Total pages in book: 55
Estimated words: 52976 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 265(@200wpm)___ 212(@250wpm)___ 177(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 52976 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 265(@200wpm)___ 212(@250wpm)___ 177(@300wpm)
“And incur the wrath of our parents?” Byron shakes his head, then takes a dish from the stack and joins me in washing them. “I suppose it won’t be any different than the nights I’m kept late at the theater and can’t be there to kiss you goodnight.”
My eyes linger on Douglas and Mortimer. It’s hard to pretend like everything’s okay when half the people in this apartment have a target set on my best friend.
I can’t speak for Byron’s dads, who act like a pair of twisted, undercover Ghostbusters with a penchant for slaying spirits for sport—Mortimer maybe more so than Douglas—but at least I know my fiancé comes from a place of love regarding this whole messy situation. He cares about me. He’s proven that time and time again.
But it does little to ease my fears.
Something is going to happen tomorrow. I can feel it down to my bones.
Still, I put on a smile and face my to-be-husband. “I look forward to adding a piece of your name to mine tomorrow.”
“Likewise,” he says back, then kisses me. That earns us a drunken round of applause from our parents in the living room, who apparently had their eye on us. Byron and I pull away laughing, ditch the dishwashing for now, and head over to the couch to join them.
That night in my apartment, I sit by the window in solitude, sleepless and inconsolable, fire escape out the window, and beg Westley Harmeyer not to let me down.
-10-
Let Thine Unholy Shit Hitteth Thy Fan
My foot won’t stop tapping the floor.
I’ve done, redone, and undone my bowtie fifty-four and a half times. Now it just hangs from my neck as I stare at my pale, sweaty face in the mirror.
What’s gotten into me?
I fight off a shiver, then wonder why they keep it so damned frigid in this old building. It could also be my nerves, to be fair, which have been wire-tight since I got here with my parents. My well-meaning mom has been in and out of the room a hundred times, which seems to pester me more than it helps. My dad has sensibly kept his distance, entertaining the guests as they arrive. Both Byron and I opted out of having groomsmen, since that would pretty much empty out the audience and would basically consist of all our coworkers, so I’m left in this room by myself for substantial periods of time with no one capable of consoling me.
The only person who would be perfect at that is a person whose heart doesn’t even beat.
A person who isn’t here.
“West,” I mutter at the mirror, at my pale reflection, at a bead of ice cold sweat that refuses to drop from my brow, “if you can hear me, if you’re out there, if you’re anywhere at all … I wish you were here. I need a friend. I don’t even care about the other half of my soul right now. I just want you to talk me down, to razz me in that way only you can do, to make me feel human. Because right now, I’m petrified.”
The mirror says nothing back.
West doesn’t appear from thin air.
I’m not even sure a candle would do the trick in this place. Maybe it was just our special thing. Maybe other ghosts haunting other apartments have their things, like switching to a certain channel on TV after midnight, or burping out the alphabet backwards, or eating exactly half of an everything bagel.
There is a lot of muffled noise outside of this room. People laughing. Talking. Rushing by. I didn’t even think our ceremony was going to be that crowded with so many random cancellations. Everyone pulled through somehow anyway, and it feels like the world is waiting for me out there.
No one is going to come through that door and say the magic thing to reassure me.
The only person I have is myself.
I close my eyes. “You are exactly where you’re meant to be right now,” I whisper quietly. After all, I’m the only one who’s listening. Why speak louder? “The man waiting for you at the end of that aisle is the man of your dreams. He’s the one whose heart you won over. He’s the barista who captured yours. You are among friends and family. You are safe in their hands. There is a long and happy life awaiting you after today. It begins now. You and Byron. No one and nothing else matters.”
The noise beyond the door has faded.
All I hear is my breathing.
You can do this.
The door opens from behind. I turn around to find the warm, round face of my mom, whose eyes match my own with surprising detail. She hurries to me as fast as she can in her cream-colored dress, her tight curls of hair bouncing. “Oh, look at you! You’re so handsome!”