I close my eyes and start over, my voice coming out monotone. “Wes, we’ve been together officially for almost two years, and I think it’d be cool if we lived together. What do you think?”
“Ah.” She grins. “A little robotic, but much better. See? You can totally do it.”
“Right…” I take a sip of my wine and try to picture Wes and me, living together, sharing toothpaste and bills and all the little things that come with coupledom. It doesn’t sound so bad, until I remember how he called metoo sweetin the car, and I wonder if this is going to end like every other thing in my life—with me packing up a cardboard box and leaving.
But I can’tnottry. Because if I don’t, I’m just postponing the inevitable, and there’s only so many days left before my bank account flatlines for good.
Maybe I’m just overthinking all of this.
Riley gives me a hug, and I try not to cry as I rest my chin on her shoulder. “You got this,” she says into my hair. “Just do it before midnight. It’s good luck or something.”
“Fine, I will.” I pull away from her, downing the entire glass of wine. “Right now.”
“Atta girl,” Riley slaps my arm, letting out a giggle. “Go get him!”
Together, we make our way back inside the reception hall, which iswaymore crowded now that everyone is up and moving around. I scan for Wes, clutching my empty wine glass.
He’s not at the bar, where he’d usually be holding court, so I start looking around for him.
I take a lap around the main floor, taking a hard look at any dark-headed guy I pass. And while I spot almost every single one of the groomsmen, I don’t see my boyfriend anywhere.
What the hell? Where did he go?
I circle back and nearly collide with a waiter.
“Sorry,” I say, catching my balance as the guy peers down at me with kind eyes. I take the chance that he might know where Wes is. “Hey, have you seen a, um, tall, groomsman with dark hair?”
The waiter thinks for a second. “The tall guy? Slicked back hair? I saw him go toward the kitchen. With that blonde chick in the pink dress. I think they were trying to find more red wine.” He shrugs. “You can try back there, but the chef hates it when guests come in. Thatiswhere they keep the extra wine though.”
“Thanks,” I mumble, ignoring the sick feeling in my gut.
I head for the kitchen. Every step I take, my stomach lurches like it’s bracing for something really bad. All my previous nerves—about jobs, about money, about not ruining the wedding—start to collapse into one pinpoint of blinding panic.
Maybe he’s just helping. Maybe he’s being the charming, helpful Wes everyone likes. Maybe he’s…
The kitchen door is heavy, one of those double swinging types. I push just enough to peek, expecting to see Wes searching for a corkscrew or laughing with Ellie.
But it issomuch worse than anything I could’ve conjured up.
It’s Wes. With his fucking pants around his ankles.
Ellie is half perched on a stainless steel table, her coral dress hiked up to her waist and bunched under her ass, the skirt wrinkled and up so high, it’s baring all of her. His hands are locked around her thighs, her lipstick smeared across his jaw and neck.
My brain short-circuits.
Wes’s face twists in concentration and need, and hers contorts in pleasure, her head tipped back.
“Oh god,yes,” Ellie whimpers. “Your cock feels so good. Just like that.”
Holy fucking shit.
I want to storm in and break my wine glass over his head. But I don’t.Instead,I am a freaking statue in the doorway.
I donotmove. Icannotmove.
I watch as my boyfriend finishes inside someone else with his familiar groan, face crumpled. He immediately starts talking again, words that would be sweet if they weren’t acid, burning my eardrums.
“You felt so good, Ellie.” His voice is raspy. “I don’t think I’ve ever had pussy this tight before.”
