The Rehearsal Dinner wouldn’t go quietly into the night. Not now that I was a celebrity or was going to be a celebrity. Casey skirted by Don, and I stepped forward, and we met like enemies on the Persian rug in the middle of the Frank parlor.
“Summer.”
“Yes?”
“We have something we need to talk about.”
CHAPTER 92
It had been a simple enough prank. And that was really all it was meant to be: a prank. Something to smack my wedding party on the back of the head and punish them for their betrayal.
Because they’d all known. I’d left Scott’s house that day and had driven to Corrine’s house. Walked into a houseful of my bridesmaids, their hands busy with net, lace, and rice, their bubbly chatter stopping when I’d walked in. Stacey, Scott’s secretary, had been the first to speak. “Hey,” she’d said, and my sensitive ears heard the red flag in her cautious tone. “I thought you were in Tallahassee today.”
“That was this morning.” I’d breezed through the girls and into the kitchen, ripping a paper towel from the roll and dabbing at my eyes, grabbing the wine bottle, freshly opened on the counter, and taking a generous swig. I’d pasted a smile on my face and stepped back into the doorway. “Where’s Bobbie Jo?”
Four girls didn’t lie well as a group. There was an uncomfortable stammer, someone saying ‘Working’ at the same time as Bridget said, “She isn’t feeling well.” With another swig of wine, I’d turned back to the kitchen.
“I’m gonna head home,” I’d called over my shoulder. “I don’t feel well.”
The girls had chimed in a chorus of regrets, their vocal cords suddenly working just fine. I’d stuck their extra, unopened bottle into my purse and pasted a smile on my face. Wiggled my fingers at them and heaped out my thanks for their tireless bridesmaid efforts as I walked back through and out the door.
It was what I had deserved, befriending the cool crowd of women in Quincy. They hadn’t really ever been my friends. They’d ignored me in high school and only buddied up when I’d started dating Scott. Scott’s friends had been their boyfriends, husbands, and brothers, our three-year relationship the only grounds that our friendship had been built on.
I had driven home to Momma, tears dripping down the stupid purple mascara that Avril Lavigne looked good in, and Bridget had raised her eyebrows at. And that night, one pruned toe playing with our bathtub drain, I had devised My Plan.
My Plan had been simple. My Plan had been foolproof. My Plan had been, according to Variety Magazine in that fateful issue that changed my life, diabolical.
I thought diabolical had been a strong adjective, used by a magazine editor who had clearly never read stories of Herodias or Jezebel. I mean, let’s face it. Nobody died.
CHAPTER 93
“How did I not know this?” Cole exploded, throwing a Coke can against the wall, the contents splattering on some poor PA. “How did we not know this?” He held up a magazine and waved it wildly, the flap of its pages loud in the quiet room. I couldn’t see the cover from my seat, his motions too fast, but I had seen him reading it, had seen everyone reading it, copies passed out like candy. I hadn’t taken one. I had simply taken my seat at the end of the table and waited for punishment.
“We didn’t think we needed to do a full work up on her.” Some man I’d never seen spoke up, his hands nervously adjusting the bridge of his glasses. “I mean, look at her.” He gestured in my direction, and I looked down at the table, the chastised child. “We ran criminal, background, and porn searches—did the blood work. Everything came back clean.”
Porn searches? They talked about me like I was a prop in the scene, one without feelings or emotions or explanations. Though, as far as explanations went, I had none. What I had done was terrible. And whatever was printed in that magazine… it probably painted it exactly in that light.
“It wasn’t that big of a deal,” I spoke up from my corner of the table. “And it was years ago.”
“So you already know what this is about?” Casey rested her weight on the table, her long red nails matching her lips.
“My rehearsal dinner?” I guessed.
“The Rehearsal Dinner From Hell,” she read loudly, her words over enunciated, her fingers shoving a glossy cover in my direction. It skidded halfway down the table and stopped. No one furthered its journey, but I could see the cover picture from where I sat. It was Scott’s and my engagement photo. Some creative mind at the magazine had drawn horns on my head and given me a tail. I looked away and saw Cole, staring at me, his weight against the wall. Our eyes met, and I couldn’t look away. I tried. I failed.
“Why didn’t you tell us about this?” Her voice rang out across the room, and I felt like I was eight years old, in Mrs. Wilson’s class, fessing up to forgetting to feed Sparky the Goldfish. I wanted to look at Casey, wanted to look at the floor, wanted to look anywhere but couldn’t pull away from Cole’s stare.
“Clear the room,” Cole spoke, a copy of the magazine crumpling in his fist. “I need to speak to Summer. Alone.”
No one moved, save for that Coca-Cola-drenched PA who started to stand, then realized no one else was, and plopped back down.
“I mean it.” Cole turned to Don, who sat next to Casey, his hands pressed to his temples. “Film the entry scenes. Have extras stand in for us. I want a chance to talk to her alone.”