Not proven, but I could see it being a possibility, so I go with it. “I have weak knees,” I answer while tilting the crown of the veil. “Where did this veil come from?”
“It was mine from when I married. Please don’t kick at it with your hooves. It’s a precious heirloom.”
“Oh . . .” I smile. “It’s lovely. You can really smell the history.” Very . . . musty. “Anywho, can’t say that a passed-out bride at the altar will result in cherished wedding memories. If I pass out, it’s going to embarrass Brian.”
Anything that might harm, embarrass, or taint her son, The Beave is going to want nothing to do with it.
“I wasn’t aware that you’re a risk at the altar.” She glances down the aisle. “If you pass out, that would ruin the entire ceremony.”
No one likes a fainty bride.
“Yeah, and what if I hit my head on one of the pews?” I ask. “A cracked head leads to blood, and I don’t think guests will want it to be a gory wedding. Especially if I wear this heirloom veil. Not sure blood comes out easily from fabric like this. Perchance, do you know the length of it?”
“Fifty feet,” The Beave answers absentmindedly.
Fifty feet, dear God, who needs a veil that long? She’s not even royalty.
Cutting in, Breaker says, “White dress, blood, and gore doesn’t really say high-class wedding. Not to mention, she bleeds easily. We’re talking pools of blood.”
“Iron deficiency anemia,” I say, nodding my head.
“Well.” The Beave turns her nose up. “Perhaps I’ll speak with my doctor and get him to prescribe you some Xanax for the day to avoid any way of you passing out.”
Of course she would have a pharmaceutical solution.
“Uh, that won’t work,” I say, glancing up at Breaker, looking for help.
“Yeah,” he says, picking up on my plea. “That won’t work because . . . uh . . . well, she’s a puker.”
The Beave recoils in disgust, don’t blame her. Didn’t see that coming.
“Pardon me?” she asks.
Breaker nods, going with it. “Yup, a serious puker this one.” He points his thumb at me. “Any sort of medication that curbs her anxiety, she just pukes right up. And not just a little. It’s projectile. I remember a time in college when she took some calming meds—can’t quite remember what it was—but she took some before her final exam in data statistics and mechanics because she was so nervous. After the first ten minutes of dry heaving, she started throwing up all over her exam and the poor girl in front of her. It was a disaster. Since then, she’s stayed as far away from the medication as she can. I don’t think risking Xanax on the day is worth it, so I believe we should just cut down the guest list. How about you send it to me,” Breaker suggests. “Since I’m so immersed in who to rub elbows with, I’ll be able to pick who will be insulted and who doesn’t matter when it comes to being there.”
Puking during an exam? We couldn’t have found a less disgusting image to plant in my future mother-in-law’s head?
I glance over at The Beave, ready to see absolute disgust on her face. Instead, she has the lightest of smirks, like if I didn’t know her, I wouldn’t be able to tell, but there it is, plain as day, her often imprisoned joy.
“Oh,” The Beave says, clasping her hands in front of her. “You’re attuned to the social ladder?”
“Of course. How do you think I became a billionaire?” Breaker asks with a wink, and I know, deep in my bones, that it absolutely pained him to say that. If you should know one thing about Breaker, it’s that he is not one to flaunt his money, ever, so for him to mention he’s a billionaire in front of The Beave, that just goes to show that he’s being the best friend that I need at this moment.
“Well, that would be lovely then. I will take you up on your generous offer,” The Beave says before turning and heading down the aisle. I guess that’s it. Fine by me.
Pinching his side, I joke, “Dropping the billionaire title just like that?”
He chuckles under his breath and whispers, “Got her to send me the list, didn’t it? We can look it over together. Bring your red pen.”
“I’ll bring multiple. There will be a slashing. The gore might not happen at the wedding, but it sure as hell will happen over the guest list.”
The Beave turns on her heel and says, “Now, are you Catholic, Ophelia?”
“Uh, that would be a no.” I itch the spot where the veil clip is digging into my scalp.
The Beave’s brows crease. “I believe Brian told me you were.”
I shake my head. “Nope, not a Catholic. I actually don’t really have a religion at all.”
