‘How far along?’I ask, breathless.
‘Twelve weeks,’ Ella says, grinning.
Abbey’s eyes go wide.‘Wait.Are you pregnant?’
Ella laughs again.
‘Yes, you idiot,’ I say, smacking her shoulder lightly.
Abbey lets out her own squeal and launches into a hug.
‘Finally!’Gloria says with a theatrical sigh.‘You have no idea how hard it’s been for me to keep a secret.’
‘I can’t believe it,’ I say, looking between them.Ella opens her mouth to say something, but there’s a knock at the door.
‘Time to go, ladies!’Steven calls.
I squeeze Ella’s hand, ‘Congratulations, El.’
‘OMG!We’re going to be aunties!’Abbey screams.
‘Does anyone else know?’I ask.
Ella shakes her head.‘Just our parents and you guys.I think I just want to get through this weekend first before we start telling anyone else.’
I nod as Abbey says, ‘Speaking of …’ She looks out the window and then back to Ella.‘Shall we?’
Ella takes a deep breath and smiles.‘Let’s do it.’
We follow Ella down the hall, past the flower girls – two tiny nieces of Darcy’s who I’m certain I Macarena’d with last night – and step into the sun-drenched chaos of the ceremony.
Abbey leans in and whispers to Ella, ‘You ready?’
Ella nods.I pick up my bouquet of pink waratahs and fall in behind the flower girls.A guitar starts, something soft and twangy.The sun is hot, my palms are sweating, and I know that my boob tape is giving up.
It’s fine.
This is fine.
We step out onto the lawn, and I glance down the aisle – Darcy stands there, nervous, fidgeting, doing the thing where he adjustshis tie.I give him a wink to remind him we’re still rooting for him not to faint.
And then … I see Luke.Cream chinos.White button-down shirt.That face.
He stands beside Darcy – a groomsman in a country magazine spread with his clean lines, sun-kissed skin and furrowed brow.
His eyes lock on mine, and it’s not casual.It’s not even polite.It’s confused.Like I’m a riddle he didn’t mean to start solving.
Oh, I know that look.
I’ve danced this dance before – I’ve played this part in enough short-lived romances to have the choreography memorised.It starts with ‘She’s not my type,’ followed by ‘Wait … why do I keep thinking about her?’and ends somewhere around ‘Okay, fine, maybe just once.’
They always say I’m too much – too loud, too sharp, too something.And then they lean in as if they’re starving for it.And me?I adjust.I shift.I give them exactly what they think they want.
It’s not manipulation.It’s survival.It’s an art.I’m a chameleon, if you will.
And now I know what Luke prefers.The banter.The bite.The girl who snaps back instead of swooning.The one who’s got no business being quiet.And the best part is, I don’t have to pretend to be someone else for him.I’m already the mouthy, impossible character who doesn’t know when to shut up.
Game.On.
