The hallway stretches ahead like a runway, and it takes forever to reach my room at the far end. I kick through the war zone of clothes, shoes, and makeup scattered across the floor because my suitcases have obviously exploded. Somewhere beneath it all is the tiny clutch.
I finally find it buried under some underwear, and then I fire off a quick text to Nico.
Did he come back yet?
The walk back to the elevator feels even longer. I glance at the noisy door again—it’s quiet now. I wish the best for them and hope they finished strong. Today is a celebration of love, after all.
I press the elevator button. The doors glide open.
Behind me, I hear the soft creak of another door swinging wide.
I turn.
And my smirk suddenly dies a sudden death.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Nico
The suite smells of hairspray,deodorant, perfume, and mild panic.
I’m sitting in the corner of the room in a tux that cost more than my monthly rent, holding a flute of champagne I don’t particularly want, listening to the groomsmen argue over whether the groom should wear a pocket square or not. It’s mostly irrelevant, considering Tom has been missing for an amount of time I’m trying not to think too hard about.
May looks good, though. Or at least she’s doing a damn good job pretending. She’s in the center of the room, sipping water from a straw and accepting gentle preening from her makeup artist. She’s glowing. Literally. I think they put something sparkly on her clavicles.
“Hey Nico,” one of the more annoying groomsmen, Kyle, says, nudging me. “You’re the science guy, right?”
I nod warily. I can feel a terrible question brewing.
“What’s like… the pH of champagne?”
There it is.
“Low,” I reply. “Maybe two or three.”
“Shit,” he says, like that means something to him.
“Champagne is acidic,” I clarify, because he’s looking at me like I said something life-altering.
“Ohhh,” he says, like that explains something.
There’s a weird comfort in being surrounded by bedlam that isn’t mine. At least not right now.
I take another sip of champagne and look out over the crowd of pastel bridesmaids adjusting straps and bobby pins. Everyone’s buzzing. I’m the only one who seems still, and that’s because I’m not really here.
I’m thinking about Annie.
Annie in her silk bridesmaid dress and heels, hair swept up, lips pink and eyes smoky. Annie looking like a perfect, polished woman. Everything about it was immediately overwhelming. She looked incredible. So fuckin’ beautiful I lost my words when I saw her.
But… I don’t know. She also didn’t look like Annie. Not really. That is, until she screeched like an alley cat and shoved Izzy Flores a full nine feet away from me, which was arguably the most romantic thing anyone has ever done for me.
I love her with no makeup and messy hair. I love her in tank tops and cutoffs and my ratty twelve-year-old hoodie that comes down to her thighs. When she’s barefoot in my kitchen.
That perfect imperfection, though, makes me think of a whole lot. I’m still kinda reeling from how she left me last night.
I’m mulling it over when the door slams open.
Annie barrels into the room. I immediately move towards her, drawn to her, when I see the look on her face. That expression—she looks like she’s going to cry. Her eyes are darting all around the room, looking for something. And I realize with a start that she’snotlooking for me.
