by Tessa Layne
All of which is to say, my hair looks fucking amazing but I’m not one hundred percent pleased with the third iteration of my eyeliner.
“It has to be perfect!” I scold Molly. “Today is the only day I will ever do this. I said Kardashian and I meant it.”
She doesn’t even bother trying to roll her eyes, which I frankly respect about her. Molly takes no shit and gives none either. I’m pretty sure I forgot to pay her for my last root job, too, but she’s still here, rolling her eyes at me. Now that’s a good friend. She’ll be an even better friend if she gets my fucking eyeliner right. On a girl’s wedding day, she should look like a queen.
My dress is definitely queenly. I picked it with Diana in mind. Kate was just a tad too understated for my liking. How are all eyes supposed to be on my perfect Kardashian liner if I’m in a minimalist dress? No, I needed a thousand yards of tulle. At least. Sure, I won’t be able to pee all day, but one must pay the price of glory. Besides, I have a rather Kate situation all ready for the reception dress change. Very demure in the front, all long sleeves, then a slutty low cut in the back. Also, it’s bright red.
I like the idea of being a scarlet woman right about now.
I breath deep and watch Molly’s nostrils flare as she pretends not to be annoyed that I just blinked and she’ll have to do my liner for a fourth time. I wonder if she’s ever met Sierra. The two could use each other, I think. Mixing up the visible annoyance and the dimple-deflection could probably make both of them better. Or, perhaps, it could turn them into the perfect weapon. I decide they should never meet, and the horror of the idea keeps my eyes wide open long enough for Holly to line and mascara my bottom lashes without interference this time.
Once four of my sisters fluff my gown into place, I take a deep breath. This is it. This is the last moment before the ceremony. I should probably hug them, but they’d crush my tulle. Instead, I channel Diana yet again, and nod regally. They nod back.
I nod at Molls. She rolls her eyes.
“Are we ready? Ladies? I need you to be ready, okay?” My little wedding coordinator is suddenly in the doorway, bouncing up and down on the tips of her toes and quivering like a cold chihuahua. She might be on coke, it’s always hard to say with girls that hyper and skinny, but I sort of hope she is because that means she’ll be super organized and make sure my wedding goes off without a hitch. Perfect.
Daddy is waiting for me in the hallway. He smiles at me like I’m his little princess. I am, too. Erin is a poser, and my other sisters are just that. Others. Extras. I love them, and I wouldn’t trade my big family for anything, but we all know my parents got it right the first time around, and there was no pressing need to attempt to replicate it.
Sure didn’t stop them trying, though. Seven more times.
I’m so glad they’re here to support me.
I take Daddy’s arm and wait for the bouncy little planner to wave me into the sanctuary, where every single person I know and an equal number I don’t are all watching for me to step out and blow them away.
I only have eyes for Brian, just like everyone said I would.
We take short little steps up the aisle, and I’m beaming around because today is going to be unforgettable, and then we’re there at the altar and Daddy’s giving me away, and all my bridesmaids are already crying which makes me start too.
I hold one finger up for Father Paddy, so he knows not to start in quite yet. Brian fumbles for his best man’s decorative handkerchief for me. I accept it, then turn and face my audience.
“I want to thank you all so much for being here today. It really means a lot,” I tell them. Everyone looks confused, and Brian’s gripping my arm. Pre-vow speeches aren’t standard Catholic fare. Ma mouths, “turn around” at me, but I will not.
“There’s someone else here in spirit today,” and I see a lot of faces realize I’m probably just having a Moment over Nana, who died a few months ago. “Her name is Staci, and I’d just like to read a few words that Brian wrote about her.”
I glance over to enjoy the sight of the blood draining from his face as I reach into my Kardashian-wedding cleavage and retrieve my phone. I clear my throat and read verbatim some highlights from the text chain about Staci-the-nurse.
“U do things with ur body my girlfriend never does lol.”
The murmurs are starting already.
“Thinking about u naked is the only thing getting me thru this rehearsal dinner lol.” And finally, “Tomorrow’s the big day, send nudes lol.”
None of my bridesmaid sisters are crying anymore, I guess because they were more upset about the idea I might go through with it than they were moved by my beauty. One or two of the groomsmen are already starting to shuffle backward, and Brian looks like he might faint. I feel absolutely triumphant.
“I’m not marrying him, obviously, but my parents spent a lot of money on this reception and there’s an open bar, thank you, Ma and Daddy! So I hereby declare this wedding an Irish wake for my relationship with this disgusting, cheating weasel. See you in the reception hall!” I wonder if I should bow, then decide Diana wouldn’t have.
People start moving around, the buzz of conversation everything I’d hoped for. Brian’s poor Gran looks mortified, which I might or might not feel bad about later. I mean, he did this to her himself, basically.
“I can’t believe you would do this to me—and in front of my family!” But I’m not here for his bullshit anymore.
“Then you never knew me at all,” I say, and start to sweep grandly back down the aisle. Then I think of something and turn back. “Also, since I’m pretty sure have to give the ring back, I’m keeping the honeymoon. And the apartment. You can have the cat, though, I never liked that little fucker.”
“But it was your cat!” he shouts from behind me, but his parents are approaching so this feels like a nice note to be leaving on. Father Paddy is quick on my heels.
“I’ll expect to see you in confession soon for this little stunt, Bridget.”
“Give me a week or two, Father, I don’t see myself truly repenting this move for a while.”
“Jesus wept,” he says, but do you know who isn’t weeping? Me. I’m not. I’ve got a red dress to put on, Jameson to drink, and a whole new life to figure out.
Chapter 3
THE SECOND WEDDING
Holy forking shirtballs, the DJ is a ginger.
“I’m glad you got the memo,” I tell him, leaning over the booth in an attempt to figure out just how bad the music is going to be this evening. Also maybe just a little bit to see what he smells like.
“What memo?” Wow, he’s hot. His hair is buzzed on the sides and curly on top and he looks kind of mean so I can already tell we’re going to be friends.
“That we’re doing red tonight, obviously.” I gesture from his head to my dress.
“Oh. I heard something went down at the ceremony and thought you might have meant that.” He grins at me and his whole face softens into pure sunshine which everyone knows you shouldn’t look directly at. I mean, I do it anyways, but I do know better.
“The ceremony was pretty spectacular.” Since I changed out of my white dress, he clearly doesn’t know I was supposed to be the bride. Cool. “Anyways, wanna go get drinks?”
“I’m supposed to be working,” but I can tell he’s tempted. I wave my sister Maggie over and she immediately takes control of the equipment. That girl has never met a playlist she can’t destroy. Now it’s a real party. He steps out from behind the booth and I link my arm through his.
It’s fresh laundry, his smell, and that’s probably why my heart stutters a little. I’m really into laundry. Doesn’t even feel like a task to me. All that warmth and softness and routine and oh my god my chores and my sex life are on equal footing. I tighten my arm around his just a little and assess the possibilities. He’s singing along to the music and hitting all the high notes. His voice is really good. He has a strong nose, which I like, and big dimples like Sierra’s when he tur
ns and catches me staring.
My sex life potential just got one hell of an upgrade.
I pointedly ignore anyone who tries to make eye contact with me on our way to the bar. Tonight, I will not be questioned about my inappropriate decisions. My cousin has apparently sent Dave over from There In Spirits to bartend. That’s fun, I was really hoping for his particular brand of passive judgement tonight. Not.
“We should do shots,” I tell my new friend.
“Should we, though?” he asks. Responsibility. I like it in theory, not as much in practice.
“Dave, shots,” I order. Dave seems more interested in looking back and forth between the two of us.
“So I’m Dave,” he says, hand outstretched to my DJ. I take back everything I ever said about him, he’s an effective wingman.
“Phoenix. Nice to meet you.”
“I like him better than Brian already,” Dave tells me as he fills a shaker with ice.
“Who is Brian?” asks Phoenix. He really doesn’t know, then. I stare at him for a moment, weighing exactly how much he needs to.
“Legiterally no one.” I take my shot and clink the tiny glass against his. “Slainte.”
“I don’t feel like that’s a real word. What the fuck did we just drink?”
“I read it in a book, it’s fine,” I gasp and clutch my throat. “Dave, that was not Jameson.”
“No!” He looks so proud of himself. “It’s one I just learned from Eileen. It’s called a—” he leans in and whispers— “a red-headed slut.”
“Are we in college?” I’m outraged.
“Are we allowed to say slut anymore?” Phoenix is confused.
“Want another?” Dave made too many.
“Well we aren’t wasting them, but Dave. Don’t do this again.” When I say he made too many, I mean Phoenix and I each have three more shots in our hands as we walk away from the bar. Suddenly I have a lot of insight both into why Dave normally just bar-backs and also into exactly where I stand with the cousin who owns There In Spirits.
Phoenix is casting anxious glances back at the DJ booth, so I pull him towards the door for some fresh air instead. Fresh air is code for fewer sisters. I could actually use the quiet, though. Growing up with one million girls there were never enough bathrooms to lock yourself in to have a good hard think. In comparison, being outside doing shots with a hot guy while a few of Brian’s co-workers discuss the events of the day nearby is a total zen retreat.
I’m kind enough not to speak so that he can eavesdrop and catch up. His face is super animated as he listens. That’s fun because I really like to talk when I’m having drinks.
“This wedding sounds like a real shitshow,” Phoenix says to me.
“Can confirm.” We do another one of our shots. The taste isn’t growing on me exactly, but it is less disgusting. I guess the first one was mostly bad because I was expecting my beloved Jameson and got some kind of Jager situation instead. That’s what I get for checking my drinks buddy out instead of paying attention. Que sera sera.
“What kind of person does that, anyway?” He’s looking out at the lawn of the church instead of at me. That’s probably a good thing. My face is the color of his hair again.
“The kind who just found out about the cheating the night before her wedding and doesn’t take that kind of nonsense lying down, that’s who.”
That gets his attention.
“No, that part’s just funny. In a cringe-y sort of way. I meant him. Who goes through with a wedding they don’t want while stringing along someone else they clearly don’t want?” It’s my turn to switch my gaze to the constellation of fireflies blinking on and off over the grass.
“Someone who has no idea what they actually want, I guess.” I didn’t mean to give an answer that understanding. It’s unlike me and I immediately want to take it back and say something biting yet funny instead. Too late.
“Or a total sociopath. Have you considered that your ex-fiancé might be a sociopath?”
“You know, I actually have. Because once I saw a daytime talk show interview with a psychologist who said that sociopaths don’t yawn when you do because they have no empathy, right? So I started yawning around him all the time and he never—wait. You figured it out.”
“I figured it out.” He taps another shot against one of mine. “I hope you know you deserve better.”
I swallow the urge to tear up along with my redheaded-sex-positive-female drink. “I have always felt I deserved better, actually, but part of being a grownup is doing the boring thing.”
“Who says?” For two seconds, I thought he was going to put his arm around me, but he just rubs a hand over his scruff instead. A way more appropriate move. Responsibility—still only fun in theory.
On the other hand, maybe I could use an anonymous friend right about now. Without benefits.
“Should we go dance?” I ask him. Friends dance, right?
“I’m not drunk enough for that. Oh shit, I’m supposed to be working. Oh shit, is that—is someone playing the Chicken Dance? I have to get back in there and fix this. Why don’t you grab another drink and enjoy yourself? It’s your night, after all.” He heads back in, last shot in hand.
I stare at the lawn for a few more minutes, enjoying the breeze that only sort of cuts through the humidity. I should enjoy myself. I do deserve it. It is my goddamn night. Which is why I wait until the Chicken Dance has been safely switched to Frank Ocean before going in to collect a few more redheaded shots from Dave (“Not a fucking word,” I tell him, but of course he’ll bring this up again) and taking them back to the DJ booth to hit Phoenix with my signature line.
“We meet again.” He looks up and laughs, and I have no idea why I thought I could just be friends with someone whose eyes crinkle up like that when they laugh. It’s way too hot for friendship. He’s not built for that. No, this guy? This guy right here is going to be my rebound bang.
Hopefully he realizes that.
“Who hired you, anyway?” Wow, I’m really good at flirting.
“No one technically hired me. I live with your wedding planner’s boyfriend, and she said she needed a DJ who’d work for drinks and that I had nothing better to do on a Saturday night. So thanks for the drinks, by the way.”
“So if you aren’t getting paid and you don’t have anything better to be doing, why don’t we just turn this booth into a self-service type of situation and hang out instead?”
He tilts his head at me. “Don’t you want to be with your family and friends right about now? That was a pretty brutal breakup no matter how you look at it. It’s a little weird to end up getting drunk with a stranger.”
Okay, so he doesn’t know what’s happening between us.
“Listen, Phoenix. You really think I want all the pity-glances and the long talk from my parents about two wrongs not making a right? A stranger feels like my best option at salvaging this wake.” He thinks for a minute and then nods. Steps back out over to me.
“Makes sense.”
“Sooo…” I don’t really know what to say now. I feel like I’ve put in enough effort and now it’s his turn.
“So are sociopaths your normal type of guy, or do you ever date redheads?” I choke on my redheaded drink.
“Wow, you just say the things inside your head, don’t you?”
“Don’t you?”
“No. And neither does any self-respecting adult that I know.” On the plus side, though, it turns out he knows what’s happening after all.
“That’s dumb. When you mean things, you should just say them. There’s nothing cute about cynicism.” He’s closer to me than he should be, and it’s giving me goosebumps.
“Fuck you, I am so cute.”
“You are really cute.” My heart does that skippy thing again while we look at each other.
“I never thought I had a type before, but I’ve just decided it’s you,” I— or maybe more accurately my blood alcohol level— tell him. “All men should look like you.
”
All this prolonged eye contact is making me dizzy, so when he leans in and kisses me I close mine. Phoenix has the softest lips I’ve ever tasted and I’m positive he can feel my heart pounding against his chest. When he finally pulls back with another one of those dangerous smiles, I’m done for.
“Wow, I should have married you.”
“It’s not too late,” he says. “The priest is still here.”
I crack up. That’s a good one. Except he isn’t laughing. And that was the best kiss I can remember having. And it’s certainly cost-effective to just go ahead and utilize all the options at my disposal for one night only. Besides, I’m drunk and he clearly is too, and this sounds like the kind of story I can dine out on for years.
Plus, and this is no small part of the decision, I’m really excited to consummate a union with this fucking hottie for the next few days on the honeymoon I was just going to waste by bringing Eileen along for.
It takes all of five minutes to rally the troops again.
It takes five more minutes and a significant cash bribe to get Father Paddy to overlook his qualms. (“We can annul it tomorrow,” he assures me. “Do not consummate this.”)
It takes five minutes to get through basic vows with no accompanying Mass.
Fifteen minutes total before I kiss him again and confirm that he is, indeed, the world’s best kisser.
From the bar, Dave looks as thrilled as if it were him, and I throw him my bouquet. The man definitely deserves flowers. My mother is crying, and I’m not totally sure it’s about how beautiful I look in my reception/wedding dress. A lot of the guests look either confused or horrified, and I can’t really blame them.
But, I think to myself as I follow Phoenix out of the hall so we don’t have to deal with the inevitable debacle dinner speeches would become, fuck everyone else. It’s pretty much the last thing I remember thinking until I wake up the next day with a blinding hangover, a ring on my left hand, and a really hot redheaded mistake in my bed.