Page 28 of Weddings, Revenge & Fake Dating

I catch the end of Sophia’s rant. She signals the bartender for another glass, and he quickly complies.

“I’m sorry. Did you say virgin?” I stare as she pours a glass for me.

“A long time ago before Roman, I made a commitment to myself not to sleep with anyone ever again until I got married.”

“Like a self-induced sex-famine?” I ask.

I’ve been on the same train too, but for a completely different reason. Roman has ignored me for years. Even as I think hard, I can’t remember the last time we were intimate. Maybe as karmic payback, Sophia has her booty on lockdown.

Immediately, I’m deeply satisfied with the knowledge.

“Exactly! I re-virginized myself.” She toasts her triumph.

“Good for you! You deserve that, Fifi.” I toast her back to solidify her commitment to torturing Roman, but then realize I made another fatal error, one much worse than sharing my phone number.

“Aw, you haven’t called me Fifi since we were little.” Sophia slings an arm around my neck and tugs me close.

The nickname always made her clingy. Apparently, it still works. She leans her head on my shoulder, then slumps, losing consciousness.

I squeeze my eyes shut and curse myself. Panicking, I glance around, searching for Nathan, but he’s not here. As for the ladies? They’re too far gone to help.

Kayla and Elsie are passed out on our VIP sectional sofa. Ruby is making out with someone. Amelia is on the DJ stand, dancing her heart out with her new flame, while the others are missing in action.

Begrudgingly, my long-forgotten babysitter mode kicks in. With the help of a bouncer, I wrangle Sophia outside of the club and roll her into a cab, leaving the limo for the ladies.

When we arrive at the hotel, Sophia has regained some alertness. Because she’s unsteady, I place her onto a luggage cart and wheel her into the elevator. And because this night is getting worse, I learn she and Roman are staying on the same floor in a room across from mine.

Ugh.

Halfway down the hall, she rolls off the cart and onto her knees, laughing, which quickly turns to gagging.

She mutters, reminiscing about the time I tricked her into eating something disgusting. Younger me had shaped a stick of butter into two scoops that looked like vanilla ice cream and covered it with chocolate syrup. She was sold on the “dessert” when I added rainbow sprinkles.

“I’m gonna be sick like that, I can feel it.” Sophia holds her stomach and moans.

“You’ll be fine,” I tell her.

But when her skin turns green, I lift her to her feet, determined not to let her spew carpet pizza. My shoulder slips under her arm like a crutch, and we stumble on one precarious step at a time.

To distract her, I randomly pick a song to sing from our youth. As I reach the famous hook, she only joins in for a bit before her interest flips to a new topic.

“Where’s Nathan? Nathan, come help us,” she yells instead.

“Shh, he’s sleeping,” I lie, trying to get her to shut up.

“No way. He’s waiting to grind on you again.”

She breaks free with more energy than expected and sloppily runs down the hall. Her arms and legs flail before her body slams into what she believes is my door. It’s not.

She bangs at it with a heavy arm.

At the sight, I become completely sober. It’s not because she’s about to wake some poor family and ruin their vacation, nor is it because Roman and Sophia’s room is across from mine.

It’s because she believes Nathan is asleep in my room, like two people in a committed relationship.

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jeanie