It’s only when I see the balloons affixed to the patio furniture on the terrace—the “newlyweds” balloons—that I realize what we just did.
And when I lock eyes with Ryan, I can see he knows it too.
We just had sex on his ex’s bed. At her wedding.
“Just keep walking,” Ryan says as we move quickly down the path that leads to the other side of the property where the festivities are taking place.
“Hold on,” I say, dropping the sandals that have been dangling from my fingers. “Let me put these on.”
I offer up a silent thank-you to the universe that I went with the strawberry slides.
Chapter 8
RYAN
The dinner portion of the wedding passes by in a blur. Sloane and I are finding every excuse to touch each other, to the point that I worry for a moment if our public displays of affection are crossing the line. But I don’t really care.
Every time I imagined this day over the past few months it had been with a raw dread, an existential fervor that gnawed at me. Who broke up with someone in a small town, only to get engaged to that ex’s family member soon after, and then planned the wedding in the same town—small enough that it would be impossible for said ex-slash-relative to politely decline?
That dread has completely dissipated, and I realize now that it’s been fading exponentially over the course of the past week, with every small moment Sloane noticed something idyllic about my town, about my life, about the quiet regularity of it. It was as though I’d never given myself permission to feel that way.
Strangely, I’ve actually enjoyed this evening, and not just because of the mind-blowing events of what just went down in the bridal suite. And not in a “stick it to the ex” kind of way— though that could have been easy, given how beautiful my date is. Maybe almost a faux pas, the same way that other women aren’t supposed to show up in white or upstage the bride with a showy dress. I’d learned that from Calista when we wereattending my college roommate’s wedding and I’d suggested she wear a gown I’d seen hanging in her closet. “It’s too much,” she’d said, looking at me like I was crazy.
But now I get it. Without even trying, Sloane is commanding attention in the form of sideways glances, whispered “who isshes?”.
I feel a bit guilty, but also carefree, with Sloane at my side. Any time I introduce her to someone—an old friend, a family member, a new acquaintance—I find myself proud to have her on my arm. As though she’s actually mine.
But after what happened in the bridal suite—holy hell, the bridal suite—the line has become blurred. This started as a situation of convenience, but that was undeniably real… Wasn’t it?
Her arm brushes mine while we endure the bridal party speeches during dinner. Her laugh is musical when the couple across from us, actually nice, asks her where she’s from and how we met.
But this time, even though she executes our plan perfectly, I find myself a bit…put off. I’ve been so concerned with us pulling the wool over my friends’ and family’s eyes, but now, all I want is the truth.
What would anyone think if we told them that?This is Sloane. I found her on the beach after she bailed on her wedding. She’s agreed to be here with me in exchange for a place to stay.
Somewhere between the beach, the grilled cheese, the fake date, and the bridal suite, I stopped pretending this is a temporary ruse. I need to tell her that my feelings aren’t temporary either.
By the time the dance floor really gets started, I couldn’t be more in the mood to leave the party.
But Sloane—strangely, given the fact that she doesn’t know anyone here—seems to be having a great time. WhenSigned, Sealed, Deliveredcomes over the speakers, she practically rips me from my seat and pulls me toward the dancefloor, the last place I’d ever usually be found at a party.
“This is fun,” she whispers in my ear, and just the feeling of her warm, sweet breath on my skin dissolves any inhibitions in me. I have a feeling that if she asked, I’d strip down to my underwear and perform the macarena just to keep that smile on her face.
We dance for a while, until I recognize that it’s my moment.
“Hey,” I say. “Want to get out of here?”
“I’m not ready to go to bed yet,” Sloane says, and I see a woman who’s finally shed whatever was holding her back.
Who’s starting to live her authentic self, away from expectations, hierarchy,image.
“That’s not what I have in mind, trust me,” I say. And I can tell she does.
But then her expression shifts. It’s the same one I saw in the kitchen the first night she’d stayed, when we were eating grilled cheeses and the light of my phone came on and she snapped out of the moment into the past. To what she’d done.
“Oh, no,” she whispered. “Not here.”
I turn and follow her sightline to see a sandy-haired, broad-shouldered man at the edge of the property. He’s looking at Sloane like he’s looking at a ghost. There’s recognition, but also surprise.
