We land and head for baggage claim. When Paisley spots her luggage, she moves forward to grab it, but I’m faster.
“I can get it,” she insists, but I shake my head.
“I may be your fake boyfriend, but I am a real gentleman.”
This comment should’ve earned me a retort of some kind, in that playfully sassy way of hers, but she barely manages a shaky smile.
To make it clear I meant what I said, I handle her heavy-ass bag through the airport. Her maid of honor dress, encased in a thick garment bag, drapes over her shoulder.
We grab mediocre sandwiches from a little place in the Raleigh airport, and by the time we’ve picked up the rental car and are headed to the town where we will catch the ferry, my antennas are up.
“Paisley,” I start, watching her fingers drum the steering wheel.
She glances at me. Her blue-green eyes are sick with worry.
“What’s going through that head of yours?”
“I’m starting to feel nervous,” she admits. “I’ve been okay up until this point, but now”—she takes one hand from the wheel and runs it down her face—“I’m wondering if this is the dumbest thing I’ve ever done.”
“Bringing me to the wedding, you mean?”
“All of it. What if none of this works? What if everyone feels sorry for me that I’m the maid of honor in my littlesister’s wedding to my ex? What if everyone finds out you’re not really my boyfriend and I look like an even bigger loser?” Tears well up in her eyes, thickening her speech. “And even worse, what if I hate the island now? It used to be my favorite place in the world, but then bad stuff happened there, and now I don’t know if I love it anymore.” Her head shakes, as if the confusion she feels can be wrung from her mind. “I want to love it.”
Her shoulders shake as she cries, and all I want to do is haul her over the console and into my arms.
I’m thinking of a way to persuade her to pull over when a sob wracks her body, and I say, “Paisley, pull over right now.”
“I’m”—hiccup—“fine.”
“Now, Paisley.”
Miraculously, she signals to move into the right lane and then takes the exit. Coasting to a stop on the grassy shoulder, she shifts into Park.
“I’m sorry.” Tears strangle her voice.
“You’re on your way to a wedding you probably should’ve said no to, and you’re about to participate in a week of wedding events that culminate with standing beside the bride during the ceremony. Honestly, I’m only surprised you haven’t cried about it before now.”
Paisley turns her gaze on me. She looks lovely with her tearstained cheeks, her nose a rosy pink. “You probably think I’m insane for agreeing to this.”
My head tips side-to-side as I feign considering. “Only a little.”
Through her tears she manages a tentative smile. “Pretend you have a brother and he’s marrying your ex-girlfriend. What would you have said?”
“My hypothetical answer isn’t going to help you. The situation is far more nuanced than that. Cut and dry went out the window a long time ago. And it’s not only why you’re returning to the island, but the fact you’re returning at all.” I scratch at my neck, taking a moment to gather my thoughts so I don’t say something too offensive. “Your sister isn’t marrying your ex at a fancy resort ballroom. She’s marrying your ex at a place that holds both good and bad memories for you.”
Paisley sniffles. “Best and worst.” She reaches into her purse and comes away with a travel size pack of tissues.
“The whole thing is a clusterfuck.” It’s the nicest way I can think to put it. Everything I think so far has a lot of f-words and character assassinations.
“What if they see right through us?” She blows her nose. “You’re a writer, not an actor.”
I smirk. “Someone once told me that writing a book is like the longest, most intricate lie. If that’s true, acting isn’t that far out of my wheelhouse.”
A smile ghosts over her face.
“Look at it this way, Paisley. I’m weaving a story, and I’m really damn good at that, so trust me that I’m going to make the story good, ok? When we’re on the island, everyone is going to see I’m madly devoted to you. If my adoration doesn’t make them nauseous, I haven’t succeeded.”
Paisley sniffles, nodding, looking uncharacteristically vulnerable.
