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Cole rises from the couch like he’s been listening for my footsteps. Which means he could probably hear my pep talk.
“Were you eavesdropping?” I ask with narrowed eyes.
He stares back blankly for two blinks before saying, “Nope. Didn’t hear a thing.” Then, being the charming distracter that he is, he says, “You look beautiful.”
“Thank you. It has pockets,” I inform him, doing the cursory showcase of the silky, silvery gray wrap dress’s pockets by slipping my hands into them and holding the skirt out wide. The slit up the front pulls apart, flashing my thighs, and Cole’s eyes go dark as he zeroes in on my skin.
“Whoops! Guess I shouldn’t do that tonight,” I say brightly, but I’m not ashamed at all. Seeing his eyes like that is better than any amount of self-pep talk in a mirror.
He mumbles something under his breath, but he’s too far away for me to hear it clearly. It kinda sounds like, “Unless you want to kill me, get someone else killed, or get fucked in the bathroom.”
“What?” I ask, sure I’m wrong.
“Nothing,” he answers. “You look beautiful. The color matches your eyes.”
Nodding, I tell him, “That’s why I got it. Unexpected bonus points that it hides what’s left of my rash.”
My poison ivy is clearing up nicely thanks to Cole’s home remedies. It still itches some, but it doesn’t look too bad at least, and my dress covers up all of my afflicted areas. I think I look sexy in it too, as it features a dramatic low V-neck but covers everything else with long, puffy sleeves, darts along the bodice and full back, and a hemline that swings shy of my ankles.
“You look nice too. I like your suit, and we sorta match.” I hold my sleeve up to the gray pinstripe on his black suit.
Cole’s ignoring last night too, falling right back into his role with ease, taking my hand, wrapping my arm over his like he’s escorting me somewhere fancy, and walking me to the front door. “Ready?”
I take a deep breath. “Yeah, I am. Let’s do this.”
“That’s my badass,” he quips. Shocked, my eyes jump to his, and I find that he’s sporting one of those tiny half-smiles of his. He totally heard my pep talk.
The wedding is stunning, of course.
Max shuffles around nervously but stands at the front of the room and recites his vows to Paisley without a stutter. Paisley’s dress is indeed white and fits her like a lacy second skin from the sweetheart neckline to her knees before fluffing out in tiny, pleated ruffles. Her rhinestone belt matches the clip in her hair, and her veil doesn’t even get stuck on her bouquet. It’s like Lady Luck—that bitch!—is on her side.
I secretly wish Paisley tripped down the aisle, or Max objected to his own wedding, or they lost the rings. Something. Anything that would maybe be a funny story ten years down the line but today would leave Paisley mortified.
None of those things happen. Neither does anything else exciting. It’s a boring, picture-perfect ceremony, straight out of a bridal magazine. Martha Stewart herself would approve.
“The things at the bottom of her dress look like the lacy circles Grandma Beth had on the living room tables when I was a kid,” Cole whispers at one point.
I press my lips together, trying not to laugh. “Doilies?” I clarify, and he nods with a self-satisfied smirk. I glance at Paisley’s dress again, squinting slightly. I can see it. But it’s probably difficult to make white lace not look doily-ish, I think. Then again, I’ve never looked at wedding dresses, so what do I know?
The reception looks like a magazine shoot too, with crystal vases filled with pale blue flowers in the middle of each table, a shiny, white-lacquered dance floor with Paisley and Max’s monogram, and lights that are changing with the music the DJ is pumping into the space. Right now, it’s classics, giving the room a formal ambiance, but given his setup, I bet we can expect some dance hits later.
As we enter, Mom is the first to beeline straight toward us. “Janey, do not embarrass me tonight.” It’s an order and an admonishment for last night all rolled up in one, and though it’s vaguely threatening, she says it with a smile like she’s lovingly greeting me. That part’s just for show.
Before I can respond, she hustles away to talk to other, more important, people.
I don’t react. I purposefully let her worries wash off my back. She doesn’t control me. Her control over me stopped when I turned eighteen and left home. Anything past that is me giving her power she doesn’t deserve, I remind myself.
Cole leans in, his breath hot over my ear as he whispers, “I don’t like your mom. Or any of these people.”
