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My heart rate rockets higher with the memory. It isn’t a recollection I linger on very often. “In the moment, it was terrifying. Even the spine-chilling drive home.” An unbidden shiver spills down my back, quickly followed by a well-earned serenity. “But the weird thing is, I didn’t feel victimized afterward. I feltempowered.” I glance at Ty, remembering how Wells said he handles erasing victims of abuse. “I know how lucky I was, and I’m not saying—”
“Hey,” Ty says, squeezing my hand, “you were sharing your own experience. No need to apologize or make excuses for how you handled it or felt about it. You did perfect.”
“Thanks.” I smile sheepishly, vulnerability rolling off me in waves. “Anyway, before that, I only had a fling in high school with innocent messing around, and afterward, I was more certain than I’d ever been that sex wasn’t happening unless the chemistry wasoff the chartsand I felt safe.”
“Good for you. I wish I had waited.” She points a finger at Ty, her eyes downright scary. “You never heard this. Understood?”
“Yes, ma’am.” He throws his hands up in surrender, but there’s a slight stiffness to his shoulders, screaming that he’s uncomfortable. “Not a word.”
“Good.” She murmurs some obvious apprehension through an elongated exhale. “I did once, a year ago. It wasn’t anything to brag about; it was with a guy I hardly knew, all because I was pissed at my brothers, who I also credit with all my piercings. I get one every time they dish out a new rule. I’m twenty-one, for Christ’s sake.”
“And see, I like you more by the minute too.” Tipping my nearly empty lemon drop martini toward her, I add, “The art of quiet rebellion. But I am sorry you didn’t have a better first experience.”
She flaps her hand, but the regret is visible in her eyes. “It wasn’t great, but if at first you don’t succeed …”
We clink our depleted drinks while I singsong, “Try, try again.”
Ty groans, finishing off his rum and Coke as well. “The two of you are trouble together.”
“Bridesmaid,” I bark, and he chuckles.
“Fine.” He cocks an eyebrow. “You need honeymoon advice, Freckles?”
“Oh, Jesus.No,” I rush out.
I need Celeste, who treats sex as an extracurricular activity. She’s shared plenty over the years. Although it’s entirely possible Wells won’t even be interested, which would leave me feeling foolish and rejected. As weird as all of this is and despite the fact that I waited and there’s a hunch that something isoff, I feel both safe and aroused by him. A first. So, I don’t think I need advice.
I need a drink. “Let’s do shots and pretend that didn’t happen.”
“That’s a plan I can get behind,” Ty says, calling the waiter over.
When the shots arrive, we lift them up, and Rena toasts, “To being bridesmaids for one badass gothic princess.”
In fifteen minutes, I’ll be Mrs. Ivanna Wells. The royal treatment at the spa today was amazing but did little to calm my nerves. Partly because this step feels final, five years or not.
Marriage isbinding.
And partly because I think the marriage is merely a formality. Certificate or no certificate, I know too much. I’m already bound to Wells.
But my father raised me to be a survivor. To face challenges head-on. To be a force.
There’s nothing in this life that can break me. I won’t let it.
Not wanting anyone other than my father to walk me down the aisle, I asked Ty to inform Wells that I’d meet him out there. One of the Noire brothers will be conducting the ceremony for us, which will be short, since in our case, it’s only a hoop to jump through. Then, we’ll be on to the party.
I also asked for a few minutes to see the courtyard, alone—withall entrances guarded,of course. Rena told me it was decorated, and I didn’t want to risk having any type of emotion in front of others, whether it be joy, sadness, or disappointment, because I’m not quite sure what I’m feeling at this point.
Grazing my black-tipped, French-manicured nails over my gown, I take a deep breath on my solo walk to the courtyard but lose it the second I step outside.
Yellow-tinged book pages are strung everywhere by bright green vines with various shades of pink roses across the brick of the building. The whole garden area is aglow with hanging candles and tiny off-white lights, casting the whole space in an intimate honey hue. On a round table, draped in white cloth, is the cake—not a traditional wedding cake, a stacked-book cake with an icing ribbon and classic titles on the spines. A huge white fireplace looms in the center, trimmed with candles, vines, and quotes from so many famous authors. And in the middle of the mantel, there’s a red rose, encased in glass.
Beauty and the Beast.
Tears prick my eyes. Dangerous tears.
Tears full of hope.
I refuse to allow them to brim, let alone fall.
