My Big Fat Fake Wedding

by Landish, Lauren

  “Hey, guys!” I gasp as I feel my bridal shapewear corset, a marvelous invention that gives me the perfect hourglass figure, squeeze me to within an inch of my life. Any more and I swear it’ll crush my ovaries. “I know you’re both excited for me, but I can’t breathe!”

  No one told me trying on wedding dresses and getting the right shape could be this painful. I thought it was come in, try on a few dresses, and after a few twirls and happy tears, be done.

  “Shit, sorry!” Abi and Archie exclaim in near unison. As Archie jumps back, Abi tries to loosen my corset but fails as there’s too much dress fabric in the way. “I forgot how tight we had to pull it to get you into this thing.”

  “I’d blame it on the pa-pa-pa-pasta!” Archie sings, doing a not half-bad riff on Blame It by Jamie Foxx, while measuring my curves through fingers held in a square like he’s a cameraman looking for my good side. His puckered lips and sharp brow remind me of Zoolander, and I’m waiting for him to say something about ‘Blue Steel’, but it doesn’t come.

  Still, I can’t help but burst into laughter at his antics then gasp as the corset tightens even further. Shit, is this damn corset alive? “Hey!” I rasp, leveling a stern finger Archie’s way and defending the curves I was blessed with through a particularly short and fierce round of puberty. “I’m half Italian. Pasta, pizza, lasagna, and red wine are a way of life for me, okay?”

  With zero apology, he traces my shape reflecting in the mirror, which is admittedly a little fuller looking in this unflattering white taffeta ballgown that’s a definite no-go. “No one’s commenting on your curvy figure, love. There damn sure ain’t nothing wrong with a little a junk in the trunk. Just look at Kim Kardashian.” He waits a moment and then adds under his breath, but still loud enough for Abi and me to hear, “Only in America can someone turn an ass and a sex tape into a multi-billion-dollar family empire!”

  The next gown is wrong too, and the one after that is even worse.

  It’s a sparkly number that somehow makes me look like a constipated fairytale princess. Too New Jersey, if that makes any damn sense, and as a half-Italian, avoiding any Jersey Shore comparisons is vital to me.

  Which probably means I’ll have to come back another time to try on even more gowns. Abi and Archie might kill me if I make them sit through this again, but I need their help and want someone to celebrate with when I do find The One.

  Because I will.

  Against all odds, I found a husband-to-be, a venue with an opening for our short-notice ceremony and big reception, and I will find a dress that makes me feel special for my big day.

  Abi adjusts my bra straps, beaming at my reflection even though she already told me this dress is ridiculous and Archie made a rather harsh comment about my being ready for Wedding Day: 90s Vegas Style with the amount of bling thrown on this thing.

  “When do you want to come check out the invitations?” Abi chirps. She co-owns a local specialty floral boutique and is handling all of my flower arrangements personally. But as my maid of honor, she offered to do the invitations as well.

  Shit.

  “Oh, yeah, sorry! I’ve been so busy with work and dress hunting, I totally forgot about that! When do you want me to come by the boutique to see them? Colin and I have a breakfast date tomorrow morning to talk about the wedding, so we could rearrange and come by the shop instead. But Archie and I have a job lined up right after—”

  “With Bitch-ella, the Ice Queen,” Archie interrupts with a mutter that I can’t really disagree with, but I give him a side-eye that begs him to at least try to be professional about the client.

  “So, we’d have to be fast,” I finish.

  Abi purses her lips thoughtfully as she places her hands on my hips, moving my body slightly to the side and staring at my shape in the mirror. “No way. You two do a breakfast date, and we can figure out a time when it’s not a rush. Tomorrow’s Friday, so maybe we can do it after work and then grab drinks?”

  I nod, ignoring the flutters of butterflies in my stomach. I don’t know why I’m so nervous all of a sudden. I mean, yes, there’s a lot to do and not much time to do it in, but everything’s going to plan, just like I hoped.

  Papa.

  Colin.

  The wedding.

  I should be on cloud nine. Yet, these butterflies don’t feel like good, happy flutters. More like a tornado of responsibility, expectations, and nerves.

  Abi turns me, eyeing me thoughtfully. “You good? Everything all right, Vi?”

  I don’t want to bring down the mood or start examining the questions in my head too closely, so I play pretend, telling myself that slightly cold feet are normal. After all, getting married is a big deal and not one to take lightly.

  “I’m fine. It’s just this damn corset!” I say with a grimace, grabbing my sides. “After I meet with Colin tomorrow, everything should be good to go.” I look between the both of them, spreading my arms out to the side and twirling across the showroom stage in my dress one last time. “Final verdict?”

  “Not my favorite,” Abi says, shaking her head.

  “I agree,” Archie co-signs. “It’s totally giving me Tangled, meets the Little Mermaid, meets Cinderella vibe, but like they all became dancers on the Vegas strip. Emphasis on the strip.”

  “Gee, thanks, Arch,” I mutter sourly. But funnily enough, I agree with his assessment, although my terms were a little less . . . animated and crude.

  Archie winks at me. “You’re welcome, sweet cheeks.”

  “Don’t worry, Vi. We’re going to keep looking and find the perfect dress that’ll knock Colin flat on his ass!” Abigail’s assertion settles me slightly, helping me focus on the issue at hand . . . my dress. If I can just find that, everything else will be smooth sailing.

  “Yeah, turn that frown upside down!” Archie adds, pushing at my cheeks with two fingers. He looks deep into my eyes, and I’m expecting some sweet words of wisdom, but I should know better with Archie. “Just think, before you know it, Colin won’t have to bag it up anymore, and you’ll get to feel the real thing. How big we talking here?” He holds his fingers a few inches apart, spreading them to indicate a bigger and bigger appendage, but it’s seeing the whites of his eyes growing as I don’t stop him that does me in.

  “Oh, God, you’re too much!” I groan, forcing his hand down and chuckling.

  Come on, girl. Everything is going to work out. It has to.

  * * *

  “I’m calling off the engagement.”

  The words hit me like a freight train, a grenade launched directly into my heart.

  When Colin told me he wanted to meet with me this morning, I was under the impression it was to discuss the details of our wedding, plan who we were inviting, what DJ we were going to use, etc.

  Never in a million years did I think it would be to dump me.

  “Violet?” Colin asks, noticing that I’ve gone completely rigid, my latte frozen inches away from my lips and my half-eaten bagel in front of me.

  Colin Radcliffe. My fiancé. My ex-fiancé, I correct with a wince. Fucking rat is what my mind is yelling loudly.

  Dressed in a gray, freshly pressed, tailored suit, Colin’s blond hair is styled and parted, and he’s gazing at me with expectancy, as if I’m supposed to burst into hysterics, crying and making a scene worthy of Hamlet.

  But I’m frozen, thinking WTF?

  Why?

  And . . . why now?

  But wondering the whys won’t do me any good. Colin’s obviously thought this through and wants to end it all.

  Doesn’t matter that I just spent weeks trying to find the perfect wedding dress.

  Doesn’t matter how much I want the fairytale wedding.

  Doesn’t matter that my Papa won’t get to walk me down the aisle. Maybe never.

  None of it matters to him.

  In a hit that’s even more impactful than Colin’s words, I realize that none of my thoughts on this betrayal have anything to do with us, our relationship,
or our love. Love?

  Do I even love Colin?

  Stupid me thought I’d make it work using a checklist for our compatibility.

  Both career-oriented people. Check.

  Former lovers. Check.

  Both matured and ready to settle down. Check and check.

  Boy, was I wrong on that last one.

  “Violet?” Colin presses again, this time reaching across the table and placing his hands atop mine.

  Suddenly, I feel queasy, and I have to fight back the urge to throw up in his lap.

  “I know this has to come as a shock to you, but I’ll cover the lost deposit on the wedding hall and every other expense associated with our engagement so you don’t have to worry.”

  Just like I thought, he’s already planned his exit strategy, as if our wedding, our marriage, was some business transaction. For him, maybe it was. For me? I don’t know, I realize. Maybe this is what the buzzing butterflies have been trying to tell me?

  “Why?” I ask simply, battling down the surge of nausea.

  Colin licks his lips, lips that I once enjoyed on my neck, on my breasts, on my most sacred of places.

  “Violet, you know I adore you, and you’re beautiful, smart, and kind, but . . . I don’t think I’m ready for marriage.” He stares at me again, rubbing my hands as if waiting for the crying hysterics he knows must be coming.

  He definitely wants a show, just not too much of one. That perfect balance of greedy hunger for drama, tampered with the knowledge that he doesn’t want to look bad.

  That’s why he picked the coffee shop, I realize. Cold and calculated. The Radcliffe way. In public, he knows I’m not going to go fully emotional, batshit crazy or really even make a scene. It’s not my style.

  But he does want to see me shatter into a million tiny pieces, and he wants an audience while he does his dirty work.

  I’ve been ignoring it, something I could easily do with our quick whirlwind relationship, but I can see it clearly now that he’s serving it up on a platter like a Thanksgiving turkey.

  Everything is a façade with him. Image and reputation reign supreme.

  I bet he thought I’d fit some corporate wife checkbox. Which would be so hurtful, except that I guess I was doing the same thing with my own checkboxes.

  This was doomed from the start.

  When I don’t muster even a single teardrop or argument, he continues, “We’re both so young, and hell, we haven’t even had sex in over three weeks.” His tone is accusatory, like it’s my fault we’ve been so tired that sex has seemed like one more thing on the ever-growing to-do list.

  He keeps digging at the wound, pouring salt in a steady stream into the bloody mess of our relationship. “We’re both so busy with our jobs. You have that decorating thing you do that you love so much, and it takes up so much of your time, and I’m really busy at Dad’s company, kicking ass and making deals. I . . . I just think we’re at two different crossroads in our lives.”

  The decorating thing that I do? Fuck off.

  Out of all the things he said, insulting my job pisses me off the most.

  And I could argue against so many of his points, letting him know that everything he said was bullshit.

  But I’m not going to because, simply put, I don’t have time for this shit.

  And I realize . . . I don’t care. Not about Colin.

  I’m such an idiot. But it was all for a good reason.

  Sorry, Papa. I tried.

  “Fine,” I say simply, pulling my hands away from his before taking off my engagement ring. “Here. You can take this back, too. I don’t want it.”

  I place the ring on the table and slide it across toward him, resisting the urge to throw it in his face or shove it up his nose, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of an emotional outburst. The huge diamond rock in the center sparkles against the light, catching the eye of several women sitting around us.

  I swear some of their heads turn like The Exorcist to get a better look as they realize what’s happening, their eyes as big as saucers as they gawk at the size of the ring.

  One of the women even leans so far forward to get a better look that she jostles her steaming hot coffee, spilling it on her hand. But instead of crying out at what I know has to hurt, she quietly blots at it, blowing cool air across her hand so she doesn’t miss a single moment of the Colin and Violet Breakup Show.

  “You know,” I say as I grab my purse and slide on my Gucci shades, ignoring the commotion of googly-eyed stares and growing whispers from women around us, “It was really good to reconnect after so long, Colin. And we tried to make it work. It didn’t. Thanks for everything.”

  My words are clipped and to the point.

  If he’s going to break off our engagement like this, I see no reason to drag it out with some long ass monologue that’ll amount to nothing in the end, anyway.

  Finished, I begin to rise from my chair, but Colin grabs my arm, holding me in place, his jaw slack in surprise.

  One of the women watching suddenly decides that’s her cue and claps her hands sharply, interrupting our scene with one of her own. “Boy, you’d best let that girl’s arm go. You had your moment, and a queen like that is better off without a twat-stain like you.”

  Several people gasp at her language and volume, but Archie has me corrupted to not even blink at that level of crudeness. Thankful for the support, I look over to her and offer a weak smile of appreciation. For his part, Colin scowls but loosens his grip. Still, he’s not done.

  “Wait a minute now, Vi. You’re not even going to try to talk about this? After all we’ve been through?” His voice has an almost whine to it, confirming what I expected.

  He wanted me to break down and beg him not to leave me.

  In front of a fucking audience.

  Like he’s some golden goose prize that I would debase myself to possess.

  Well, he can kick rocks.

  I won’t give him the satisfaction of a show.

  I shrug nonchalantly. “Nope.”

  “Look, Vi, I know how much our getting married means to you. I get it, you’re pissed and upset. I would be too, but can we please not end things on bad terms? You don’t have to act this way—”

  “We’re fine,” I say, disengaging my arm from his grasp and rising to my feet. “Besides, you’re right. It’s probably for the best.”

  Colin’s lips work for several seconds, at a loss for words. Like he can’t believe this didn’t turn out how he expected, me in a crying puddle at his feet.

  He clenches his jaw, showing that he’s actually getting angry. “Violet—”

  “’Bye, Colin.”

  Ruffled, Colin straightens his collar and clears his throat, trying one last tactic, gesturing at my half-eaten food. “Will you just sit down and finish the bagel, at least?”

  Turning away, I toss over my shoulder, just as casually as he tossed away our relationship, “No time. I gotta go to work . . . and do that ‘decorating thing’.”

  My single cheerleader stands up, her arm circling in rally. “That’s right, girl. Strut it out of here and own the world.” She sneers at Colin, more emotionally invested in this than even I am, and isn’t that pitiful?

  She’s my only supporter, though. Every other woman in here is judging me as unworthy of keeping Colin. All they see is a handsome guy in a suit with a flashy diamond ring . . . back on the market.

  I imagine Colin will be collecting numbers by the stacks before he even walks out of the coffee shop.

  Well, they can have him.

  I get into the cab and far down the block before the tears come. Not for Colin, not for the decimation of our relationship, but for Papa and for the little girl I once was, and still am to some degree, who wants to make her grandfather happy.

  Chapter 2

  Ross—Ten Years Ago

  I see her again. Violet Russo.

  The Queen Bee of her little group that includes my sister.

  They’re watchin
g me. All gathered around Violet’s locker, and she’s whispering to them behind her hand as if I could read her lips from down the hall.

  She’s talking shit about me, I bet. Telling them how much of a bastard I am.

  I’d be pissed off if it weren’t true.

  It’s become her daily ritual, telling everyone how much she hates me with that wildfire in her eyes. It’s become my daily ritual, too, doing things I know will piss her off because it’s entertaining to see her explode. I don’t even know how the habit got started, but neither of us has any desire to stop the constant warring.

  But she’s plotting something. Make no doubt about it, some sort of revenge for my relentless teasing is on her mind. I can see it in her eyes, the smug tilt of her smile now that she’s dropped her hand, and the way she stands tall like she’s unreachable.

  Unfortunately for Violet, I have something special for her today . . . courtesy of Bio Lab.

  As I reach my locker, Violet furtively glances my way, but as soon as our eyes meet, she quickly averts her gaze. Even the small battles are a victory against her.

  But she whispers something into the ear of my little sister, Abigail, who’s smiling as if she approves of whatever treachery Violet is planning.

  Yep, she’s plotting something, all right.

  Too bad I’m about to beat her to the punch.

  I place my books into my locker and slam it with a loud bang and boldly make my way over.

  Halfway there, I hesitate. I’m a cocky son of a bitch, but it’s a pack of them and only one of me. And if I know anything, high school girls are like zombies. Easy enough one on one, but in packs, you’re nothing but lunch.

  But I quickly brush any apprehension aside. I’m the football team captain, for God’s sake. I’d be laughed out of the locker room for being scared of a bunch of girls, especially freshmen who look up to me like I’m a god among men.

  All except for Violet. Maybe that’s why it’s fun to tease her. She never takes it easy on me because I’m a big shot at school. She mostly acts like she doesn’t give a fuck about any of that stuff and challenges me at every turn to be more creative and strategic with my teasing.