Campbell
My throat’s thick as I polish off my Shirley Temple. Stanford and January have amped up how much they hang all over each other. Her hand is either on his back or his thigh. Twice, she’s brushed it higher to stroke over his groin. Their loud kisses turn my stomach. It’s not the first time I wish I had the filthiest of Dirty Shirleys in front of me.
I don’t want Stanford back. I want the self-respect he robbed me of over the years, but that’s not happening until the wedding’s over.
“So what’s this again?” January’s smashed into Stanford’s side. “Strawberry?”
“Raspberry,” Durban says for the second time. “Vodka raspberry lemonade. We’ll have raspberries the day of to use for decoration.”
I got a mocktail version without the vodka. Bits of bright raspberry swirl inside, and a vibrant red tints the glass. “I’ve seen a recipe that uses raspberry vodka instead of muddled berries with simple syrup.”
January frowns at me like I shouldn’t be talking.
“We’re going to start infusions later this year,” Durban answers, moving over to stand in front of me. “Using fresh berries and syrup does double duty, so we can make a nonalcoholic version for guests.”
“It’ll change the flavor.” I hold the glass up to the light, admiring summertime in a drink. “And the look ofit.” Infused vodka might have the color, but it won’t have the rustic invitations of the crushed berries.
Interest lightens his eyes. “It won’t be as sweet, but that’s not what people come to the distillery for.”
Stanford tosses a smirk at me. “It’s not always about how pretty something looks.”
The old urge to shrink in on myself and think about how right he is because he’s the one who has his shit together hits me. I inhale, fighting off that inferior feeling. Stanford’s still the successful insurance broker with his own corner office, but I’m not that struggling event planner who barely got through college anymore. Yet Iamthe girl whose daddy had to create a job for her.
A muscle jumps in Durban’s jaw. “The cocktails have to look good no matter what’s inside.”
Durban and Stanford are going to get into a fistfight if they glare at each other any more. This whole event could slip through my fingers, and it would be even more humiliating than my last foray in the professional event planning world. Then there’s the way Durban seems to be defending me and the funny things it’s doing to my insides.
My heart rate climbs, and my lungs are tight. I need some space. “I have to take this.” I wave my silent phone. No one’s calling me. No one’s texting. “Excuse me.”
I put distance between me and my insufferable ex and his future bride, and the man who’s tying up my emotions. I can’t leave behind how it should be me sitting on that stool—albeit with a different groom—tasting cocktails, laughing and giggling, while I bury myself in the love of my life.
I duck into the storeroom across from thebathrooms beside the bar counter. I’ve been in the bathroom before, and there are two stalls. I don’t need January popping in, but she won’t snoop in the storeroom.
I flip on the light, fold my arms, and lean my back against the wall. This is supposed to be my wedding. I’m supposed to say “I do” on my family’s land, with the mountains as my witness. I should be the one telling my planner all the things I’ve ever dreamed of.
I’ve dreamed of my wedding my whole life. I’m that girl. The one who knew before she was in high school what dress she wanted, who’d stand up there with her, and exactly how it’d look. It was like I manifested Daddy building that pavilion.
Now, if I do ever get the wedding of my fantasies, it’ll be a recycled version of Stanford and January’s. I’ll stand in the pavilion, gaze at my groom, and remember what it was like when two people betrayed me in that very spot.
I push off the wall. Fuck the mocktails. There’s gotta be something in here I can drink. The whole room is full of bottles of whiskey, vodka, and gin, all from Foster House. A wall is dedicated to different glasses, but they’re all in boxes. Only a row of curved glasses that remind me of tulips isn’t contained. Next to them are a few open bottles. Perhaps just a sip.
“Whiskey,” I mutter. “Figures.”
“What do you have against whiskey?” Durban asks from behind me.
I bite back a yelp and spin around. He’s in the doorway, leaning against it. “What are you doing here?”
“Checking on you.”
I scowl at him. “You can quit doing that.” I wavetoward where the bar would be. “Don’t the happy couple need you to walk them through the tasting?”
“I served them a Tom Collins. We got a few minutes.”
“A Tom Collins?”
“Gin, maple syrup, lemon juice, and club soda. I made his extra tart, and he’s pretending not to notice.” He prowls across the room and upends a curved glass. “What’s your thing against whiskey?”
“It overpowers whatever it’s in.”
