Boyfrenemy

by Catherine Rull

  Keats’ eyes flick to me again before he looks at Isabella and continues, “I’m just here to pick up the guys’ lapel flowers, and my mom’s corsage.”

  “Oh, yes. They’re just over here,” Isabella says, heading to the box of floral arrangements on the floor. “All of the groomsmen’s flowers are identical. They’re red. Byron’s is the only white one and your mum’s corsage is the one with three flowers on it.”

  I walk towards her to help out as Keats steps into the narrow hallway of the room.

  Isabella bends down to pick up the small tray of flowers for the groom’s party. And chh-kk. The split appears along the seam over her butt, treating Keats and me to a view of the bride’s toned cheeks and lacy blue thong. She straightens up immediately, hands feeling for the damage.

  “Shit!” Isabella screams, totally panicked. “Crap, Jess! Why can I feel my bum? How big is the tear?” She instinctively looks over her shoulder, then rushes to the mirror on the closet door near the hallway.

  The other bridesmaids rush in, hearing the commotion. I look at Keats, wondering if he’s checking out her butt, but he just seems shocked and concerned for the bride.

  “Oh my gosh,” Isabella says, voice quivering, eyes tearing up. “I can’t walk down the aisle with my bum hanging out.”

  “Maybe your veil will cover it?” I say lamely, reaching out to rearrange the delicate organza but it only reaches her waist.

  “Oh, babe, that looks bad,” Penny says, unhelpfully.

  “I’ll buy you a new dress,” Sofie offers. With her money and charm, I have no doubt she can convince a bridal boutique to sell her one of their displays.

  “What about Miz Peggy?” Mia suggests. “They fixed Fiona’s dress to fit Sofie.”

  “Yes!” Penny says, taking out her iPhone to look up my website.

  “We have forty-five minutes before the cars are supposed to take us to the cathedral.” Isabella frantically fans her face so her make-up wouldn’t be ruined by tears.

  “Yeah, maybe they can’t do it,” Penny says, sounding deflated.

  “I think they can,” I pipe up. I can go to the toilet and call in a favour in private.

  “Miz Peggy doesn’t check her emails all day,” Penny tells me as the Miz Peggy website expert. “Sometimes I have to wait till the next day to hear from her.” She slaps Isabella’s hand away to inspect the damage again, then cringes. “No one would come with an hour to go before the wedding.”

  “But it’s an emergency. I’m sure Miz Peggy would make an exception.” I take my phone out. I need to get away to make this call. Keats is still in the hallway caught up in the panic gripping everyone. Despite my annoyance with him, his opinion of me still frustratingly matters to me. And I don’t want to add to the crosses already against my name.

  “Maybe we should buy a new dress,” Mia suggests, at the same time Isabella says, “Oh God, oh God, oh God.”

  “Miz Peggy can do it,” I insist again. I need everyone to stop panicking, so I can make the call.

  “But how do you know?” Penny demands, looking at me like I’m wasting time. She returns her attention to Isabella. “Let’s just fin—”

  “Because it’s my bloody website!” I scream at the back of Penny’s head. Everyone falls silent and turns to look at me, including Isabella who’s been snapped out of her meltdown by the news. She’s now wide-eyed with her mouth open. On the periphery, I sense Keats also gazing my way.

  “I’ll tell Byron you’re slightly delayed,” he says, turning on his heel and quickly leaving.

  “Oh, gosh, Jess. Really?” Isabella says, eyes wide and judging me like she can’t believe I’ve stooped this low.

  I ignore her and search through my contacts list for the seamstress I use. The shop’s right in the middle of the city and I am making her a very rich woman with all my referrals. She owes me.

  “Hi, Kiran. I have an emergency. I need you at the Treasury Hotel right now.” I fill her in on the situation while the others eavesdrop on the conversation.

  “Do you think I can get a discount now that we know?” I hear Penny whisper to Isabella before I end the phone call.

  Chapter 32

  The giant pipe organs in the cathedral play Mendelssohn’s “Wedding March”. One of Fiona’s boys is at the very front, carrying the ring boxes on a satin pillow. Cate, Mia’s newly nine-year-old, is behind him, ready with her flower girl bouquet since you’re not allowed to throw petals on the cathedral floor. The bridesmaids are next, lined up in order of importance—the closer to the bride, the higher the seniority.

  Sofie is the furthest from Isabella, looking statuesque in her bridesmaid’s gown. Behind her stands Mia, who has Penny at her back. After Penny, is me and behind me is Isabella in her literally sewn-on elegant gown. I’ve already fanned out the train behind her before I took my place in the maid of honour spot. The seamstress has very sneakily added a small wedge of fabric matching the gown’s material to bridge the gap and give Isabella more room to move. But the repair was also done with Isabella still in the dress so Byron will have a fun time tonight tearing that outfit off his bride.

  The ushers, Richard Dean and one of Isabella’s cousins, open the heavy glass doors and the bridal procession begins down the ridiculously long aisle. Fiona’s son runs down its length. Mia’s daughter, Cate falters at the entrance.

  “You can do it, linda,” Sofie coaxes.

  “I’m not Linda. My name’s Cate,” she says, then trudges down the aisle in a huff.

  Sofie laughs and shrugs her shoulders before squaring them into her fantastic posture. With the confidence of a runway model, she saunters down the aisle, her gorgeous smile in place. God, I’d kill to have a figure like that. I catch myself staring at her swaying butt a bit longer than I probably should. Only Mia’s big rear blocking my view stops me.

  Next to deploy is Penny who trudges down the aisle all business-like, hands clutching the base of her bouquet as her heels clickity-clack on the polished stone floor of the cathedral. The petals on the flowers at the end of each aisle flutter as she zooms past. It’s the fastest I’ve seen her walk. Ever.

  Then it’s my turn. Shit. This is more difficult than I expected. Everyone is turned in their seats and looking at me. Suddenly, I understand why Penny walked so fast to the front of the congregation. I will my feet to slow down, looking ahead to avoid the dozens of guests smiling encouragingly at me.

  The groomsmen are all lined up behind the groom. In matching kilts, jackets and ties, Keats is beside Byron, Blake behind him, then Jamal and Tomohiro at the end. Somehow, the fact that they could all look so dashing in the skirt-like tartans makes them even hotter. Actually, the whole matching outfits thing is also doing it for me—it’s like they’re a team in uniform. I wonder what they’re wearing under those kilts?

  Eventually, I notice Keats looking my way. Our gazes meet and hold. He flashes me a tentative smile. I resist the urge to give him the finger. I lower my eyes to the floor before the temptation overcomes me. I don’t want to cheapen Isabella’s grand matrimonial with the one finger salute so close to the altar.

  The congregation stands when I’m three-quarters of the way to my destination. I look at the groom and his groomsmen, my heart melting at the sight of the proud smile on Byron’s face and the slight gleam in his eyes. The other groomsmen are grinning, happy for their friend. Keats is still looking at me.

  I break eye contact with him again when I reach the front row of pews. Turning left, I take my spot beside Penny, closer to the altar. I face the aisle and find Isabella gorgeous in her fitted wedding gown, a parent at each elbow as the three of them make their way to the front. A tear pricks the corners of my eyes, as a lump in my throat threatens to choke me. I get a mental picture of me on my wedding day, walking down the aisle alone. Perhaps my brother will “give me away”. Perhaps I’ll never get married. I’ll definitely never fit in a dress that looks like that.

  “Isabella, wait!”

  We all look up a
t the sound of a distinct British accent. A familiar man in a light suit is running down the aisle with one hand up like he’s trying to hail a bus he’s just missed.

  “Isabella! Wait!” he repeats, intent on stopping her.

  This time, even the bride and her parents look over their shoulders. For a heartbeat or two, Isabella is speechless.

  “Eamon?” She sounds incredulous when she finally finds her voice.

  Eamon Henning, the cheating ex-fiancé, takes two big gulps, catching his breath. “Darling. Please, don’t marry him. I’m sorry.”

  Byron runs down the steps followed by his groomsmen like the hot row of Scottish warriors in Braveheart. Isabella keeps a calming hand on her father’s arm and motions the male half of the bridal party to stop with a lift of her hand.

  I walk over to the drama. There’s no way I’ll let the cheating bastard ruin this wedding I’ve worked so hard on.

  “Oh. My. Gosh. Eamon, why are you here? Actually, I don’t want to know,” Isabella says. Despite the harsh whispering, the acoustics of the cathedral allow most of us present to hear their exchange. “I am in the middle of my wedding. Go away.”

  “Darling, my plane was delayed. Look, you can’t marry this boy.” He motions towards the twenty-six-year-old groom. “I left Sandy Grey. For you.”

  “Bollocks.” Isabella looks around at the gathered guests, at least half of whom do not have a clue who Eamon is. She takes a deep breath as if to calm herself down. “I know she dumped you for one of the Five Ways lads.”

  A look flits across Eamon’s face at being caught out. “One Direction,” he grumbles. “Isabella, darling, Sandy left because she could tell I never got over you.”

  Isabella’s grip tightens around the stems of her flowers and for a second she seems on the verge of smacking her ex with the bouquet. Instead, she takes in a laboured breath, and hisses, “Eamon. It’s over. Now, please go.”

  “But—”

  “Time to go, asshole.” Keats steps up to Eamon and puts himself between his ex-girlfriend and her ex-fiancé. Arms crossed in front of him, Keats fixes Eamon with a glare.

  “Who the hell are you?” the cheating bastard says, trying to look around Keats to Isabella.

  “The best man,” Keats says before grabbing Eamon by the front of his shirt. “I’ll tell you this now, pal, you keep this up, you’d better be ready to have your ass kicked. I don’t have to look pretty for these wedding photos. I ain’t the one getting married.”

  Chapter 33

  “I’ve just had a great idea. Why don’t you just tell Keats how you feel?” Jillie suggests. Her words are garbled around the ice cream she’s eating for me in commiseration.

  I left the wedding reception early to have a self-pity party over the phone, binging on ice cream and makeshift chocolate martinis—which means eating Lindt chocolate and chasing it down with vodka.

  “No thanks.” For once, I know Jillie is suggesting the mature course of action but I’m too late.

  The last time I saw Keats, he was slow dancing with Sofie when the dance floor was opened at the reception. I didn’t stick around after that. He’s probably with Sofie now—at her apartment in the city, all arms and legs entwined in her bed sheets with the view of high rises and blue skies outside her windows. And they’ll get married in a week, have perfect children, a boy and a girl, and all because she caught the bouquet at the reception. It’s totally unfair, of course. She’s built like a beach volleyballer. The rest of us had no chance of catching that baby.

  “Anyway, I’m over it. I’m over him,” I tell her. If I say this enough to myself, I’ll eventually believe it. I hope. “I’m moving on. I’m off to the nearest real estate agent as soon as they open tomorrow. The bank’s already pre-approved my home loan, now that I have enough for a deposit.”

  “Oh, good for you, Jess. Yes, great plan. Forget about Keats.”

  I flinch at the sound of his name right against my ear. Closing my eyes, I try to dislodge the image of him in my head. But instead, I just see his face more clearly. He’s smiling. His stupid plan has sort of actually worked—he’s got his decent, properly-raised woman. Meanwhile, he now knows I own and run Miz Peggy. What does he think of that?

  I shouldn’t really care.

  “Do you know what kind of house you’d like?” Jillie asks.

  I already have some properties in mind—little townhouses perfect for a future cat lady. But that rambling four-bedroom house in Cannon Hill comes to mind. Keats’ house. In that neighbourhood, it seems like a great place to raise a family one day.

  “I’m keeping an open mind,” I tell her. I suddenly need to get off the phone before the conversation turns to Keats again. “I’ll talk to you later, Jillie. I want to get out of my bridesmaid gear and take a long bath.”

  As soon as I hang up, I walk over to the TV and turn it on for company. Grabbing the remote control, I turn on the Blu-ray player, and press Play. Season 1 of Sex and the City comes on. It’s soothing and familiar. But it also allows my mind to wander.

  And it goes straight to Keats. God. I was silly to think he’d change his ways. How many times did I believe things would be different with my dad—that he’d miraculously choose his children over alcohol? It took me years to learn to stop believing in people. What did I actually expect was going to happen with Keats? That there would be a happily ever after for me?

  I take a deep breath and try to silence the pessimistic voice telling me I’m not good enough. I hope it just takes a few days for my head to convince my heart to forget about Keats McAllister.

  I drag myself to the bathroom to draw the bath. While the bubbles rise, I light scented candles and pour myself a glass of wine. I grab a chick lit from my big pile of “To be read” books, something upbeat with a happy ending.

  A few minutes later, soaking in lukewarm water, I cry tears of frustration over Keats. Ugly crying. Dammit. I want to get over him faster because this pain in my chest radiates to the rest of my body. I have to stop thinking about him. I have to accept that he didn’t choose me, and I must consider it as a flaw in his character that he didn’t recognise a good thing when he saw one.

  There’s someone out there who will appreciate me for me. Someone who wouldn’t have sex with me and then not really talk to me again. Someone who would know all my dark secrets and still stick around. I need to believe that.

  I’m half-dressed when my doorbell suddenly rings.

  It’s probably a drunk, or someone for my neighbours. Everyone else I know is at Isabella’s wedding reception. While I’m looking for a smaller pair of sleep shorts, my door’s buzzer sounds again.

  I step out of my loose garment, and walk down the hall in just my knickers and a towel. I take a deep breath in, channelling an inner calm before I tell them as politely as possible to go away. But I jump a little when the doorbell sounds again.

  Okay, now I’m pissed off. Pressing the speaker button, I lean into it. “Go away! You have the wrong apartment”

  “Jess, it’s Keats.”

  My knees give beneath me at the sound of his voice, but I catch myself before I fall on my arse. “Oh. In that case, bugger off.” The Band-Aid approach is best.

  What is he doing here? Does it matter?

  The sooner I stop seeing him, the sooner I can forget him. I will not be that girl who lets herself get strung along. Or be someone’s consolation prize. I don’t want to be friends with Keats—it would hurt too much. And it’s easier to be strong when he’s not in front of me.

  “Jess, wait!”

  I go back to my room to finish dressing even though I am curious why he’s come. I turn up Sex and the City to drown out the doorbell. I wonder if he’ll still be waiting on the front steps of my building by the time I finish dressing.

  The incessant buzzing continues while I slip on a dress and brush my hair. But then it stops, and I am left to the sound of Samantha having another orgasm blaring from the TV. I rush to the living room to turn down the volume befo
re I offend my neighbours upstairs.

  “Jess!” The sound of Keats’ voice surprises me so much that I drop the remote control. I turn around and gasp, my heart instantly dancing for joy. On the other side of the glass sliding doors to my veranda is Keats. Or rather, Keats’ upper body, still in his groomsmen outfit, sans the jacket, his hands clinging onto the peeling wrought iron bars of the balcony outside.

  “Holy shit, Keats! You scared me.” I place a hand to my chest to still my wildly beating heart. I mustn’t read too much into this. “What are you doing there?”

  “You didn’t want to open your front door. Could you help me up?” he calls to me. The grimace on his face tells me it’s not easy to dangle where he is right now.

  I walk out onto my small balcony, look over the edge and see a wheelie bin a metre below his feet.

  “How the hell did you get up there?” I ask.

  “I pulled myself up. Easy.”

  I look at him and notice a tear on his waistcoat and a smudge on his cheek.

  “This last part’s a son of a bitch though. Help me up?” He shifts his fingers to a different rung. They’ve turned white from the strain.

  With a sigh, I grab his hand till he can swing his grip onto the top rail of the balcony. His kilt rides up, but disappointingly not all the way, treating me only to the muscled length of his thigh. From there, Keats hoists himself till he can place his feet between the iron bars and jump over to the safety of my balcony like a parkour traceur.

  I look over the side of the balcony again—we’re over three metres off the ground.

  “Could I wash my hand?” He shows me his left palm and I notice the gash running along the side of it from just below his little finger to the heel of his hand.

  “Dammit, Keats. Is your tetanus shot up to date?”

  “Yeah. Possum bit me the other week, remember?”

  I grab his wrist and take him inside to the sink, running cold water over the wound. He tries very hard not to wince in pain.

  “Talk about shit karma. I guess I deserve it,” he muses.