groomsman got handsy with me. I’d panicked, stumbled, and crashed into another waiter carrying a tray of champagne flutes. My manager’s face turned a shade of red I didn’t know existed, and right as he opened his mouth to surely fire me, Sydney swept in like a knight in shining designer shoes. With a few smooth words, my manager let me off the hook. She patted my arm, gave me an encouraging smile, and told me to get back out there.