PROLOGUE – GOOD FUCKING LUCK, BABE
IVY
“Oh god, I think I’m going to puke.”
That’s the last thing a person wants to hear when they’re wearing silk.
I’ve been calm all morning. I’ve been calm for the last few weeks, really. But those four words, “I’m going to puke”, hit me like a semi-truck.
Panic rises in my chest, and I toss my bouquet to the side, looking for some kind of receptacle for my friend to vomit in.
I should have brought a brown paper lunch bag for Delilah to breathe into. That’s what they do in all the movies, right? When someone is freaking out, you make them breathe into a brown paper bag, and it helps them relax or something.
Why the hell didn’t I think to bring a brown paper bag? Or one of those seasick patch things you put behind your ear when you’re on a boat?
Clearly I am far too young and immature to handle all of this, and if I’m too young, that means Delilah is also too young. In fact, she’s evenmoretoo young since I’m a full four months older than her.
There are no trash cans, no potted plants, not even a spare mop bucket lying around, so I’ve got to calm her down instead.
“Lilah, honey, relax,” I coo, taking my friend’s clammy hand in mine. Her face is pale as a ghost, so pale that I almost can’t tell where the white, lacy fabric of her gown ends and her skin begins. Her chest is heaving, her lungs working overtime as she tries to settle herself.
“I am relaxed. I’m just sick. I’m always sick these days,” Delilah says, sticking out her lip to blow her perfectly curled bangs out of her face. Beads of perspiration dot her forehead, but her hair has been styled and hair-sprayed to a tasteful but crunchy crisp, so there is no chance of it falling out despite her rapid dampening.
Perfect hair or no, she is so full of shit. Delilah Hudson and I have been best friends since we were thirteen years old, and I know her inside and out. She might tell me she’s relaxed, but the sheen of sweatcoating her face and the way her eyes keep darting towards the church doors like she’s calculating how to make a run for it in her heels gives her away.
“Lilah, listen to me,” I say gently, squeezing her soft hands in mine. The oversized cubic zirconia rock picked haphazardly from the display case at the local superstore on her left ring finger scratches me, but I squeeze harder. “You don’t have to do this.”
I’ve repeated the phrase so many times in the last few weeks, ever since that morning we sat on the cold bathroom floor of Delilah’s studio apartment above the yarn and fiber arts store in our town of Fox Hole and waited for the little white stick to change colors.
“Yes, I do, Vee. You know I do.” She gestures down to her stomach. It’s hidden by the empire waist on her gown, but under all those layers, Delilah’s normally flat belly has just begun to swell.
“Honey, it isn’t 1955 anymore. No one is going to send you away for being an unwed mother. I’m telling you, Lilah, say the word and we’re out of here. Fuck the wedding, fuck the town, fuck it all. We’ll hop in my Jeep and just start driving. You’ll feel much better once we get you out of this heavy dress and get some fresh air into your lungs.”
Maybe trying to convince my pregnant best friend that it’s okay to leave her groom at the altar isn’t howI thought I’d be spending my afternoon, but as maid of honor it’s my duty to be ready for anything and everything the bride throws at me today.
And let’s be honest, trying to steer my friend in the opposite direction of the man waiting for her on the other side of the double doors isn’t too much of a hardship for me. Six weeks ago, when the two of us were staring down at the little white stick in her bathroom, I was giving her the exact same speech.
I practically begged her to do anything but have that man’s baby. I reminded her she had choices, and that I would fully respect whichever one she made. If she decided not to go through with the pregnancy, I’d be there to hold her hand through the abortion and after. If she wanted to give the baby up for adoption, I’d be there every step of the way, picking couples from the back of the Penny Saver like our own version of Juno if that’s what she chose.
In the end, Delilah decided to keep the baby and the man. So true to my word, I’m here to hold her hand through this choice, too.
Her lip trembles, and she blinks up at the ceiling, unsuccessfully trying to hide her tears from me.
“Why does everyone keep trying to shove me into the getaway car? My dad said the same thing last night. ‘Say the word and we’ll drive away from here. Anywhere you want to go.’ Even Mom wouldn’t stopmentioning pushing the ceremony off, and she’s been dreaming about my wedding day since before I was born.”
I bite back the urge to make some snarky remark and simply offer Delilah a small smile and a tilt of my head. She doesn’t need me to remind her why we all want her to pull a Julia Roberts and run away from here today.
“No, I’m not leaving. I’m marrying the Earl today, Vee. I love the Earl,” she says, and now I’m the one fighting back the urge to vomit all over my peach satin dress.
I know Delilah loves her historical romance books, but I fear she might have taken this cosplay a bit too far. No one should have to refer to their fiancé as “The” anything, but especially when said fiancé isn’t remotely close to holding any kind of royal title.
But my Lilah is stubborn as a damn mule. When she sets her mind on something, she has to have it. She wants to be a wife and a mother, and Earl Ellis Booth—or, as he insists on being called, The Earl Of Auto, after the body shop he took over from his dad—is the one who knocked her up and put a ring on her finger. Even if the man is milquetoast at best and revolting at worst, this is what Delilah wants.
So when Mr. Hudson rounds the corner, looking dapper in his suit and ready to walk his little girldown the aisle (or, if he had it his way, throw her over his shoulder and shove her in the back of his truck, saving her and all of us from this entire mess) there’s only one thing I can stomach saying to Delilah before she ties her life to the biggest douchelord this side of the Mississippi River.
“Alright. If you’re sure, then let’s do this thing. I’ll see you on the other side.”
Delilah smiles, and as I turn to walk down the aisle to stand by her while she makes a huge mistake, I mutter under my breath.
