We were getting along, weren’t we? Or was I imagining that?
Ugh.
Mementos of the night: a sore arse, a bruised ego, and a battered pride.
“Hi, Mum.” I kiss her on the cheek and sit opposite her.
We’re in her favourite coffee shop. A fruit smoothie waits for me on the table. She’s drinking a cappuccino.
“Hi, sweetheart. Everything okay?”
“Yeah. Why wouldn’t it be?”
She shrugs. “No reason. I have something to show you.”
“What—?”
She holds out her left hand and waggles her ring finger. I gawp at the two unfamiliar rings on her slender finger.
“I got married.” She squeals like a schoolgirl.
“You—What?”
“Got married.”
“When? Who to?” Why wasn’t I invited?
“A few days ago, in Vegas.”
I blink slowly. What the fuck? “Who to?”
“Barry Hart. I’m so happy. Say something, Archer.”
“He cheated on his wife.”
“So?”
“Once a cheat, always a cheat?”
She waves her hand. “Nonsense. He wouldn’t cheat on me.”
“I’m sure his wife thought that too,” I mutter.
Mum presses her lips together and gives me a pointed look. It’s the one she directed at me when I was a teenager and wasn’t telling the whole truth about something.
“I’m worried about you, that’s all,” I say.
“You don’t need to be. Barry and I are in love. Now, because we eloped, we’re going to have a reception to celebrate with our friends. I’ve managed to book Weetwood Hall for Saturday evening.”
“How the hell did you manage that?”
“They had a cancellation.”
What destroyed that relationship before vows were exchanged?
“You’ll be there, won’t you?” She gives me puppy eyes.
I sigh. “Yes, I’ll be there.”
