Ignoring them, I toss a hand toward the bathroom. “What are they doing in there?”
“No idea,” Zev says.
“Fran always has a plan,” Callum says.
I groan. I’ve heard rumors of Fran’s plans. I don’t want any part of them. I glance down at my watch. It’s been seven minutes. “I’m going in after her if they aren’t out in?—”
The door swings open. Fran steps out, a wide grin on her face. Rosalie follows behind her, only she’s wearing the sweatshirt and jeans Stella came in. I’m sure of it. It was a Jackson High sweatshirt, one that had to be at least a decade old. And now it’s on Rosalie’s body.
My brow furrows, confused. But then Stella steps out. Her blonde waves are pulled up on top of her head, strings of hair framing her face, and she’s wearing Rosalie’s shimmering blue dress. She’s got a few more curves than Rosalie, and the dress accentuates every ounce of that.
My eyes trail from her head to her toes—still in white high-top Converse. She’s a vision, and my heart palpitates for a whole new set of reasons.
Stella fidgets with the low neckline. “Her shoes wouldn’t fit.”
I swallow,but no words come.
“Here,” Zev says beside me. “Look semi-decent on your wedding day, eh?”
I blink away from Stella to see Zevulun holding his black jacket out toward me. My lavender button-up won’t look too silly with a jacket, so I take the thing from him and throw it on.
“My mom wanted a wedding day photo. This will be better anyway.” Stella’s hands swish over the skirt of her dress. “I don’t look ridiculous?” she asks.
“You look gorgeous,” Fran says. “Your man can’t take his eyes off you.”
With her words, I force myself to blink away. But she isn’t wrong. I desperately want to look back.
“Yeah, I’m never going to be able to wear that dress again,” Rosalie tells her, studying Stella like a science experiment. “Not after seeing it on you.”
“Don’t say that,” Zev says, slipping his hand into Rosalie’s. “You looked beautiful.”
But the truth is, I don’t remember what Rosalie looked like in that dress. Fran is right. I’m not seeing anything else around me other than Stella. She’s stunning. And she’s about to become my wife.
Thirteen
I peerout the passenger window of Roman’s gray Bronco Sport. My eyes bounce from the outdoors to the black rubber wedding band Roman picked up at some point, to my phone, where Willow is yelling at me over text.
Willow: You call that a wedding invitation?
Me: It was the best I could do.
Willow: So … how was it? You are officially married?
Me: Yes. Married.
Though I don’t feel very married.
Willow: Weird.
Me: So weird.
I glance at Roman. From this angle, I can just see his matching rubber wedding band. Black,just like mine. Black, like the tattoo on that same arm, stretching from his wrist to his elbow.
The rubber rings greatly disappointed Fran, but I told her it’s what I wanted. The truth is, I hadn’t even thought about rings, and I have no idea when Roman did.
Willow: You okay?
Me: He didn’t kiss me, Will.
