“Did you see her cousins out there?” another asks.
“Yeah,” comes a third voice. “Too bad for me, I get the chickwith the neck brace. Did youseeher? She moves like the Bride of Frankenstein.”
Laughter follows. One guy drags out the worddudeuntil it’s three syllables.
Jerk.Did that creep actually have the nerve to say, ‘too bad forme’as ifhe’sthe one they should feel sorry for?
I can barely believe my ears. Here I was, thinking the best man might actually see past the neck brace, and he’s out there cracking jokes before we’ve even been introduced. And to think I was actually wondering if he’d magically be Mr. Right.
He most definitely is not. That guy is Mr. Wrong. Mr. Couldn’t-be-wronger, which is extra wrong since that’s not even a word.
What kind of self-centered jerk makes fun of the girl wearing a neck brace after surviving an accident the night before her best friend’s wedding and still manages to come?
Indignation flares hot in my chest. Someone ought to make those guys feel ashamed of themselves.
I don’t know whether it’s the eloquently stated series of my misfortunes, the pain pills that have me feeling not-so-much like myself, or the fevered agitation of spending more than half the night in the ER only to come home with a neck brace suited for Big Foot, but I amnotabout to let Chad’s cousin act likehe’sthe victim whenI’mthe one stuck wearing this thing.
I shift from one foot to the next so fast that I feel like a possessed mummy in a horror flick.
“Hey,” I growl as I fling open the door. “I’m lucky to be alive, for your information, and ifanyone’sgoing to complainabout this ridiculous neck brace, it’s the miserable woman stuck wearing it for four weeks!”
My focus zig zags across the group. Head woozy from my hysterical jaunt, I settle on the shortest of the bunch, who’s wearing a snide grin on his face.
“That’s not a neck brace,” the kid squeaks, “it’s a…body vase.”I can tell by his red hair and features that he’s related to Viv. Probably a pesky younger cousin.
The guys bust up laughing, though some put their heads down and jab those at their sides with their elbows. My gaze locks on the only guy I don’t recognize from last night’s rehearsal, which meanshe’sthe one who’s supposed to escort me down the aisle. Bobby or Braden or something with a B. I think.
There’s a devilish glint in his eye, one that suggests he’s enjoying himself. “Hey,” he says, “I’m sorry. I was just being a jerk. Didn’t know you were…” He pauses to glance about the place, then leans in to put emphasis on the final word. “Eavesdropping.”
My nostrils flare. My eyes narrow in on him. What sort of apology isthat?Accusing me of eavesdropping?
My vicious side claws its way to the surface, trying to find an imperfection in the man who—I’m not going to lie—could model tuxes for a living. I can see why Viv said he was hot. He’s attractive in that high school jock type of way. No doubt he was the guy every girl in school loved to hate and hated to love. Orlust afterwas probably more like it; I doubt he’s very lovable.
At once, I spot the imperfection—sort of; aside from the weaselly redhead, Billy Boy is the shortest one. Sure, he’ssurrounded by lanky, long-legged giants; each of Chad’s brothers is six-three or over, but the effect is the same.
“I might look like the Bride of Frankenstein,” I say, jabbing a finger in his direction, “but next to these guys,youlook likea pipsqueak.”
His eyes go wide. His jaw drops open. He loosely mouths the word pipsqueak, brow furrowing like he’s never heard it before.
“And your outsides might be okay to look at,” I give him, knowing I could hardly feign otherwise, “but I bet your insides are uglier than Frankenstein himself.” I try to jerk my head in the opposite direction and lift my nose in the air, but since I fail on both counts, I turn my back on the men and set my gaze on the exit.
I thrust my left foot forward, which faces me toward the right side of the foyer, where a table holds framed photos of Viv and Chad as children. Another scoot shifts me toward the left, where a slideshow of their engagement pics plays to their favorite songs. I can’t believe I attempted heels this morning before settling on this forgotten pair of flats.
Shuffle, lift, step.
Shuffle, lift, step.
“I didn’t say youlooklike the Bride of Frankenstein,” whatever-his-name-is hollers from behind. “I said youwalklike her.”
Oh, he did? Ipicture the character’s portrayal in the black-and-white movie as I forge on, one painstaking hobble at a time.
Hot embarrassment floods in, causing myface to pool with heat.
“Sheesh, what’sherproblem?” one of the guys asks.
I hear shushing. “That was rude,” someone snaps. “You better go apologize.”
They say adrenaline can give you superpower strength, like the pioneer lady I learned about in school. When her son’s leg got stuck under a wagon wheel, she hoisted the heavy thing right off the ground to free him. The humiliation of this moment is like a triple shot of adrenaline that has me hobbling faster than a wounded buck.
