Her face lights up like the Fourth of July. “Really?”
I laugh. “Did you think I’d say no?”
“I wasn’t sure,” she admits sheepishly. “I know you don’t really like Brian, and you live so far away. Sometimes I think we’ve…I thought…I don’t know.”
Okay, that’s fair. She doesn’t have to clarify it for me to know what she’s trying to say. We’ve grown apart over the past couple of years. Phone calls are fewer, updates are even less, and we’ve just been dancing around the fact that something in our relationship has changed. So, yeah, I guess maybe shewouldbe nervous to ask.
“I’d do anything for you, Jules,” I tell her sincerely. “Including wearing an itchy dress and holding your bouquet.” Including flying thirty-seven hundred miles for a party in a mansion celebrating my best friend being in love with someone else.
Her arms slide over my shoulders, and I feel her face press againstthe side of my neck. I hold her close, circling her waist and sink into her. I try to ignore that we still fit like pieces of the same puzzle. That her perfume still stirs up desire. That the warmth of her skin feels like a security blanket.
When she starts to pull away, I loosen my hold and watch as she wipes at her eyes. “Maid of honor, huh?” I ask, not knowing what else to say.
“Well,” she starts and continues to fix her makeup, “my co–maid of honor. I asked Chloe, too.”
“Even better,” I say, glad I don’t have to do this on my own. “She can take care of the boring stuff, and I can plan the bachelorette party.”
“Strippers?”
“Of both genders,” I confirm.
“Where my bitches at?” someone yells from outside the garden.
“Speaking of Chloe,” Jules says fondly.
We share a look and begin to giggle. If Tuxedo was mad about me violating the flowers, he must be livid at Chloe’s shouted profanities.
Jules links her arm through mine and leads us back to the garden entrance. “Come on. The party’s about to start, and I’m finally united with my two best friends.”
The whole evening ends up being exactly how I anticipated: a lot of stuffy people trying to one-up each other in a not-so-subtle game of bragging. Jules’s parents are here, which is nice, considering this is very clearly a party for Brian’s “people,” and where he looks totally in his element, Jules most assuredly does not.
I’ll give Brian credit, however much it pains me, because he doesn’t leave Jules’s side, stepping in to take the brunt of most of the wedding questions. And Jules plays her part perfectly. Her smile, although tired and obviously forced, never leaves her lips, and she nods along while receiving unsolicited advice about the wedding, purchasing a home, and kids.
I try not to think about Jules and Brian having kids.
Instead, I watch the entire show from the safety of the corner ofthe main room and hover near the Marrows. Somewhere between her second and third glass of wine, Mrs. Marrow confirms my suspicions that this is a Prescott affair, and the only reason Chloe and I were invited was because Jules, in a moment of bravery, insisted. Something she apparently never does when it comes to the Prescotts.
After this, I hope it becomes more of a habit.
About two hours into the party, the sun sets, and I slip out to the back deck where it’s a little quieter. There are only so many times I can answer questions about being a part-time bartender and part-time marketing manager and pretend not to notice the looks of disdain that follow.
I head away from the doors and lean against the railing to look out into the garden. Even though the house is a bit excessive, I have to admit, the lighted pathway that trails through the hedges and flowers is a rather beautiful sight.
“Hey, fellow maid of honor.” Chloe bumps my shoulder as if to say, “Found you,” and hands me a beer. “Having fun?”
“Oh, totally. I love answering questions about myself and then getting to hear about all the ways I still have time to course correct.”
“Ah, yes. That’s a good one.” She holds out her bottle, and I tap it with mine. “I’m also enjoying the ‘And how do you know Julia’ questions. Like a Black girl can’t have a white best friend.”
I groan because as bad as I have it, I can’t even imagine what Chloe has to put up with.
“I guess we both scored pity invites because we’ve known her since grade school.”
“Obligatory bridesmaids.”
“Excuse you. Maids of honor,” I correct.
“Oh, yes, we are above regular bridesmaids, how silly of me.” She taps her bottle to mine again.
