“Congratulations,Stepmom,” I say, emphasizingstepmomto be inclusive. I mean, she does appear to be around the same age as my dad, so the title checks out. I internally eyeroll. My inner monologue has the snark of a bratty teenager. There’s no need to cause her any grief. I still don’t think she’ll be here by Christmas. Being in love never helped my dad stay faithful before.
Tears well up in her eyes. She laughs at herself and dabs her eyes, which is the maid of honor’s cue to swoop in and start patting her face with a tissue. That’s my cue to bounce.
Xander and I were ushered to the front to sit with the family. By the time the seats were filled, my mom was a few rows back and it was Xander and me up front. The only daughter and her date. We sat through the whole ceremony, side by side, touching, my body settling into his. It was more comfort than chemistry, which I’m still trying to wrap my head around. How can I want to rip his clothes off one moment and need deep comfort the next?
There’s nothing in Mom’s book about that.
When they were about to say, “I do,” I bit down on my lip to stop myself from laughing at the absurdity of it all. That’s when Xander leaned in and whispered into the shell of my ear, “Do I need to distract you?” His breath felt like he was peppering kisses from my ear all the way to my lips. That shut me up enough to get me through to the official declaration of husband and wife.You may now kiss the bride. Barf.
Now Keeley’s eyes are leaking and her maid of honor has executed an evacuation order to the bridal suite for a touch up with the makeup artist. I look out over the crowd and see Mom.
Holding hands with a man. Young. Polished. Smile rehearsed. He looks like she handpicked him from a catalog.
I watch as she touches his collar. She’s acting like she’s on a date. What the fuck is the bestselling author of a book that’sessentially a legal injunction against dating doing parading a plus-one at a wedding? That deserves a no-holds-barred eye roll.
“Thirsty?” I say to Xander, who’s watching me like a hawk.
“Parched,” he says.
We grab two more margaritas—what number is that?—and raise our glasses. “Cheers,” I say.
Xander cheers me back and then looks serious. “You okay?” he asks. “With this whole thing?”
“The ceremony? A bit excessive. The vows? Cliché,” I say through a laugh. But Xander doesn’t join in. He just watches me. “Oh, and the declarations about loving each other through sickness and health? Bullshit.”
“You still think he’ll cheat?” he asks. Again. Like watching this overly produced performance has changed my mind. No, I do not believe in a thing called love now that Dad’s remarried. I see a pattern.
“I know he will,” I say, determined.
“I disagree,” he says, catching me by surprise. The guy who offered to distract me during said ceremony has opinions.
I study him. He means it.
“How can you know after watching a staged production?” I say, like we’ve just been watching an Andrew Lloyd Webber number.
“I felt it,” he says.
“Felt what?”
“The love. It’s real,” he says.
“Okay,” I say, not convinced.
I pause, deciding whether I’m going to argue instead of brushing it off. Xander looks like he’s got more to say. “You’re the expert.” I sigh. “That’s your official diagnosis of thisunion of two people, Romeo?”
“There’s definitely yearning,” Xander says, his eyes darting all over my face.
“You think he thinks about her constantly?” I say, the skepticism coming through thick.
“I think he craves spending time with her whenever they’re apart,” Xander says, eyes locking onto mine. And somehow the way he’s looking at me, I get the distinct feeling we’re not talking about my dad anymore. I watch him swallow. “I think she has such an intense feeling of joy when she’s with him that she can also feel a bit unsure, because it feels so strong.”
I do not.
“I bet she’s dynamite in the sack,” I say, going for a redirect.
“Is that what’s happening between us?” Xander says, ignoring my attempt to put a visual in his head he can’t come back from. “Just sex?”
The words hang between us, almost contradictory, considering we’ve been doing a lot more than “just sex” over the past few weeks. A slow, queasy roll starts in my stomach and I wish I could blame the margarita. I really do. But I know I’d be lying to myself. Because I didn’t spend my college years training my insides to withstand copious amounts of cheap alcohol to not stomach the best margarita of my life.
