Mark was standing outside the door, wearing a gray suit jacket and matching slacks, white shirt, and no tie. His hair was slightly messy and not gelled back.
“Am I dressed okay?” I squawked. At least I was wearing normal shoes—a pair of black ballet flats.
“Of course,” he said and bent down to kiss me while my friends, parents, and an army of Roombas looked on.
“Have her back by ten,” my father said cheerfully. “You poor single ladies,” he addressed my friends as the door closed, “don’t worry. We have pizza and a Richard Gere movie marathon as consolation prizes.”
I wish I was watching movies and eating pizza, I thought as I fiddled with my necklace in Mark’s car. Beowulf was in the back seat and made the only noise as Mark drove silently down the street.
He seemed a little on edge as we took the highway out to Connecticut. The density of the city peeled away, and the land opened up. The houses became larger and more ornate, surrounded by trees and ironwork fences with stone lions guarding the front.
Mark took a right turn, and then we were in the super-cute town of New Cardiff, a wealthy New England town on the waterfront.
“I’ve done weddings out here,” I said. “I didn’t know this was where you grew up.”
“Yep.” He looked at me then back at the road. “Is it too Wall Street bro for you?”
“Please, I’m a basic bitch. I love a cute town with brick pavers and cutesy storefronts. Weddings in the City did a wedding in that pavilion,” I pointed, “and in the old train station and had several rehearsal dinners in these restaurants.”
Mark smiled wanly. “I need to show you something,” he said, taking another turn. He pulled the car up to a tall wrought iron gate. The guard opened it and waved him through, and we drove up a picturesque drive to a huge, rambling estate.
“This is the Holbrook estate,” Mark said, parking the car. He stepped out, and I followed. Beowulf ran in front of us, bounding through the lush green grass. “A couple years ago,” Mark said as we walked through the grounds, “I was dating this woman. I thought she was the love of my life. I was planning on proposing to her with this ring.” He took it out of his pocket.
“Rhonda?” I asked.
He nodded, mouth a bitter line. “So you heard the whole sordid tale, and you still want to be with me?”
“It wasn’t your fault,” I said gently.
“She rigged a bomb that blew up my house and set it on fire to try to kill my family. I should have known, Brea. I should have known. I’m not stupid.”
“Of course you’re not stupid,” I assured him, stroking his arm.
“Then why did I let it happen?”
“It’s not your fault.”
“I just don’t understand.” He was angry and distressed.
“Oh, you poor naïve Wall Street bros.”
Mark jerked away from me.
“Look, Mark,” I said, raising my hands in a placating gesture. “I don’t know how you were raised, but I find a lot of men seem to believe that women are just pretty, stupid creatures. Men roll their eyes when they see us go full-blown bridezilla at weddings and get hung up on what type of lace we want for a dress. And yeah, I guess some women aren’t that smart. But a lot of them are. A lot of women are sociopaths, and they use men’s preconceived notions about how a woman should act against them. They’re master manipulators.”
I took a breath.
“Trust me, I’ve seen things in the bridal industry you wouldn’t believe—women whipping their bridesmaids’ psyches into a pink froth, constant gaslighting. One woman stole a bunch of money from her sister to fund her wedding, and then, when confronted about it, she blamed her father. It was a complete mess. So when you tell me that this bitch Rhonda manipulated and lied to you, I mean, yeah, I believe it. Some women are just flat-out evil. Unfortunately, you managed to land in the clutches of one. It is not your fault. It happens.”
Mark turned back to me, a pathetic, adorable expression on his face. I took his hand.
“Fortunately for you,” I quipped, “after being in the trenches of wedding planning, I can smell a manipulative skank a mile away, and I promise, if any one of those bitches comes after you, I will cunt punt them into next week.”
Mark barked out a laugh. “What does that even mean?”
“Like cunt punt,” I mimed and did a football kick.
“Oh my God!” Mark said, staring at me in shock.
