ChapterOne
Matilda
“You havegotto be shitting me.”
I glance to my left at the source of that comment. I don’t know him, but I suppose I’ll figure out who he is before the end of all this.
“Dearly beloved friends and family, we’re gathered here today….”
I miss the rest of the statement coming from the soon-to-be groom, Anthony Marchesani, because the guy next to me, is talking again. This time he says, sort of quietly but notthatquietly, “We’re gathered here to be humiliated by that asshole and his bride-to-be.”
His comment is funny, and my laugh comes out as a snort. I swat his upper arm with the back of my hand, you know, like you do when you want the person next to you to know you’re with them.
He must not appreciate my bit of camaraderie, because I get a glare instead of smile or even a nudge back. My goodness, the man has the prettiest brown eyes I’ve ever seen. Even squinty and steely, his peepers are pretty.
Not knowing what else to do, I shrug. I’m not what you’d call super good with people, especially those of the male variety. And this one, phew, this one is no ordinary specimen. If I told you he was good-looking, it wouldn’t be enough. Handsome, check. Striking, oh yeah. The best-looking person in the room? Hands down.
Let me see if I can give you a better description of this man… I tap my chin, giving this serious consideration.
I’ve got it.I raise my finger as it occurs to me he’s sort of a cross between Cary Grant from the movieA Touch of Minkand Paul Newman fromCat on a Hot Tin Roof.
Yeah, that’s right, people. He’sthatgood-looking with his dark hair and olive skin. He’s clean-shaven, which is a departure from the rest of the men here. Beards are in, apparently. I, myself, love that clean-cut look, like those men in classic movies. His hair is even like theirs, cut short on the sides and a bit longer on top.
I’m guessing I’m not the only one who thinks he’s attractive because almost every woman in the room, and a couple of the men, have had at least one eye on him the entire time we’ve been here.
Case in point, Chrissie, the maid of honor, tried to get me out of the way by asking me, the personal attendant of this affair, to go get her something from her car. I would’ve done it if the bride-to-be, my cousin Vicky, didn’t clap at that moment to get everyone’s attention. As it were, Chrissie is next to me doing everything in her power to get me to swap places with her. And you know what? I would if Chrissie weren’t the biggest stinker in this room.
You see, me and Chrissie go way back, all the way to childhood. Vicky and I spent almost every day together while growing up. Her mom is my mom’s sister, and they were as close as two sisters could be. Not just figuratively either––our houses were across the street from one other back then.
Anyhoo, Chrissie has been Vicky’s on-and-off best friend since elementary school, which means she’s been in my life on and off too. Me and Chrissie do not get along. Nope. Never have and probably never will. I tried to be nice to her growing up, but she only ever saw me as a nuisance. I’m not just saying that either. It’s a fact. Those exact words have exited Chrissie’s mouth on numerous occasions. She’s said things like, “Seriously, Victoria, does that nuisance of a cousin always have to tag along?”
I need to clarify something.
My cousin’s name is Vicky.NotVictoria. She pretends it’s Victoria––insisting her friends call her that––because she thinks it sounds more sophisticated. I refuse to use that moniker because, like me, she was named after our grandmother who was one of the most wonderful people to ever walk this planet. She died when we were both thirteen. It was sudden and heartbreaking. I can say without hesitation that the second worst day of my life was when Vicky Matilda Bishop died.
I feel my heart droop in my chest just thinking about the people who aren’t here to celebrate this event. They’d have loved all the wedding hullabaloo. Adored it, more like.
Back then, Vicky was probably on the same page as Chrissie about me, but when we were little, Aunt Annabelle and my mom forced me and Vicky together a lot. I think they hoped we’d be best friends. We weren’t and still aren’t, probably because Vicky was forced to take me with her whenever she went like to parties or out with her friends. If she didn’t drag me along, she couldn’t go. And since I didn’t really have any friends of my own, I went.
Yes, there was resentment on Vicky’s part, but what was I supposed to do? I was pressed to go along, even though I would have much preferred to hang out in my room watching classic movies or reading. When I discovered video games, it got worse.
Oh, well, shoot, I really got off track, didn’t I?
I’m brought back to that guy––you know, the classically handsome one––because he’s muttering stuff again. “I can’t believe I took goddamn leave for this shit show.”
I should’ve guessed he’s in the service, especially since he’s in a green T-shirt that reads “ARMY” on the front. Dead giveaway.
I suspect everyone in the room knows who this guy is. Everyone but me. Heck, I’ve only met the groom-to-be once due to the fact that Vicky and I have grown distant over the years. We see each other on holidays, and even then, she doesn’t speak to me.
When my eyes meet the stranger’s, heat rushes up my neck to my cheeks. I’m not sure why I feel embarrassed by our eyes connecting, but I do. I’ve got to think fast. I need to get out of this. “Thank you for your service.”
There. That was the perfect thing to say. Right?
“Jesus.” He grunts. Next, he rolls his eyes, which forces ours to disconnect. I take that opportunity to look forward at the happy couple who are still going on about the plans for today.
Still, I don’t think that was a very nice of that guy. I was being sincere. Actually, do you want to know something? That irritates me. I really meant it. I’m grateful for people who choose to serve our country.Verygrateful.
Making a quarter turn, I raise my finger and tap the guy’s upper arm. Not softly either. I mean, I wouldn’t call it a jab, but it’s close. Clearing my throat, quietly so as not to draw attention to myself, I whisper, “Excuse me.”
