“I think you’ve got that the wrong way around. I might not mind her if she were more interested in me, but she’s made it plain she doesn’t agree with my priorities and that I’m constantly letting her down. That’s when she remembers that I exist at all, which is usually only when we have to attend something like this.”
“Ouch.” She winces. “Sorry, babe.”
“No worries. I’m over it.” Or at least, I like to pretend I am.
The ceremony flows without a hitch. Christina is a beautiful bride, doing the Coleman name proud—something I’ll no doubt hear later. As soon as it’s done, we follow the wedding party into the restaurant where dinner is being served. They took photographs earlier in the day, and the cake cutting will happen after speeches are given.
Unfortunately, dinner does not go as well as the ceremony. For starters, we’re seated at a table with my parents, and the moment my butt touches the chair, Mom is leaning over to hiss in my ear, “Where is Gabriel? You told me you’d have a date.”
Wishing I could melt into the seat and disappear, I reach for a glass of wine and take a deep gulp. “Something urgent came up, so he couldn’t join me. This is my friend Lena.”
“Hello, Mrs. Coleman.” Lena offers a hand, which Mom accepts, making a show of checking her other one for a ring. Seeing it bare, she looks at me with disdain. I know exactly what she’s thinking. Mom believes half the reason I’m single is because I surround myself with other single women, AKA the competition. She honestly doesn’t realize how outdated that view is.
“Lovely to meet you,” she says, dismissing Lena before she’s even released her hand. For a moment, I’m tempted to mention who Lena’s parents are, just to see the look on her face—the LaFontaines are at the top of the societal ladder, exactly where Mom wishes she was—but I won’t subject Lena to that.
“Hey, kid,” Dad says, leaning around her and giving me the first genuine smile I’ve received from a family member all evening. His face is flushed pink and sweat beads on his receding hairline. I summon the best smile I can. My father has a decent heart; it’s just unfortunate that he doesn’t seem to think of me unless I’m right in front of him.
“Hi, Dad,” I reply. “Good to see you.”
My mother harrumphs. “I can’t believe you didn’t wear black. It’s the most classic and flattering shade.”
“Mom, it’s a wedding. Can you not see what’s wrong with that image? It’s supposed to be a celebration.”
She shakes her head. “Forgive me if it doesn’t feel like a celebration so much as yet another reminder of how my only daughter still hasn’t managed to attract and keep a good man.” Her gaze rakes over me critically. “That dress doesn’t do anything for you. Have you learned nothing from your cousins’ sense of style?”
“You don’t think she looks nice?” Lena cuts in, eyes flashing dangerously. She’s a hothead, but at this moment, I love her for it. “She’s absolutely gorgeous, and if you paid attention, you’d notice that a lot of the men here agree with me.”
They do? I glance around but don’t see anyone looking this way. Mom makes a sound of disbelief but drops the topic when Dad mutters something under his breath. We sit through dinner, which is both classy and delicious, and listen to far too many long speeches that I’m secretly grateful for because they save me from conversing with my parents. Finally, the formal part of the evening ends and we’re escorted to a ballroom, where a live band is set up.
“This is more like it,” I murmur to Lena. There’s a bar against one wall and I beeline toward it while the happy couple have their first dance. Lena follows, and we each grab a glass of champagne and clink them in a silent toast. Then the song changes and Lena takes my glass, sets it aside, and drags me onto the floor.
“I wasn’t done with that,” I protest.
“Don’t care.” She turns to face me and shimmies her hips. Many positive things can be said about Lena, but she is not a stellar dancer. “You’ve been moping all evening and you need to let loose and have a good time. Screw Gabe.”
“That’s exactly what I’d like to be doing,” I call back, and she laughs and swats my arm.
I mimic her movements, but my heart isn’t in it. She’s right, I’ve been down ever since I realized Gabe planned to desert me, and even though she’s being an incredible friend—probably better than I deserve at the moment—I can’t stop thinking about where I stand in Gabe’s priorities. That is, clearlynotat the top of the list.
“Stop pouting,” she says, swaying closer. “Try to have fun.” She grabs my hands and we swing our arms, veering into each other and pulling away again in time with the beat. Leaning closer, she raises her voice to be heard above the noise. “Don’t deny yourself just because your boyfriend is being an ass, and your mom is a piece of work. Your needs are important too, and right now, you need to stop thinking.”
She’s right, again, because of course she is. She’s great at reading others because she ferrets out people’s secrets and then protects them for a living. She also happens to understand the perils of dating an MMA fighter and having emotionally distant parents. Except our situations aren’t the same because Jase is completely and undeniably devoted to her. I can’t say that when it comes to Gabe. Shoving the thought to the back of my mind, I straighten my spine and make an effort to smile.
“Sorry. Officially forgetting them.”
“Good girl.”
We dance together for another few minutes, and then someone taps me on the shoulder. Twisting around, I see a hot guy in a suit, the top few buttons of his shirt undone and a sheen of perspiration on his forehead. He grins, his baby blues twinkling down at me, and offers me a hand.
I start to shake my head. “Oh, no. I—”
“Go!” Lena hisses, shoving my shoulder. “Have fun. Just don’t do anything too crazy.”
“I don’t know…” I hedge.
She puts her mouth beside my ear. “Gabe blew it tonight. He deserves to know you danced with another man. Just don’t let any hands or mouths wander to inappropriate places.”
Still not entirely comfortable, but pleased by the idea of making Gabe jealous, I accept the guy’s hand and let him pull me away.
