Page 56 of Weddings, Revenge & Fake Dating

The seamstress makes final adjustments to Sophia’s gown. As they do, the salesperson suggests a dress for me. It doesn’t match the bridesmaids’ dresses with its tropical pattern, but Sophia insists it’s perfect because it’s special, like me.

I don’t even know how to take her compliment. Her genuine comments always catch me off guard. No matter how hard I look for her angle, I’m starting to wonder if she even has one.

At dinner, we sit on the terrace under the banyan trees at Casa Veintitres, a trendy restaurant. Because we’ve had too much champagne, we’re carrying on far too loudly.

“Ladies, spill! We need the tea on the one that got away,” Amelia asks the group.

“The smuttier the story the better,” Iris says.

One at a time, the ladies take turns relaying stories of blind dates, past loves, one-night stands, and hate bangs. Between them, they have so much experience with love and heartache.

Meanwhile, Roman was the first boy I kissed as well as my first breakup. There’s only ever been him. Sometimes I think Dex is naive, but after some self-introspection, I realize I am too.

“There was this one guy,” Sophia says.

Everyone hoots. She hides behind her napkin as a million questions fly in her direction.

Sophia jumps into a story about someone she met after high school. “I guess you never forget your first love,” she says, concluding her story with a sip of champagne.

As the chattering continues around her, Sophia’s smile falters. The brightness she always carries slips behind the clouds for a few moments as if she’s lost in a bad memory. It appears again, but dimmer than before.

On the way back to the hotel, the driver cruises down Ocean Drive. The bridesmaids hang out of the sunroof of the Beefmobile. They wear glow-in-the-dark necklaces while dancing to a remix of an old-school Spanish song. Passersby wave. Someone blows an air horn, making them scream. They’re having a blast, but not Sophia. She’s alone, gazing out the back window, acting uncharacteristically morose.

“You want to talk about it?” I ask as I join her.

She fiddles with the hem of her dress. “How do you know you’re making the right decision?”

“You don’t,” I say with a snort. “In my experience, life is a series of misfires, and occasionally you hit the target.”

“How can you say that? Your life has always been perfect.”

I shoot her the side-eye.

“Besides Roman,” she says to clarify. “For as long as I remember, you’ve been the it girl. You always made the right decisions regarding college, a house, your family, and a successful business. You make life look easy.”

Her words strike me dumb. Because, one, I didn’t know she kept tabs on me after our parents parted ways. And two, I’ve always labeled myself a misfit who trudged through life one event at a time, doing the best I could.

Yes, I got lucky many times, like with my business, but there’s one significant and glaring test I failed. Looking back, I realize I treated Sophia terribly. I was jealous that she lived with my dad while I only saw him once a month.

A flash of realization hits. The same scenario is happening all over again. I’ve been blaming Sophia for my divorce. The truth is someone can’t steal a husband if he isn’t willing to leave. And, it seems, Roman was long gone before they met.

Has my anger always been displaced? I clear my throat and focus on answering her question.

“I don’t know.” I squirm. “I followed my heart. Things worked out, for the most part.” I give her a wry smile. “I don’t regret marrying Roman. I have a great kid and wonderful memories.”

“What are you going to do now?” she asks.

I thought when I won Roman back, we would return to our suburban life and nothing would change. If my wedding-wrecking plan doesn’t work, what will I do?

Until this moment, I hadn’t considered I might fail. It’s never been an option.

“I need time to figure that out,” I say because I don’t know.

“All while banging hunky Nathan,” she says with a grin. It’s become our little joke.

“It’s a difficult task, but I’ll power through.”

We snicker like schoolgirls.