I look deep into the eyes of the man I gave my heart to as a teenager. I’m a soon-to-be thirty-year-old women’s rugbyplayer by day, Pilates instructor by night, who has only ever slept with one man.
How pathetic.
One cheating, bland, useless fuck of a man at that. My simmering blood catches fire into a rolling boil.
Ugh. It feels every bit as pathetic no matter how many times I repeat the sentence in my head.
Bile sloshes in my stomach as I reach my bouquet out to my traitorous maid of honor, my childhood best friend, and the woman I can’t make eye contact with right now.
She only got the title so our Clíodhna and Aoife didn’t fight over it. In hindsight, we should have rotated the label between the three of us, but sure wasn’t Isla only too happy to help me “not take sides”?
A tiny voice in the back of my head screams that I should have asked Bláthnaid to step in and do the job. But with two sisters and averypresent, persistently pleading, andhighlyconvincing friend since childhood… I kind of took pity on her and let her do the job.
Mistakes were made.
I make eye contact with Blá, who is sitting front and center in the first row, next to my parents. She gives me a wide smile and a double thumbs up, but her eyes give her wariness away. She can tell something’s off, but she’s not sure what it is. She’s going to rip me a new one when she hears what’s been going on.
I couldn’t have told her, or my friend Matty, or either of my sisters because I’d be visiting them in prison for murdering my soon-to-be ex. And they’re far too pretty—and sassy—for prison.
The urge to turn to the women standing on the altar with me is overwhelming. But I know if I make eye contact with the traitor, I’ll rip her face off with my perfectly manicured nails.
And you can betI’mtoo fucking pretty for prison.
I allow a slow, controlled breath to pass through my nose.
I’m too pretty for prison. I’m too pretty for prison. I’m too pretty for prison.
This dress was also way too expensive to cover in blood spatter, even if it would be the blood of my now-enemies.
I slowly open a folded piece of paper with hands I force to stop trembling. I want everyone in this room,especiallyGeorge and Isla, to know I am not afraid. I have no regrets, and I speak these words with my whole fucking chest.
“I thought you memorized your vows.” George searches my face for something, and all I offer is a wicked grin in return. Ever critical. For a man who can’t remember how to operate the washing machine or cook a frozen pizza without setting off the smoke alarm, he sure is mouthy about my ability to remember.
I remember plenty, you bastard. “Six months ago. Saturday, 1:14AM.” I hold his stare, clear my throat, and begin to read the exchange aloud:
George: I hate sneaking around.
Georgie Boy’s brows shoot up, and he swallows, hard.
Isla: We could tell her.
There’s a sharp gasp from the crowd as someone has already caught on to the punchline of the utterly tragic joke that I’m about to bring one hundred plus people in on. The gasp could have come from Isla herself. She’s always been quick on the uptake. One of my few regrets about this moment is that I won’t be able to see her face until I watch back the footage from our videographer.
George: No. Not yet. I’m not ready to lose her.
Isla: You can’t have both of us forever.
George: Why not?
Pretty sure it’s Dad who mutters, “What the fuck is going on?” but I can barely hear him over the satisfied roar in my chest as every single ounce of color drains from George’s face.
There’s not a sound to be heard around the room. Every single person’s attention is held hostage by the piece of paper clutched in my steady hands.
George’s eyes turn pleading. “Rhiannon, please. Don’t do this. Be reasonable.”
I smirk. Be reasonable indeed. Be reasonable, Rhiannon. Fall in line, Rhiannon. Toe the family line, Rhiannon. Be the bigger sister. Keep the peace. Yes, sir. No, sir. Three bags fucking full, sir.
If only Georgie Boy knew how reasonablethismoment actually is.
