“Really?” she says, her mind racing now. You know the phrase “Keeping up with the Joneses”? Yeah, The Beave lives her life by that.
“Yup, and I thought . . . he was right. The gardens are breathtaking, beautifully landscaped with the ocean in the background, just spectacular.”
The Beave slowly nods her head. “You know, the flowers will be in full bloom in five weeks.” She snaps her finger, and her assistant appears by her side. “Get the club on the phone at once. I need to make arrangements.” She then turns to us. “Now the gardens would be magnificent, but I worry about your ability to walk in heels in the grass.”
“Oh, don’t worry about it at all,” I say, not wanting her to find an excuse not to use the gardens. “I’m quite astute with heels.”
“Very astute,” Breaker says.
“The most astute,” I add, which, of course, causes The Beave to give me a look of derision. “Uh . . . just watch. I’ll strut up and down this carpet.” I flop the length of the veil behind me, and with the utmost concentration, I walk down the aisle, pretending to hold a bouquet. My sweaty feet slip against the surface of my heels, but I keep them in place as I make it down to the altar.
Thank Jesus, I made it.
“Walk back,” The Beave says, her voice unconvincing that she believes I can execute walking in heels.
God, she’s such a freaking pill.
Shoulders set back, hands poised in front of me, I put one foot in front of the other and head back down the aisle.
Eat your heart out, Beave.
You can make me feel like shit about my glasses.
You can take away my right to choose my own wedding.
But I refuse to allow you to make me feel like I can’t walk in freaking heels.
“See,” I say as I hold my hands out, approaching her. “Not a problem at . . .” On my last step, my foot slips out of my shoe, throwing me off my balance. “Oh shit,” I cry out just as I reach for the closest thing near me . . .
A candleholder.
I clutch it tightly.
“Whoa, buddy,” I say on a shaky breath. “That was a close one.” I chuckle just as I glance up at the candle as it shakily rocks in place.
“Uh, Lia,” Breaker says as he steps forward.
But it’s too late.
It all happens in slow motion as the candle tips over and falls to the ground. My eyes travel with it, watching as it falls right on top of the gathered fabric of the veil.
My breath catches in my chest.
My eyes widen.
And in seconds, the veil bursts into a fury of flames.
“Oh my God!” I shout. “Oh my God, I’m on fire. I’m on FIRE!” I toss the candlestick to the side, and with one heel on and one heel off, I fly down the aisle, running away from the flames . . . as they chase after me.
“The veil!” The Beave screeches.
“You’re on fire,” Breaker cries.
“Put it out, put it out, put it out,” I scream.
“Jesus Christ,” Breaker shouts. “Roll, Lia, roll!”
“Roll where?” I shout back as I circle the altar, the flaming veil moving closer and closer to my head. “Dear Jesus, don’t set my hair on fire. Please, for the love of your father, don’t set it on fire.”
