“How? She won’t talk to me and has been avoiding me completely.”
“I have some ideas,” Chance said. “We can workshop them in a minute, but just to clarify your insane idea, the wedding is still on and you’ll be there, at the altar, possibly alone, hoping Anica shows up. And we’ll be there with you, looking equally ridiculous if she doesn’t.”
“Yup, that’s the plan,” I confirmed.
“I’m in,” Kris declared, raising his glass. “To Cal’s deranged romantic gesture slash potential public humiliation.”
“Thanks,’” I grinned, and clinked my glass against his.
“You know what this means, right?” Morgan asked, a slow grin spreading across his face. “Bachelor party.”
“I don’t think that’s necessary,” I said quickly. “Given the circumstances?—”
“Oh, it’s absolutely necessary,” Kris interrupted. “If you’re going through with this insane plan, you’re doing it properly. All the traditions. Including the one where we get you hammered the night before and make you question all your life choices.”
“I’m already questioning all my life choices,” I pointed out. “That’s how I ended up here.”
“Then we’ll help you question them with tequila,” Morgan declared.
“Fine,” I conceded. “Bachelor party. But nothing that will end up on social media or require bail money.”
“You take all the fun out of everything. Now, let’s talk about how to get your woman to her wedding.” Kris slapped my on the back with a wide grin.
CHAPTER 17
I’m Fine: The Musical
ANICA
“I’ve cataloged twenty-six different ways to commit murder with wedding supplies, and right now the clear winner is strangling someone with fishing line from a bustle repair kit,” I announced, viciously stapling a contract with enough force to puncture the desk beneath it. “It’s virtually untraceable, available in every emergency kit I own, and I could make it look like a tragic crafting accident.”
Mari looked up from her phone, where she’d been scrolling through Instagram wedding photos. “You sound like a deranged Martha Stewart. I’m into it.”
“No one’s even asked you about him today,” Devonna pointed out without looking up from her tablet.
“She did,” I pointed out, jabbing an accusatory finger at Mari. “This morning. While I was in the bathroom. You slid a note under the stall that said ‘Forgive him yet?’ with three heart emojis and a crude drawing of what I can only assume was meant to be his?—”
“It was a microphone,” Mari interjected innocently. “For karaoke. Which we should go do tonight, by the way. Nothinghelps process emotional trauma like screaming ‘I Will Survive’ while drunk on tequila.”
“That was not a microphone,” I muttered, attacking another stack of papers with my stapler. “Unless microphones now come with anatomically incorrect veins.”
“I’m an artist, not a doctor,” Mari shrugged. “And you’re avoiding the question, which means the answer is no, he hasn’t called, which means you’re still pretending you don’t check your phone every eight seconds hoping he has just so you can reject the call and cry some more.”
“I am not,” I insisted, my stapler creating a small crater in a wedding contract. “I made a professional decision to distance myself from a client who crossed boundaries. End of story.”
“Uh-huh,” Mari nodded, clearly unconvinced. “And that’s why you’ve been wearing the same cardigan for four days straight and I found you crying into a wedding cake sample yesterday.”
“I was not crying. I had an allergic reaction to the buttercream.”
“You’re not allergic to buttercream.”
“Maybe I developed a new allergy. People develop new allergies all the time. It’s very common.”
“Is it common to whisper ‘stupid abs’ while having these alleged allergic reactions?”
“I did not say ‘stupid abs,’” I hissed, my cheeks flaming. “I said ‘stupid labs’ because the bakery’s quality control is clearly subpar.”
“Ani, it’s okay to admit you’re hurt. It’s okay to admit you miss him.”
