Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 133682 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 668(@200wpm)___ 535(@250wpm)___ 446(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 133682 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 668(@200wpm)___ 535(@250wpm)___ 446(@300wpm)
Dead silence.
A few seconds later, there’s a worried gasp. “What happened? Did he hurt you? Because if he did something to my sister a month—no, less than a month—before my wedding, I’ll…I’ll…put composted cow manure in his slice of wedding cake.”
“First, love your attention to detail when it comes to revenge, but…” I pause, wincing. I can’t tell her what he did. Not after she rattled off her DEFCON-5 levels of pre-wedding stress. “It was mutual,” I assure her as I grab my oversized purple bag from the kitchen counter in my little Mission District apartment. “We just realized we weren’t right for each other. But it’s fine. I swear it’s fine. It happens.”
“Fable,” she says sympathetically. “Do you need me to come over later with a pin-the-tail-on-the-dickhead? We can throw darts at an image of his face.”
As appealing as that may be—I love a good game of darts—she needs to focus on putting together a wedding in just over three weeks. “I’m great, Char. I swear. We weren’t a good match. It was so mutual—it was, like, beyond mutual.”
“Is it going to be weird to see him at the wedding?”
“No,” I lie, trying not to picture Brady pumping a fist and bro-knocking guests at every opportunity. “It’ll be fine. No problem.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive,” I say, grabbing a jacket.
“I’ll find someone to be on your team, then,” she says.
I stop in my tracks at the kitchen counter. Wait. What fresh hell did she just utter? “What…do you mean?”
“Leo and I thought it’d be fun if everyone teams up. For the Evergreen Falls Christmas competition Wilder mentioned. The one in the town. The events are so fun—there’s a snowball fight and a gingerbread house-making competition and more. We’re thinking the bride and groom can be on one team,” she says, then rattles off Leo’s parents, our mom and stepdad, our dad and his third or fourth wife—who can keep track?—and then the cousins. My head is spinning with the inevitable when she says, “Oh. Hang on—Leo’s just texted me. Brady’s RSVP’d with—”
I knew this was coming since Brady, with the subtlety of an elephant, invited the eggnog drinker in front of me. Still, I groan inside, close my eyes, and stuff the shirt into my work bag. I mutter Iris right as Charlotte says it out loud. Or rather, she asks, “Iris, the caterer?”
AKA, Iris, who sucked the stripes off Brady’s candy cane. I can’t believe he’s already put her name on the guest list. But then, I can.
“That’s so great he’s found someone,” I say, so bright, so bubbly I must sound like I’m on helium when, in fact, I’ve drunk a cup of pure dread. The last thing I want is to see them together at the wedding. Correction: the last thing I want is to see them together at all.
But I definitely can’t tell my sister the truth now. I’ll wait till the new year. Once Charlotte returns from her dream honeymoon, we’ll grab brunch and laugh over my terrible ex and what went down.
Well, what went down Iris’s throat.
After watching my father selfishly toy with my mother’s emotions, after he promised to change after every affair, after he vowed to stay faithful this time then dramatically stole the limelight, I won’t do that with Charlotte.
Besides, opening up isn’t my favorite thing to do.
It’s your least favorite thing, and you know it.
I tell that little, knowing voice to shut the F up. There’s nothing wrong with keeping your feelings to yourself. It’s safer than sharing. And frankly, kinder. This way, I can focus on Charlotte during her special time.
Brady’s the past, and the past is behind me. I say goodbye to my sister and gallop out the door to catch a bus to the stadium.
At two minutes past ten, I vault off the bus and race to the employee entrance, where I wag my lanyard with my Renegades ID at the security guard at the door. He has no mercy for my labored breaths or the strands of hair falling from my clip on one side of my head—because, of course, it falls only on one side—or the sweat I’m sweating under my short-sleeve blouse. Running that far made me as hot as Hades, and now the blast of heating from the stadium raises my body temperature about a million degrees.
But once inside the halls, I hustle to text Wilder, tapping away on my phone.
Fable: Mind if I pump you late?
Seconds later, he replies.
Wilder: Excuse me?
I reread my text, and my cheeks flame with embarrassment. Thumbs flying to type a reply, I click-clack along the concrete corridor.
Fable: Join you late! I meant join you late! Sorry!
Wilder: Sure. I’m here whenever you get here. For the joining.
He’s being good-natured, but he has to think I’m lazy and messy. Not a great look for a designer. I dash to my little office and snag the box of Christmas stockings, dictating another reply.