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“You’re tired,” he murmurs in a soft voice, stroking my hair and ignoring my ramblings.
“I’m not,” I reply, even as a treacherous yawn escapes my lips.
Archie’s chest is moving in a rhythmic, soothing motion underneath me, and his hand is working magic on my scalp. Gradually, my eyelids begin to droop, and I close them just for a second… I only need to rest for a moment, and then we… I never finish that thought as sleep takes me over.
20
SUMMER
The next morning, I wake up with the shrill sound of the room telephone piercing my eardrums. I roll over and scramble to grab the receiver.
“Hello?”
“Good morning, Miss Knowles,” a polite female voice says. “This is your wake-up call.”
“I didn’t set up a wake-up call.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry, Miss Knowles. Let me check our records.” After a brief pause, the woman talks again. “It shows here your sister requested the call.”
“Okay, thank you.”
“She’s also asked us to remind you that you’re expected in the bridal suite in an hour for hair and makeup.”
“Thank you.” I slam the receiver down and collapse back on the pillow.
I’m alone in bed. Archie must’ve snuck out after he put me to sleep. A small pounding picks up in my chest as I think about what a fool I made of myself last night. But the emotional cringe has nothing on the pounding in my skull.
Damn. A headache is splitting my head in two. My eyeballs feel as heavy as lead in their sockets. And a queasiness infests my stomach. The famous oath every hungover person swears pops into mind:I’m never going to drink again.
Of all the days I could get myself into this situation I chose today, the day of the ceremony. When I can’t sneak away and hide in a hole. No, I have to stand up at the altar, carry out all my bridesmaid duties, and do it all with a smile on my face.
But for Winter, I can do it. If the months since The Mistake have taught me anything, it’s how to function like a normal, semi-happy human being while dying on the inside. So, let’s move into hangover survival mode.
First, I open my suitcase to fish out my eye cooling mask and stick it in the minuscule freezing compartment of the minibar.
Next, I survey the drink offerings. I was aiming for water, but I whoop in delight when I see the fridge is supplied with two Gatorades. I guess that, being in Napa, hangovers come with the territory and the hotel has smartly stashed its minibars with electrolyte-rich drinks. I grab both bottles and close the minibar. The choice is between Lemon-Lime and Strawberry. I open the Lemon-Lime, draining all twelve fluid ounces in a few long gulps. I also pop a Tylenol.
The Strawberry I carry with me to the bathroom. I take a quick shower but still apply a generous dose of conditioner to my hair. The blowout and styling will be handled by a professional, but I can’t show up with a tangled mess for the hairstylist to sort. Wrapped in a towel, I open and finish the second bottle of Gatorade. Already I’m less queasy, and even if the electrolytes urban legend is bullshit, drinking so many liquids will surely drain the toxins from my body.
I need one last restoration elixir. I walk back to the kitchenette, leaving wet footprints on the floor, and make coffee. For breakfast, I eat a packet of chocolate chip cookies. No way I’m showing my face downstairs before I absolutely have to.
With caffeine and food in my system, I feel better. I check the time on my phone. I still have half an hour before I have to be in the bridal suite, so I set an alarm for twenty-five minutes and go lie on the bed with my now-cool gel mask over my eyes. I let my towel-wrapped head sink into the pillow while the gel massage beads inside the mask work their magic.
By the time the timer goes off, I’ve fallen asleep again. But it’s fine; even this brief nap has done miracles to clear my head. When I walk out of my room, carrying my bridesmaid dress and shoes over my shoulder, I’m in decent, presentable shape, if not at 100 per cent yet.
My sister doesn’t seem as proud of my appearance. Winter barely lets me take three steps into the bridal suite before she greets me with the sweetest passive-aggressive smile. “Slept well?”
“Like a baby,” I reply, equally catty but polite. “You?”
“Great.” She winces and looks away, but she might’ve shown me her tongue for how mature this conversation has been.
I hang my dress on a hook by the door and take in the room. The walls are covered in a rose and cream floral wallpaper, and the furniture—two armchairs, a couch, and a changing screen—is all in the same print as the walls.
A bit matchy-matchy.
The only break from the blossomy overload is the far end wall, where the wallpaper is covered by three large head-to-torso mirrors, each dotted with lights overhead, like in a theater dressing room. One of them frames the reflection of my irritated sister.
Winter is boiling to say something else, but she’s thwarted by the hairstylist and makeup artist, who get up from the couch and start to divide and conquer. The bride should be the first to have her hair done and the last to put makeup on. The pecking order is bride, maid of honor, simple bridesmaid—aka me—and then the mother of the bride.
