It’s a relief to get away from them on Thursday afternoon, as Kelsey and I head upstairs to get ready for the bachelorette.
Outside, poles clank as the big tent is taken down. Hurricane Mallory is closing in, and the tent won’t withstand the winds. Even if it hits to the east, Kelsey’s outdoor wedding is definitely ruined. Flights are already being canceled too. Several people now aren’t coming, and one of the groomsmen is renting a car to get here from Dallas, where he got stranded waiting for a connecting flight today.
Kelsey is perfectly fine with this, but Bridget—Hawk’s mom—is beside herself, and I sort of get it. Though this house is massive, there’s no ballroom or place large enough to seat two hundred and fifty guests.
I blow out Kelsey’s hair, and then she makes me remove the jeans I had on and wear one of several slinky satin dresses she brought along, though I’m significantly taller.
“Kelsey,” I say, glancing over my shoulder at my reflection, “this thing barely covers my ass.”
“You can’t say no to me,” she says, “because I’m the bride.”
I laugh. I could totally say no to her, but since her wedding is being actively destroyed by Mother Nature as we speak, I guess I won’t.
Bridget comes up while we’re doing our makeup, gently pushing Kelsey to consider postponing. I’m staying out of it, obviously, but I sort of think she’s right: Where are they even going to hold the ceremony? Unless they livestream it, only a quarter of the guests will be able to watch and all the wedding pictures will need to be indoors, with a backdrop of hurricane mayhem behind them.
“I just want this day to be perfect,” Bridget tells her.
Kelsey, head over heels in love, just smiles. “Winding up married to Hawk is all the perfection I need.”
Bridget and I exchange a look, one that acknowledges two truths: 1) It’s sort of sweet that Kelsey doesn’t care. 2) This wedding is going to be a train wreck.
We’re onlyan hour into Kelsey’s bachelorette and most of Kelsey’s sorority sisters and school friends are shit-faced. We still have at least three more hours to go, and I’m wondering if this party bus comes with a stomach pump, because someone here is definitely going to have alcohol poisoning by midnight.
Kelsey isn’t drinking—she doesn’t want to be puffy and hungover during tomorrow’s festivities. She’s doing her best to act as if she’s having fun, but I can tell she wishes it was over.
“I can’t believe you’re not interested in Aiden,” Kelsey says, watching as her former college roommate, Francesca, drinks straight from a bottle of Grey Goose, then taunts everyone who won’t do it with her. Fucking Francesca. She’s been a thorn in my side since yesterday, particularly in the way she keeps insisting she’s going to fuck Elijah before the weekend’s over.
“I’ve barely spoken to him, Kelsey,” I reply. “And you know, I’m most likely getting back together with Thomas next week.”
Dr. Shearer texted this morning, saying the problem with funding had been “taken care of.” I assume Thomas wrote someone about it. At least now I can tell Betty he occasionally performs an act of service, though I kind of resent giving him credit under the circumstances.
“It’s ridiculous the way Hawk’s mom and mine have arranged everything,” Kelsey says. “They’ve taken ‘Don’t see the bride before the wedding’ to new heights.”
I’ve barely seen Elijah since we got out of the car. He was dragged off to talk to distant relatives at dinner, and I was dragged off to watchThe Notebookas soon as it was over. He skipped breakfast to work out, apparently, and didn’t get back until I’d left for the graveyard tour.
It shouldn’t matter. Nothing has changed between us. He never said it was otherwise. I just wanted him to.
I grin. “I won’t say anything if you want to sneak into Hawk’s room tonight.”
She shakes her head with a smile. “I kind of like the idea of making him wait until the wedding night, you know?”
I’d sort of hoped I’d get one last time with Elijah. It appears I won’t.
The party bus drops us off someplace in the French Quarter, and Kelsey gamely allows her drunk friends to usher her inside, wearing the crown and sash I bought her.
They go to the dance floor and I head to the bar, ordering a pitcher of B-52s, checking my phone while I wait.
Thomas has texted again.
He’s doing exactly what I’d hoped he would, but I feel resentment rather than delight.
I don’t care about his feelings or his apologies. It’s bizarre how this mattered so much two weeks ago and barely matters at all anymore. Elijah is no more a possibility than he ever was.
THOMAS
Look, I fucked up. I’ve admitted it. Tell me what it will take to fix this.
You legitimately being sorry, for starters. Not sorry because you’ve made a mistake and because you’re lonely. Sorry about the way you treated me. Sorry about the way you ended it. Sorry about dating an actress two seconds later.
