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If Bexley is that upset, then it will only make it worse when I tell Grayson. Even though he’s one of my best friends, someone I could always count on, he’s going to take one look at his girl and push me aside.
The thought makes me ill, far worse than the queasiness of my nerves the other night.
The other morning. Fiona and I have been married for twenty-five hours.
But my dread of confronting Grayson pales in my resolve to make this better for Fiona. It’s my fault; I got her into this, and I’m going to fix it.
“Fiona,” I murmur. “It’s okay. It’s going to be okay.”
“How?” Fiona wails. “Bexley hates me. I ruined everything for her.”
“You didn’t,” I promise, even though I’m so far out of my element it’s scary. I don’t fix things, I make them worse. I create problems, I don’t solve them.
It’s time to start, but the only thing I can think of to help will not go over well with Fiona. Sex isn’t going to help here.
Think, man. “Okay, baby, let’s get some clothes on,” I instruct. It must sound just as odd to Fiona as to myself because she looks up with a shaky laugh. “I know, I know.” I try to sound reassuring. “Now’s not the time.”
“What do I do?” she whispers. I have a feeling Fiona doesn’t ask that question very often.
“We’re going across the hall to talk to them,” I tell her, with a last squeeze of her shoulder.
“She doesn’t want to talk to me,” Fiona wails, burrowing back into her palms. “You saw her! She’s so upset. I knew this would happen. What did I do?”
I pry her hands away from her face, now tear-streaked with a trembling chin. “You did something that made you happy. Bexley loves you, so she’ll understand. Get dressed, and let’s go talk to her.”
“She’s not going to talk to you.”
“You got that right.” I wonder if I should hug Fiona, or keep my distance. “I’m going to talk to Grayson.” I hug her, because that’s what I need.
Fiona dresses in record time since all she has to do is pull on a dress over her underwear, but I make her wait for me as I hunt for my jeans. I find them under the bed as Fiona brushes her teeth.
“I don’t know what to say to her,” she tells me through a mouth of foam. I suspect if she wasn’t brushing them, her teeth would be chattering.
“We didn’t do anything wrong,” I remind her. “I love you, Fee, and you love me. Right?” I hold my breath as Fiona spits into the sink. It seems like forever before she meets my gaze.
I brace for remorse and regret, but her eyes are soft. “I love you.”
Relief swells like a cheer. “And I love you. This will all work out. It has to.”
“It doesn’t have to,” Fiona says sadly. “Bexley will never talk to me again.”
“I don’t think you’re giving her enough credit.” I button my shirt from last night, wishing I’d thought to bring a change of clothes last night.
Last night, when I was in such a hurry to be with Fiona.
I reach for her hand. “Come on. She’s your best friend.”It’s me she’ll never forgive.
When I open the door to Fiona’s room, we find Biba waiting in the sitting area, curled up on the couch with a book in hand. “David went over to Bexley’s room,” she informs us. “I’m not sure if it’s a good idea to go over there.”
“Why aren’t you there?”
“Not part of the inner circle,” she says, turning back to her book.
“Bexley says there are pictures?” This time, Biba tucks in her bookmark before silently handing over her phone.
Onscreen the blurry images are slow to come into focus. But it’s me; me kissing Fiona as we leave the chapel.
“Elvis must have taken these,” I tell Fiona scornfully as I hand Biba her phone back.
