“I can cover it with some concealer and powder,” I say blankly. “Let’s… let’s just get this over with.”
***
I’ve not spent much time dreaming about getting married. I don’t have the Pinterest wedding boards, fabric or color swatches for my Dream Day. Maybe it’s because somewhere in the back of my mind, I knew it would never be my choice.
Lucia pulls me into the bathroom while the stylist is doing Mom’s hair. “I looked him up,” she whispers, clutching her phone. Dad took mine. He wasn’t taking any chances. She holds up the screen. “He looks pretty hot, right? I mean, there’s some serious rizz happening here.”
Mason MacTavish is enormously tall, proven by the fact he’s towering over all the other people in the picture.
“Ah, damn,” I whisper, “he’s huge.”
“Yeah but look at that suit!” Lucia’s determined to find the silver lining here. “He’s wearing the hell out of it, the little I could find on him says he’s a businessman but with shoulders like those? He should be a fighter or- or a football player or something.”
She’s extolling his virtues while I examine the picture. Mason MacTavish looks like a businessman. A rich, hot as balls businessman. Which is odd, because the only thing I know about the MacTavish Clan is that they’re the biggest mafia in Scotland. Maybe he’s the face of the legitimate side of the business. He’s wearing sunglasses in the image and based on the cold set of his mouth, he doesn’t like his picture being taken any more than I do.
Is this Mason kind, or an asshole? Thinking back, I vaguely remember meeting one of the older MacTavishes at one of Dad’s horrible parties. I can’t remember his name but when he looked down at his wife, his whole face lit up. Will the man I’m being forced to marry treat me like that, or is he someone who uses his fists? Will he be attentive, or will he dismiss me as the bride he bought and paid for via some sleazy deal with my father?
“That’s all I am,” I whisper. “Capital. A financial asset.”
“This might be a good thing,” she says anxiously. “You’re away from Dad, that rat bastard.”
“Don’t swear,” I correct automatically.
“Like it matters. And maybe if it’s all going really well, I could come stay with you?”
My sister has the same bright blue eyes that I have, and right now she’s looking at me with a mix of fear and hope that’s breaking me.
“No matter what.” I hug her fiercely, “No matter what, I’ll watch out for you. If Sam and Mom can’t keep you away from Dad, I’ll… You know what? I’ll fix it. Okay?”
Her skinny shoulders heave in a deep sigh. “I hate that you’re leaving.”
Oh, crap. I didn’t even think of that. Where does this Mason live? I guess I’m kissing my degree goodbye, too. I’m swamped in a mix of helplessness and fury. But anger is better than grief. I can still push forward like this.
“Hey, you two,” Mom taps on the door, “save the girl talk for later, it’s nearly time.” Her expression brightens as I come out. “Let’s get the dress on.”
The reflection staring back at me from the mirror looks beautiful; the dress is form fitting, a complicated sort of thing with a million tiny pearl buttons running down the back and a neckline that doesn’t completely show all my assets. Just most of them. The stylist lined my eyes with mascara and smoky eye shadow and my lips are a girlish pink. With tears in her eyes, Mom pulled my hair up in a tidy French twist, nervously adjusting bits and pieces to frame my face.
Nana gives me a hug, enveloping me in her powdery, expensive scent. “Remember who you are,” she says firmly. “You’re a Cavendish. Focus on what matters, get settled in your new life. Ignore the little gossips and the naysayers. They’re beneath you.”
My hands are freezing cold and it sounds like the others are talking to me underwater, I can’t fully understand what they’resaying. Lucia lowers the veil over my face with an anxious smile and slides her beaded bracelet onto my wrist. “Something borrowed,” she whispers, hugging me.
She insisted we make friendship bracelets for each other when she was eight, because, “We’re more than sisters, we’re friends!” I tucked mine in my jewelry box long ago, but she wore her bracelet almost all the time, even now.
“Thanks,” I whisper back. “It’s okay. Don’t worry. It’ll be fine.”
Lucia doesn’t believe me, but she pastes on the same well-bred smile that I’m sure I’m wearing. Mom hands me a ridiculously large bouquet, groaning with white roses and lilies and the scent makes my eyes water. All the candles burning in the alcoves aren’t helping. My footsteps echo down the marble hallways until I can hear the low murmur of the guests inside the chapel. I stumble slightly, not used to the long skirt and the sky-high heels I’d wedged on my feet.
“Hey, no tripping. It looks bad when you have dirty knee marks on your wedding dress.” Sam swoops in, grabbing my elbow.
“Oh?” There should be more to that sentence though my fractured senses can’t seem to come up with it.
“Because,” he leans in. “When your skirt is dirty it looks like you were giving the groom a blowjob before the ceremony.”
“Oh, my god youcreep!”I slap him on the arm, laughing, which I believe was his intended result.
“At least, I hope it was the groom,” he ponders, “or that could get really awkward at the reception line, eh?”
“Just stop! This isn’t…”This isn’t a laughing matter,I want to say, but he already knows that.
