My Big Fat Fake Honeymoon

by Lauren Landish

  “Sorry, can’t,” I say dismissively, trying to move through the crowd.

  “Aw, c’mon! It’ll be fun. They’re giving chips out now, no money needed,” she cajoles.

  Her smile is plastered on, but one look in her eyes tells me exactly what she’s alluding to.

  She thinks I care about the money? Is that supposed to be a dig about my family’s riches compared to my lack thereof?

  Emily must sense that she’s made her point because she verbally dances backward. “You know because of the engine thing.” She waves her hand in the air like the ‘engine thing’ is nothing.

  God, how did I let myself get caught up in this again? Especially when there are more important things going on. She’s deftly played me right into a corner where she can pretend she was being friendly and inviting me to play a game, and if I say anything snarky, I come out looking like the overreacting bitch.

  “No,” I tell her more firmly.

  “Ooh, you scared I’ll beat you again?” she teases, but I can hear the mean-girl thread of challenge. Two steps forward, jab-jab, retreat. It’s a ploy she’s used time and time again.

  One I’ve honestly played myself a time or two as well, not shutting this down from the get-go but fighting back in small slices of verbal warfare. I just can’t anymore. I’m at the end of my rope, and my give-a-fucker is fresh out of fucks to give. At least about this.

  Truthfully, my heart hasn’t been in it for years, and look where falling back into this trap has gotten me. I’m disappointed in myself.

  No more.

  “I’m done, Emily,” I say flatly. “Done with cards, done with playing games, done with competing with you for no reason. I’m better than this. Hell, maybe you’re better than this too and we just fell into old habits? But I’m done. Truthfully, I haven’t thought of you or high school in years, and we both know why. As of right now, I’m going back to not thinking of you anymore. Have a nice life. I truly mean that. I hope you have a great life and a long, happy marriage.” I say that last part to Doug, whose brows are knit together in confusion. Emily can explain it to him . . . or not. I’m out of here. “Excuse me.”

  Emily’s jaw has dropped open further and further during my little speech. But when I try to walk away, she grabs my arm, her nails digging into the mild sunburn on my skin.

  “You always did think you were better than everyone else, didn’t you, Abi? And now, you think you can get the last word in and then walk away from me like I’m nothing?” Emily sneers.

  Lorenzo would’ve let us be if she’d only verbally lashed out, but her fingers denting into the flesh of my arm is too much and he steps in close to our long-coming showdown. He growls, “Get your hands off her. Now.”

  Doug seems to realize that things have gotten way out of hand and has zero interest in some fight with Lorenzo to defend their brides’ honor. “Em . . . babe, what the hell?” To Lorenzo, he tries to joke, “Might’ve gotten a little carried away with the wine, ya know?” He mimes tossing back drink after drink.

  But it’s not that. Emily’s stone-cold sober. We just bring out the worst in each other like kerosene and fire.

  I jerk my arm out of Emily’s grasp. “Yes, I can just walk away. I’m going to live my life and be happy . . . for me. If you need your life to be better than someone else’s just so you can enjoy it, that’s on you, and quite frankly, it has nothing to do with me.”

  With that, I walk away feeling like a thousand-pound weight has been lifted off my shoulders. I can’t believe I let it get so far! What was I thinking?

  Mom would probably be mortified that I’ve been so awful and equally aghast at my rudeness in handling it. And Violet would’ve told me to just rip Emily’s extensions out and call it a day. But Courtney? I think my Ice Queen sister and her cool managing of situations have rubbed off on me in a good way.

  Let’s hope that stays true as I talk to the captain.

  “Let’s go through it again,” I tell Janey who has swiped a notepad and pen from somewhere. Her petty theft is the least of my problems, and I’m thankful for her sticky fingers as she stands at the ready to take notes.

  She nods and I start.

  “Captain said the doo-hickey is the only way to get us moving again, and they can’t get one until morning when the boat repair shop opens—”

  “No, he said that’s ‘worst-case scenario’. There’s a chance they’ll get the shop owner out of bed in the middle of the night to get the part. Island cooperation, he called it,” Janey corrects me.

  “I think we should plan to be out here all night, just in case,” Lorenzo adds.

  All on the same page, we continue. “That means our prep time for the rehearsal dinner is going to be cut short . . . way short . . . tomorrow. I’m so glad we already finished some of the arrangements.” The smallest seed of relief sprouts inside my soul at our foresight to do that. “It’s the only way we might survive tomorrow.”

  “Tonight.” Janey points at her watch. “It’s already after midnight, so technically the rehearsal dinner is in” —she does the math on her fingers— “eighteen hours.”

  “Fuck! Let’s mentally walk through the ballroom and double-check everything we need versus what we have done,” I decide. “I want a prioritized list that we can use as soon as we hit land.”

  As Janey and I do what we do best, Lorenzo steps away to call Esmar and give him the update. He feels sure that Esmar and the kitchen crew can get things started in the morning if he’s not there, but there are some things only Lorenzo can do. And that’s what has him as worried as we are.

  A couple of hours later, Janey and I have whittled our plan of attack down to minute-by-minute so we stay on target. If only we can start on time.

  Because as of now, we’re still sitting dead in the water.

  “Okay, Boss. I think I’m going to grab some food—they opened the buffet back up. When I walked by earlier, it was all crappy chips and raisin granola bars, and I passed, but now I’m desperate enough that I’ll take even that to fill this void in my belly.” As if on cue, her stomach makes a loud growling noise and she pats it softly. “I know, I’m gonna feed you, little fella.” To me, she continues, “And then I’m going to curl up in whatever corner I can find for a catnap. You should do the same. We’re gonna be burning the candle at both ends and in the middle, so a few minutes of shut-eye might be our saving grace.”

  Janey is probably right, but I can’t imagine sleeping right now. I’m too worried that I’ll get back late, not get the list done, and will ruin the rehearsal dinner. Meredith would love that, but I don’t want to fail Claire . . . or myself.

  “You go ahead. I’ll find you if I think of anything else,” I tell Janey to send her on her way.

  As soon as she’s gone, Lorenzo pulls me in for a hug. “Ah, mia rosa, it will be okay. Have faith.”

  With my cheek pressed to his chest, I can hear the steady thud of his heartbeat. The relaxed metronome of it soothes me as my breath slows to match. “Thank you for your help. What about you?”

  “Esmar was still in the kitchen finishing dinner service. He was able to reassign a couple of people to do what is needed. I feel fortunate that I have assistance in the kitchen right now, making progress while I am here, while you and Janey are both stuck in limbo.”

  The announcer happens to be walking by and hears only the last bit of what Lorenzo says and jumps to a very wrong conclusion. “Limbo? Great idea, man! I gotcha, let me get the limbo stick and we’ll get down.” The dark-haired, heavyset man flashes a bright smile that says he’s quite happy to keep this party going as long as needed and holds up a hand for a high-five.

  Lorenzo doesn’t have the heart to correct the man and he shuffle-steps away singing so off-key that I want to shove drink umbrellas in my ears, “Limbo, limbo, lim-BO!”

  Or maybe those umbrellas would be better in the announcer’s mouth, I think.

  I look to Lorenzo, fighting a smile that seems completely out of place, given
the situation, to see that he’s doing the same. We’re definitely losing it.

  Have you ever been so far gone into things so utterly awful that all you can do is laugh? Like it’s so bad that you can’t even produce tears? That’s absolutely where I am. Like the universe is saying ‘take that . . . and that . . . and how about a little of this . . .’ and I’m ducking and weaving the dodgeballs so they don’t pop my head like a watermelon.

  “Oh, my God, we have to get out of here! I cannot limbo!” I cry out in laughing horror.

  “Come on.” Lorenzo grabs my hand and leads me through the swarm of people on deck. We keep going until we find a quiet corner on a lower deck with a soft outdoor couch.

  I collapse onto it breathlessly. “Hopefully, he won’t find us here. No more dancing. Not tonight, maybe never again.” I’m not serious, but if ever there were a time to making sweeping, melodramatic proclamations, the day your business potentially implodes seems like the right time to do so.

  Lorenzo sits down next to me and then rearranges us so that I’m leaning back on his chest between his spread legs. “Relax,” he orders softly, and somehow, I do.

  His fingers trace up the bare flesh of my arms, pulling goosebumps to the surface. His touch isn’t sexual this time, merely comforting as he makes his way to my shoulders. He massages them more firmly, prodding at the knots he finds until I groan in relief.

  “What was home like for you?” I ask him. I need distraction from the shitstorm looming on the horizon, and learning more about Lorenzo, about what makes him the man he is, is the best possible one I can imagine.

  “Home?” he repeats.

  “Yeah, Posi . . .Pusi . . .Pussytano?” I’m butchering the name of his home town, but my brain cells aren’t firing on all cylinders because he’s moved up to massaging my scalp. I never knew that was a thing, or at least not a thing I’d enjoy like this. There’s one spot on the back of my skull that has me melting into a drooling, moaning puddle of relaxation.

  Lorenzo’s laugh vibrates through my back and bounces me. “Positano,” he corrects. “It is home, I suppose. Where I grew up, at least, and where my family remains.” He’s quiet and contemplative for a moment, and I wonder if he’s back in Italy inside his mind. “The streets are cobblestone and the buildings are bright, rising up from the coast. Tourists come for the beaches, but much like anywhere, it’s simply home to me. Though I haven’t been back in too long.”

  He sounds much more certain when he calls it ‘home’ this time. I like that, though I don’t know why. Perhaps it’s just that I want him to feel like he has a safe place to go, always, no matter where his travels take him. Which also makes me question what’s going to happen when we leave Aruba. Will he move on to the next place or stay? Will he stay with me?

  It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask, but he hits that spot on my skull again with his thumb and I moan instead.

  “And you, mia rosa? Tell me of your home.”

  He doesn’t mean America, or even my hometown. I tell him what he’s really asking, or maybe it’s just what I want to share with him. “SweetPea is my home. Everyone thought I was crazy when I stepped out and did it, or they thought Dad was going to support me while I ‘played with flowers’, but that’s not it at all. I had this dream, a goal, and I built it from the ground up with my own hard work. I love it there, making people happy, bringing an unexpected joy to their day with something as simple and beautiful as a flower. It’s the best of both worlds for me—creativity and business.”

  “You are a successful businesswoman,” he summarizes. “Brilliance and beauty in one.”

  I laugh, saying sassily, “That’s definitely thanks to my parents. Got my good looks from my momma, and my business smarts from my daddy.”

  “They are important to you.”

  “My parents? Yeah. My whole family is close, too close, some say, considering my brother married my best friend, and his best friend is married to our sister.”

  “And here we are, you and your best friend’s cousin.”

  We talk about everything and nothing, sharing stories from our youth and dreams for our future. Though we’re careful not to delve too deeply into the future of us, both of us careful with our words.

  I do learn that Lorenzo wants to learn Creole cooking, “The real thing, from an old woman who cooks for her family with recipes handed down for generations and stored only in her mind, not a typical chef,” and that he wants to visit the Galapagos Islands, not for anything food-related but to see the tortoises because “They’re ancient and amazing.”

  I tell him about propagating my own varieties of flowers and plants and my desire to do more upscale weddings and events, and I share that tortoises terrify me.

  “It’s not like they can run after you,” he argues.

  “Doesn’t matter. Scaly, creepy, no-teeth monsters. Noping right out of that.”

  We laugh and talk and snuggle, and before long, the sun is rising slowly over the horizon in broad strokes of orange and pink that obliterate the purple of night.

  Lorenzo hears it first, the hum of an engine. We sit up and look at each other with shock and hope. “Let’s go see how fast we can get moving.”

  On the deck, a small crowd has gathered, including Janey, who looks pretty refreshed, all things considered. She’s the only one, though. The party atmosphere of last night has deteriorated, turning everyone else into a walking zombie pack that smells fresh meat.

  “How long is this going to take?”

  “I need to get back to the resort. Our flight leaves today!”

  “I expect a full refund for this mess!”

  The repairman, who thankfully isn’t the same one from the cooler, waves his hands at the crowd, trying to get them to back up. “None of that has anything to do with me. All I do is fix shit, and I can’t do that if you’re in my way.”

  Ooh, he means business. I like this guy instantly and hope that he’s just as efficient at getting this ship moving.

  He pushes his way through, and attention turns to the boat driver. “What about you? Can you take me back? This is ridiculous.” I don’t know who asked because the voice comes from deep in the crowd.

  The driver shakes his head. “No can do. Little boat only holds four, and I’m all booked up for the return trip.”

  “With whom?” that same voice calls.

  “Not you,” the driver replies.

  The crowd starts to disperse, though there are lots of grumbles and even a few threats of ‘we’ll see about that’, and the driver turns to Lorenzo with a smile.

  “Chef! How you doing?”

  Lorenzo holds a hand out and shakes with the boat driver. “Been better, Augie. Those seats aren’t for us, by any chance, are they?”

  Augie holds up a finger to his lips. “Esmar says you’d best get your ass in the kitchen straight from the dock and that you owe him an entire dinner shift of pans.”

  “Deal,” Lorenzo agrees easily. “Let’s go,” he says to me and Janey.

  Augie helps Janey into the boat, and then Lorenzo jumps in before turning around to help me.

  “Hey!” I hear from behind me.

  I look back and see Emily glaring at me, red with fury. I’m sure she thinks I’m getting this special privilege because of my last name. But nope, this is all Lorenzo. And really . . . why does it even matter?

  Once upon a time, I would’ve smugly waved at her. I’m not innocent in our battle over the years. But now, I just sigh and turn back to the boat, letting Lorenzo help me in.

  The rehearsal dinner is in . . . seven hours, and we have at least twelve hours’ worth of work, according to our minute-by-minute game plan.

  Chapter 17

  Abi

  At the level of society Claire and Cole inhabit, a rehearsal dinner isn’t a quick ceremony walkthrough followed by foot-long sandwiches before heading home to get a good night’s sleep type of deal.

  Tonight is a full-blown event before the actual Big Event.


  As soon as Augie docks the boat, Lorenzo presses a quick kiss to my lips and then we’re off and running—him to the kitchen, and Janey and me to the cooler and workroom.

  Our list comes in handy, giving us a plan of attack.

  Table centerpieces . . . check.

  Mock bouquet . . . check.

  Single bird of paradise stems for bridesmaids . . . check, freshly stolen from the greenhouse.

  Various other small arrangements for the different stations . . . check.

  By the hair on our chinny-chin-chins—not that we actually have any—we pull it off. Speaking of hair, my thick mane looks like I’ve stuck my finger in a light socket . . . twice . . . after last night’s sea air and today’s whiplash of work. I take a quick moment to refasten my messy bun and give Janey a look. “Ready?”

  She pulls the list out of her cleavage, where she’s apparently storing it for safekeeping and easy access, and scans it quickly. “Done to the dun-dun-da-dunnnn,” she sings to the wedding march tune.

  Gathering everything on the carts, I glance around the workroom one more time to make sure we have everything we need from here to go up to the ballroom. Stage two of prep starts now.

  And I’m already exhausted after not sleeping at all last night. After this, I have every plan of falling into bed with Lorenzo, snuggling right up close to his warm body, laying my head on his bare chest . . . and sleeping for days. Or until my early morning alarm tomorrow to get ready for the wedding.

  But before I can fade into a few hours of blissful rest, I have to get through this.

  “Make sure everything is perfect,” I tell Janey upstairs in the ballroom as we set up arrangements on the center of each table.

  “Duh,” she sasses back. “I figured you’d want me to fuck stuff up. No?”

  The lady setting out plates laughs at our banter.