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That thick corded neck leading to his wide jaw. I’m sure he must’ve shaved this morning, but there’s just the barest hint of stubble there. His beard must come in darker than the hair on his head to make such a shadow. Come to think of it, every time I’ve seen him, he always has that shadow on his face. A little shudder works its way down my body at the thought. It just screams such masculinity and…virility.
My cheeks heat at the thought and all sorts of flashing images that accompany it. His broad chest and the dusting of hair that no doubt coats it. I can’t help imagining him crouched over a woman, lowering his body over her. Thrusting—
I jerk my eyes away from Mr. Winters. Only for them to snag on the man standing right beside him.
Dominick.
Maybe my eyes are caught because he’s looking right at me. He’s just blatantly out and out staring.
The easy-going smile he had in the lobby of the church is gone. There’s a different quality or…intensity, if that’s the right word, to the way his lips curl up as he watches me watch him. His eyes drop down ever so slightly.
Wait, is he—
He so is. He’s ogling my cleavage. I mean, there’s not a lot of it with this dress. Or any dress, to be honest. I was flat as a board forever and only just in the last couple years finally developed small little B-cup breasts. But I was aware that the gown was for my mother’s wedding, so I didn’t bother wearing the push-up bra I often wear to enhance my small assets.
But Dominick just stares at my dipping neckline like it can reveal all the mysteries of the universe. Even though he’s about to be my stepbrother for god’s sake.
Like you weren’t just eyeing your stepfather like a hungry ham shank?
Dominick’s mouth curls up even higher.
Oh my God, what is going on? A month ago, I was doing so good at the being-a-normal-girl thing and not getting sucked into Mom’s vortex of crazy. I jerk my gaze away from both Dominick and his father and stare at the floor. There. That’s nice and safe.
I examine the fascinating world of carpet fibers for the rest of the wedding ceremony. And I do not, do not listen to my mother’s cringeworthy ooey gooey vows that she wrote herself about how Mr. Winters is her true, true soulmate and she can’t live without him.
Is that as opposed to Henry, her last husband who was only her true soulmate—with just a single ‘true,’ aka, not her real as in for realsies for realsies soul mate. In fact, I bet if I play back the video of that ceremony that’s on the shelf somewhere, these vows Mom supposedly wrote for today will sound strikingly similar to the ones she did for that wedding. And all of it she probably copied from some wedding ceremony she saw after googling vows online.
My mom does the appearance of sincerity so well.
Gah, I do not need all of this negativity in my brain or my life. Mom is a fake. I know this. Me stewing in her hypocrisy and grossness does nothing but make me feel gross and steeped in bad juju.
But there was no way I could skip the wedding. My participation was required by all involved. I get to live rent free in Boston.
So stop with the bitching, Sarah.
I just have to whisper that to myself about fifty-three more times and voila, the ceremony’s over. Look at that. The power of positive thinking.
Glass half full. That’s totally going to be my outlook from now on. And if all else fails, maybe next semester I’ll be able to afford the dorms?
Three hours later, my teeth are aching from all the forced smiling, my head is spinning, my feet are killing me in these heels, and repeating my internal mantra about glass half full is losing its effect.
Worst of all?
Somebody spiked the punch.
At a wedding.
How juvenile is that?
I specifically talked to the caterer about having non-alcoholic punch for the, I don’t know, eight people at this wedding of three hundred who were interested in having a nice beverage not chock-full of vodka or Mom’s second best friend, Jack Daniels.
“Embrace the things you cannot control,” I whisper, grabbing onto the wall. Because inspirational sayings always help when you’re seeing double and your stomach feels like it’s about to leap into your throat, right?
“Hey sis,” a voice says and then Mr. Winters is suddenly in front of me. I frown. He looks wrong.
I squint. “Your face isn’t right. Too smooth.” I reach up and touch his head. “And your hair’s long.”
He laughs. “It’s Dominick, not Paul.”
“Paul?”
“Whoa.” He pulls back from me. “Somebody has been sampling the punch. Hello vodka.”
“No!” I grab his arm in alarm. “I don’t drink.” I shake my head vehemently. “Never. It’s evil. Evil stuff. Never. Never ever ever.”
