Five months later, under the willow tree, I had my first kiss.
And Christian got his first suspension.
TEN
ADELAIDE
Panic viciously swattedagainst all modes of tranquillity, while the room quickly flooded with reporters.
The room was a rented-out banquet hall. Carpeted floors pasted above concrete ground. Chandeliers adorned the ceilings. Architecture wasn’t something I knew much about, but Christopher Wren would be proud of each distinct quality of the carved pillars.
Christian outdid himself for absolutely no reason.
Each journalist talked amongst themselves. Some laughing, others setting their cameras up.
The only thing that was truly laughing was my anxiety. At me.
When Osama emailed me the first plan of action, my heart sank in my chest. Because not even four hours after signing the contract, I received a thorough update.
Locking and unlocking my phone with distraught fingers, there were Fifteen minutes to nine.Fifteenminutesuntil I told the world I’d be marrying my ex-boyfriend. Not that they’d know that, but it was baffling, nonetheless.
A week ago, I was scouring the internet for oversized period pads. Odd, really, how life truly hated me and threw a stronger cramp in my direction.
There were too many people in the room. When Osama said a press conference for the public, I thought—you know, maybe five reporters—notfifty.
Earlier, I thought I chose a good outfit. A yellow-mid skirt with a matching cropped blazer and white top beneath it. But now, looking down at it, I looked like a broken umbrella with pink, diamond studded heels. Itscreameddumb blonde.
Despite the constant, disbelieving fear of people judging and always watching me, I felt somewhat okay wearing over-the-top outfits. Dresses might be extravagant and the colour yellow might be too bright, but in more ways than one—despite wanting to change into another outfit and dig myself a hole todiein—it felt like armour.
Walking a safe distance from the others, I was plucking out my thoughts, when I heard an agitated voice.
“What do youmeanyou’re not here yet?”
Osama’s hair tightly bound in a low ponytail and his body that was decorated with informal clothes stiffened.
From the intensity of his response, the only acceptable assumption was my soon-to-be husband.
A thunderous storm swooped over my entirety.
One second, I was watching my surroundings while thinking, but the next all of those coherent moments of consciousness got sucked into a well in my mind, where theyechoed for help across the falciform structure. Desperate hands roamed for the paper.The script.
If Christian didn’t make it in time, I had to prepare.
Or I’d embarrass myself.
Muggy hands stretched the ink from corner to corner, colliding with each separate word. This couldn’t be happening to me right now.
Good morning, everyone, I’d like to begin by…
Begin bywhat?
What was the next line?
Usually, I had more than one copy on me. Last night I slept thinking of Christian and forgot.I never forget to write multiple. Now it was me, alone, for a press conference the whole world would be watching, and I didn’t know what to say. Didn’t knowhowto say it.
Whiney hands fussed with my hair, unclipping the clip, putting it back in an updo. Osama was no longer where he was, where did he go? Desperately, I looked around for someone. Anyone.
Where was everyone?
