I Don't: A Romantic Comedy

by Andrea Johnston

  I Don’t: A Romantic Comedy

  Copyright © 2018 by Andrea Johnston

  Cover design by Jada D’Lee Designs

  Editing by Karen L. of The Proof Is in the Reading, LLC

  Interior design by Stacey Blake of Champagne Book Design

  Cover Photo by Shutterstock

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. No part of this publication may be stored or introduced into a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form, or by any means.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locations, people—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.

  The author acknowledges the copyrighted or trademarked status and trademark owners of various products, characters, businesses, artists, and the like which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Epilogue

  Other books by Andrea Johnston

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  For every couple who deserves a second chance

  I remember my tenth birthday like it was yesterday. The pink and purple streamers adorned our small dining room, a large cake shaped like a princess wearing a large ball gown sat in the middle of the table we gathered around every night for dinner, and a large box with a huge bow taunted me as it sat beautifully wrapped, just begging to be opened. It was a gift from my gran and I knew, I just knew, it was going to be epic.

  My gran was my idol. She was always dressed to the nines and had perfect red lips. Her hair was never out of place, and she was always kind and welcoming. I wanted nothing more than to emulate every part of her. Except maybe her perfume or, at the very least, the amount she wore.

  When my mom told me it was time to open gifts, I almost jumped out of my shoes in excitement. She didn’t have to tell me twice, because I was ready. So ready. I offered my friends and family members all the appropriate “oh, thank you” acknowledgments and smiled like each pajama set and new Barbie was the best gift yet. But it was the big box from Gran I knew would be the greatest of them all. And I wanted to enjoy it with her by ourselves. When all the other gifts were unwrapped, she and I took the large box to my bedroom.

  “Whitney, I want you to know that what is in this box is going to change the course of your life.”

  What could it be? Was she gifting me my own beauty set? Would I look as beautiful and perfect as she did?

  Unlike the other presents, this one I took my time opening. I slowly slid the ribbon off the box before sliding my finger under the creased paper. When I reached the brown box, I opened it to find, nestled on top of piles of lavender tissue paper, a beautiful white lace scrapbook. Wide-eyed, I looked at Gran with awe and confusion.

  “This is your wedding album, Whitney. A woman’s greatest joy other than motherhood is her wedding. I want you to take this book and fill it with your hopes and every wish for the wedding of your dreams. With this book, you’ll find your path to the perfect day. When the time comes for you to say ‘I Do,’ you’ll be ready.”

  And I did. I spent my allowance on bridal magazines every month. I watched every episode of every wedding show on television. I filled my wedding book with every single detail of my future wedding down to the color of the ribbon on the possible bird seed pouches and the font options for the personalized cocktail napkins. I learned early on the book was more than a wedding planner. It was a guide for how I would live my life.

  I have lead my life with purpose and a plan. The perfect plan for the perfect life. I attended dances, I went on dates, and I waited until prom night to lose my virginity. When I was in college I dated casually before meeting Trenton Carmichael. He was everything I knew I needed for the perfect life. He was handsome, smart, driven, and he proved chivalry wasn’t dead.

  The day Trenton proposed, I pulled my album from under my old bed at my parents’ house and inserted our engagement photo into the makeshift frame on the front cover. I dreamed of and planned my perfect wedding for fourteen years and now my day is here; I know each of my dreams will come true.

  I’m going to say “I Do” and live happily ever after.

  Or at least, that was the plan . . .

  “Whitney Nicole Wheeler, if you are not on my doorstep in fifteen minutes I swear to all that is holy I am going to make you take tequila shots this weekend.”

  My best friend is a pain in my ass. It isn’t my fault I forgot my contacts at home. She acts like I don’t want to have our girls’ weekend as planned. This weekend is the highlight of section six in the wedding planning album. Obviously, it’s important to me.

  “Jessi, I’m coming. I forgot my contacts on the counter. I just have to run in and grab them,” I say as I rush from my car and up to our front door. I was three blocks from Jessi’s apartment when I realized I never picked up the contact lens holder from the bathroom counter. Sure, I could have picked her up and then back-tracked to my house, but I didn’t want to listen to her complain the entire drive, so I opted to turn around and call her instead.

  I’m close to the front step when I notice Trenton’s car in the driveway. He didn’t mention he was coming home early today, but considering how late he’s been working lately I’m not surprised. He’s probably exhausted. I know the looming junior partnership at his law firm is weighing heavily on his mind, and the fact that he’s taking off two weeks for the pre-wedding activities and our honeymoon only added to his stress.

  “Shit,” I exclaim as I drop my keys and almost my phone as I try to quickly unlock the door. Once I manage to get my act together and unlock the door, I step through the threshold only to drop not only my keys again but also the phone.

  “Yeah baby, just like that. God, your mouth is fucking fantastic.”

  This is not happening.

  No.

  Just no.

  In the distance I can hear Jessi calling my name, but I can’t move. I just stand watching as my fiancé sits on our couch, his hands holding onto a mane of long blonde hair, as a woman sucks his cock into her mouth. His moans and her slurping fill the air, and I’m pretty sure I’m going to throw up.

  Or kill him.

 
Possibly both.

  “Are you fucking kidding me?” The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them.

  “Fuck,” Trenton says as he stands quickly then a sound that is part groan and scream falls from his lips as I see blondie didn’t pull her mouth from his dick as he stood. Good. I hope she bit it and he fucking bleeds.

  “Babe, what . . . you’re . . . it’s not what you think.”

  “It’s not what . . . are you kidding me?” I snarl. I’m shaking, and my breath is labored. I may be having a heart attack. This cannot be happening to me. We’re getting married in eight days. Eight.

  I’m about to lay into him for his ridiculous response when a loud banging starts filling the room. I look down to where my phone lies on the floor and know it’s Jessi wondering what happened. I pick up my phone and bring it to my ear.

  “I’m going to be late. Tequila is so on the table,” I declare before clicking the end call button.

  “Whit, baby,” Trenton begins as he stuffs his limp dick in his pants, but I put my hand up and turn my attention to the woman still on her knees in front of my couch. Her hair is mussed and her lipstick smeared.

  “Really, Eliza?” I spit out as I cross my hands over my chest. She doesn’t stand up nor does she offer an apology. Instead, she crawls—yes, crawls—toward where Trenton has moved. “I don’t think so, honey. I’m pretty sure your moment has passed. You can get the fuck out of my house.”

  Trenton’s secretary, yes, the cliché is happening right before my eyes. But in my case, this scene is playing out in my house and not his office like the good little porn he’d like it to be. Finally Eliza stands and wipes the corners of her mouth as if that will help the mess she’s made. Both figuratively and literally. When she smooths her skirt and turns her attention to Trenton and opens her mouth to speak to him, it’s too much.

  “Nope, you don’t get to talk to him. Get. The. Fuck. Out. Of. My. House.” I watch as Eliza’s eyes widen with the realization that I may completely lose my mind in two point four seconds. For the first time today, she makes the wise choice of shutting her mouth. I watch as Trenton nods his head to her, obviously giving her permission to leave, and she scurries from the room.

  The front door slams, pulling my attention from Trenton, and it’s then I spot her four-inch stilettos next to Trenton’s. I walk casually toward the door to retrieve them, and without a second thought, I open the front door and toss the shoes out like trash before slamming the door shut again.

  “Baby, please let me explain.”

  I turn my body so I’m facing Trenton and instead of offering him my attention, walk past him to the master bedroom. I can hear his footsteps as he follows me, his throat clearing as he no doubt attempts to come up with an excuse for what I just witnessed. I don’t acknowledge him and walk into the master bathroom, retrieve my contact lenses and make my way back to the front door. When my hand reaches the door knob, I pause and turn my head to meet his eyes.

  “Please, Whit. I’m sorry. I love you. Let me fix this.”

  “You can’t fix this, Trenton. You broke my heart. And your promise.” The first hint of my pain is evident in my voice as I take a deep breath to hold off the tears I know are going to fall, and fast.

  Without another word to Trenton, I open the front door just in time to see Eliza running across our front lawn picking up her shoes. I wish I had better aim and they had landed in the street, because the sound of the street sweeper in the distance sends a visual of their demise and that makes me smile.

  Trenton is still saying my name, begging me to listen, when I close the door behind me, wondering if I’ll ever walk through it again.

  My drive to Jessi’s apartment was a blur. My heart’s cracked in two, and I haven’t stopped crying since I fell into her arms an hour ago. She’s trying to be supportive and let me cry, but I also know it’s killing her. She’s hated Trenton and everything he represents since I started dating him three years ago. She thinks the wedding album and my marriage plan is ridiculous.

  “Honey, you have to know this is for the best.” Her hands caress my long dark hair as I lay my head on her lap. For the briefest moment, I envy cats and their ability to have humans rub their heads and backs like this. Damn, cats really do live the good life. Nap, eat, stretch, head massage from humans. Repeat.

  “How can you say that, Jess? Trenton and I are supposed to be married next week.” My argument is weak, even I know that.

  “Yeah well, I say you dodged a fucking bullet. I told you, I don’t trust anyone who has fourteen pairs of khakis and has his underwear laundered. Who does that? Dickheads, that’s who.”

  Her reference to his khaki collection makes me laugh a little; she does have a point. On paper Trenton is the guy I’m supposed to marry. He is all part of the big picture. My happily ever after.

  I dated in high school but didn’t sleep around. I saved myself for my first love. Or, who I thought was my first love. Turns out, the love was one-sided on my part, and he moved on within two days of me offering my virginity to him. Asshole.

  In college, I had one mission. Only date guys who were safe and had long-term goals. Enter Trenton Carmichael. I met Trenton one day as I was waiting in line for coffee. He asked me if I knew the difference between almond milk and soy milk and the rest was history. He was handsome with his light brown hair cut like most of the frat guys, his bright blue eyes danced with just enough mischief that I felt my pulse race, and his smile made me feel like the prettiest girl around.

  After a few dates with Trenton, I knew he fit the bill for my perfect match. He was career driven, family oriented, and made me feel special. Sure, when he kissed me I didn’t feel like I could drown in his kisses but really, who does? I’m smart enough to know butterflies and heart flutters I read about in my romance novels don’t happen in real life. Real life is finding a perfect match, someone who shares your interests and dreams and making it work. That’s what I grew up thinking life was supposed to be. I thought I had that with Trenton.

  Well, until I found Eliza sucking him off in our living room. Turns out, I had it all wrong.

  “Do you want me to call the other girls and tell them the weekend is off? We can just hang out here and eat a bunch of fried food and drink wine. Whatever you want.” And, that is why Jessi has been my best friend since our first day of middle school. She’s my ride or die. My sister from another mister. My constant and my truest love.

  “The hotel is non-refundable. I don’t want anyone to know about this,” I say as I lift my head from her lap and wipe my tear-streaked face with my sleeve.

  “Yes. I think a girls’ weekend is what you need. When we get home on Sunday, we’ll talk to your parents and then . . .”

  I cut her off before she can continue, “Let’s just get through the weekend. I’m not sure what I’m going to do.”

  “What? Of course you’re calling it off. Fuck that asshole.”

  “I’ve made a commitmen—”

  “So did he, when he put that ring on your finger. Doesn’t seem to be high on his list of priorities.”

  “Look, I appreciate you supporting me. I’m hurt and confused. He seemed really sorry, and . . .”

  “Nope. He’s not fucking sorry, Whit. He got caught. There’s a difference. Look, nothing needs to be dealt with tonight. Let’s get out of here and meet up with Courtney and Jen at the hotel. We’ll order room service, drink too much wine, and watch your favorite romcoms. Tomorrow we have the spa day all set up and then some fun plans for tomorrow night.”

  “Sounds perfect. But umm . . . maybe instead of the romcoms, can we watch some scary movies. I don’t know if I can handle all the love and happiness tonight.”

  “Done. Let’s blow this pop stand,” she declares, bringing her fingers to her mouth in mock horror. “Whoops, sorry. I didn’t mean to bring up blowing.”

  I roll my eyes at her before smacking her with one of the throw pillows on her couch. She laughs and it’s only seconds before I�
��m joining her.

  The drive to the downtown hotel isn’t far but it’s enough for us to put the afternoon behind me and focus on the night ahead. Girl time is exactly what I need.

  When Jessi and I arrived at the hotel last night, the girls were ready with margaritas, tacos, and a commitment to avoid all things happily ever after and romance. Neither knew the details of what I’d walked into, and while I know they are both dying to know, they let me rant about what a jerk Trenton was and supported both Jessi’s plan to glitter bomb his dick and my plan to drink away my sorrows. That’s the joy of best friends, you support each other, no questions asked. Okay, so they have an overwhelming amount of questions. I just haven’t felt like giving all the answers.

  When it came time for movies, Jen suggested we watch porn and critique technique. Jessi was on board with the suggestion, but as soon as she saw the look of horror on my face she used the best friend for life veto and porn was off the table. She knew that I walked into an in-person porno in my living room, I really didn’t need to watch more of it. Instead, we settled on a thriller that had more explosions and gunfire than I think is necessary in a movie, but who am I to question? At the halfway point of the movie, we’d turned it into a drinking game. Let’s just say, there were a lot of guns used in the movie and thus a lot of tequila shots taken.

  The rest of the night was a blur. I know there was an attempt to teach Jen and Courtney the choreographed dance Jessi and I came up with as teenagers. When that was unsuccessful, we played a game of Would You Rather. I laughed so hard at everyone’s justifications as to why they’d rather give up oral sex more than cheese I almost peed my pants. As the night turned into early morning, we finally crawled under the covers for a few hours of sleep before our day of pampering.

  Spa days are supposed to be relaxing, bringing the Zen or whatever to your existence. All this spa day has done is remind me that tequila and I are not friends, and my actual friends are assholes. Okay, that’s not true. They’re not assholes. Enablers who support poor life choices is more accurate. Case in point, my hangover and desire to crawl in a hole and never come out.