I bury my face in my hands, wishing the bed would open up and swallow me whole. "Oh my God," I moan through my fingers. "I'm so sorry. I'm so embarrassed. What exactly did I do?"
Blair props herself up on her elbow and smiles. “Well, let’s just say you made some not-so-subtle moves on me."
"So I threw myself at my hired girlfriend. That's so inappropriate."
"It’s not a big deal. If anything, I’m flattered."
The matter-of-fact way she says it should be reassuring, but instead it makes me feel even more ridiculous. Here I am, spiraling into a pit of embarrassment, while she's acting like we're discussing the weather.
"You must think I'm pathetic," I mutter.
"I think you're hungover," she says. "And I think you're being way too hard on yourself."
"Easy for you to say."
"True," she agrees with a grin. "But I was the one who had to exercise superhuman restraint when a beautiful woman came on to me. So let's call it even."
Despite everything, I fight a smile.
"You think I'm beautiful?" I ask, then immediately want to take the question back.
Before she can answer, Mom calls from downstairs. "Livvy! Sailor! Breakfast is ready!"
"Fuck, fuck, fuck," I groan, letting my head fall back against the pillow. "I can't. I don't even know if I can move from this bed right now."
"Then stay there," Sailor says as she gets up. "I'll handle this."
She quickly changes into sweatpants and a T-shirt and runs her hands through her disheveled hair. Even hungover and mortified, I can't help but gawk at her.
"What are you doing?" I ask.
She takes my water glass, rummages around in the bathroom, and comes out with more aspirin. "Take this," she says. "I'll get you coffee and breakfast in bed."
As she disappears downstairs to face my family, memories surface in devastating waves. I think I might have crawled across the bed and straddled her. The images flash through my mind like a slideshow of humiliation, each one worse than the last. At least there's one silver lining in this disaster: I’m not the wedding planner today.
18
BLAIR
Isense it immediately—something is wrong. Instead of the cheerful chaos I expected to find in the kitchen, there's an undercurrent of tension. Emma sits at the farmhouse table with her bridesmaids, still in her pajamas. Her face is streaked with tears as she glances at her phone.
Through the kitchen window, I see Bill in his work clothes, helping the catering staff unload their truck, but there are no stylists, and there's no champagne, no excited chatter about the big day.
Moira bustles around like a woman possessed. She's in her robe and her hair is disheveled. She's pulling items from cabinets seemingly at random—coffee filters, a spatula, then puts them back—as if staying in motion will solve whatever crisis has descended on the Barnes family.
"Oh good, you're up," she says when she spots me. "Where's Livvy?"
I glance between mother and daughter, trying to read the situation. "She's feeling a little rough around the edges," I admit. "I was wondering if I could take breakfast upstairs for her but..." I hesitate. "Is everything okay?"
"No, everything is not okay." Emma looks up at me with red-rimmed eyes. "My wedding planner called an hour ago. She's having a nervous breakdown. Apparently, this was her first wedding—her first real job—and she couldn't handle the pressure. She admitted to having ordered the flowers for the wrong date so we have no centerpieces, no bridal and bridesmaids bouquets, and no archway for the ceremony. She's not coming. She's just... not coming."
“Oh no…” My stomach drops. "I'm so sorry, Emma."
Emma continues, her voice rising with each word as she gestures helplessly toward the window. "The catering company is here but they don't know where and how to set up and what to do and I have no hair and makeup artists as she booked those for the wrong date too."
One of the bridesmaids—a redhead whose name I never caught—speaks up. "I called three florists in Frederick. They're all booked for today, and even if they weren't, they don't have enough inventory to create what we need with only eight hours' notice."
Moira sinks into a chair beside her daughter, finally abandoning her frantic bustling. "Guests are starting to arrive at four," she says numbly. "The ceremony is supposed to be at five. And even I can't work miracles."
