How To Ruin Your Ex's Wedding: A Romantic Comedy

by Denise Wells

  “Nonsense, you barely touched your lunch.” He shuts his car door and comes around to open mine and help me out, then walks me to the front door with one arm around my waist and the other at my elbow.

  I allow him to lead me into the living room where he pushes me gently to the couch, then kneels and pulls off my shoes. As he lifts my feet to turn me from sitting to lying down, I peek to make sure the edge of my control top shorts aren’t showing beneath my skirt before he covers me with a blanket and kisses my forehead.

  “Do you need me to stay with you?” he asks.

  “No, I’ll be fine.”

  “I can send the doctor over to check on you. Nothing is too good for my queen.”

  “Really, Hunter, I’m fine. I promise.”

  “Okay, I’m heading into my office, but I’ll see you later. Call me if you need anything.”

  I nod and smile, then close my eyes and try to banish from my memory the feeling of Pax’s hands around my waist. His fingers curving toward my ass. He used to hold me like that when he’d fuck me on the table. Or the counter. Or the vanity in the bathroom. My core clenches thinking about it.

  I pull my phone out of my purse and flip through my old pictures until I find the one I’m looking for. It’s Pax, in bed, first thing in the morning. His hair is mussed and he has a slight scowl on his face, but his eyes are shining with so much love.

  For me.

  He wouldn’t often let me take pictures of him, always more comfortable on the other side of the lens. But I’d straddled his waist, waking him with the movement, and capturing the moment before he had a chance to stop me. It was shortly after we’d moved to Los Angeles. We were so young. It hurts to see how innocent we were.

  God, what I wouldn’t give sometimes to have that innocence back.

  Even though I was grown up far beyond my years in a lot of ways, thanks to Hollywood, I’d experienced very little sexually. Pax was my first everything. First boyfriend, first real kiss, first orgasm, first person I had sex with, first person I lived with aside from my mother, and of course, my first marriage and subsequent divorce.

  I wasn’t even planning to get married again. My first one was too public, too painful, too eviscerating. Until I met Hunter. He’s good, calm, and kindhearted. The opposite of Pax in so many ways, that I can’t help but be convinced it’s right. That it will work between us for that very reason.

  A message pops on the screen, from Liza, our wedding coordinator.

  LIZA: Just to keep you updated, I’m setting appointments with photographers. Will have samples of their work for you to review once I narrow it down. Have one in particular am hoping to get, if so will just hire. Otherwise, getting quotes to capture the planning, rehearsals, and wedding day per Mr. Simpcox’s request.

  ME: That’s fine. Thank you, Liza.

  At first, I felt funny doing a big thing for my second marriage, but it’s Hunter’s first and it’s important to him. Plus, I didn’t have a big event the first time around. Pax and I eloped and then holed up in a cheesy love-themed hotel for the weekend. It was pretty damn perfect. We couldn’t take off work much longer than that. I was filming a made-for-TV movie at the time and Pax was about to take his first trip overseas for a small tour with a group of Marines in Afghanistan.

  For our honeymoon, Hunter and I plan to take a three-week tour of Italy to visit as many vineyards and wineries as possible. Hunter dreams of one day owning a winery, and he really wants to experience the differences between the right and left banks of the Rhone River; in layman’s terms, the difference between Cabernet Sauvignon versus Merlot.

  I’d originally cleared my schedule for this afternoon thinking that Hunter and I were meeting with a couple wedding planners and deciding together who to hire. Since that didn’t happen, I find myself with an unusually free afternoon. Not that I would have had that many demands on my time, but I still would have filled it with something, like usual.

  Feeling better, I busy myself looking through a few bridal magazines and earmarking pictures I’d like to show Liza. Dresses, bouquets, flower arrangements, monogram styles, and place settings. It’s important to Hunter that everything be super upscale and classy. His words, not mine. Because, image is everything. Also his words.

  I look at the clock, surprised to see that only took a little over forty minutes. I don’t do well with idle time. I need to stay active or my brain gets too busy and kind of wraps around itself, so to speak. My stomach rumbles, acid bubbling up my esophagus. I drank too much champagne and didn’t eat enough lunch when we were out, so I pop an antacid pill and sit still for a moment until it starts to work. I know it’s not healthy to take them as often as I do, but I’d rather take too many pills than have my insides roiling around.

  I don’t do well with stress.

  Which is why this is a good step that I’m taking toward my future. It is the right step. Because Hunter adores me; he has me up on a pedestal.

  You hate the pedestal.

  Maybe. But that doesn’t mean it’s bad.

  It means he doesn’t know you. Not the real you anyway.

  He knows enough.

  He knows the you that you’ve pretended to be with him.

  It doesn’t matter. Whatever he knows, it’s enough that he wants to marry me and take care of me. Plus, we never argue. He caters to my every need. He’s the opposite of Pax, and that’s what I need.

  Pax.

  Stop thinking about Pax. He doesn’t matter.

  The acid rolls in my stomach. I pop a few more antacids, then look around for something else to occupy my time. My mother’s tell-all book waves to me from where I’d tossed it on the coffee table. It’s bound to be filled with half-truths and exaggerated tales, begging me to let it fill my idle time. I’m not going to read it. To prove my point, I grab it and put it under the mattress in the guest room. Then I take it back out, put it in a brown paper bag, wrap it with packing tape, and shove it back between the mattress and box spring. I don’t need for it to be easily available when I’m feeling weak.

  Like now.

  It’s funny, I always thought my relationship with my mom was great. Until I went to public high school and realized what other mothers did. And high school girls didn’t even like their mothers most of the time. Thus began the divide and we’ve never been able to bridge the gap since.

  It’s not until I begin to pace that I realize I really need to take my mind off everything for a while. I’m too wired to meditate. So, I succumb to weakness, which I hate about myself, and do the other thing I hate about myself. I make and then eat an entire box of sugar-free JELL-O. Then lock myself in my office and watch reruns of my talk show from when I was younger. From a time before I was jaded. Back when I was happy. Because what they say is correct: innocence is bliss.

  An email from my ghostwriter arrives an hour and a half into my pity party, saving me from further self-condemnation. When I spend too much time revisiting the past, I have a tendency to spiral down. And by past, I mean everything from my pre-Hunter days.

  I send the file to the printer, noticing the chapters from the ghostwriter are about the move from Los Angeles to Seattle, navigating the sudden departure from the glitz and glam in the public eye to public school and life in suburbia. In some ways, I think it was my mother’s way of punishing me for wanting to take a leave of absence from acting. A decision she did not support. So, she found the furthest thing from it and forced me along for the ride.

  Of course, it didn’t impact her life so much as that she just didn’t have access to the social circles of the industry. Otherwise, her days barely changed, still consisting of managing me; making sure I was where I should be when I should be. Which, after moving, was much more easily achieved than before, until people figured out who I really was.

  We should have known it wouldn’t be easy. There’s only so far that hair dye and fake glasses can get you before your mannerisms or something else indicative of your personal character calls you out. For the f
irst time in my life, I wasn’t playing a role or another person or a caricature of myself. I was having to be me, and at that point I wasn’t sure who that person was. Which made it easy to slip into various personas until one or two eventually stuck.

  I’m certain that I still have a crisis of identity to this day. It shouldn’t surprise me, or anyone for that matter, that I re-invented myself with Hunter. It’s why I’m so bothered by him calling me my queen. It’s not me. It’s his idea of me.

  My fault.

  I’m the one who has perpetuated the myth, allowing him to believe he knows who I am, when really he only knows the small piece of me I’ve allowed to break free and be shown. Crystal is the only person in my life who truly knows me. And she isn’t afraid to call me on my shit, in her own passive way.

  I’m an enigma to everyone else. Purposefully.

  Except Pax.

  Well, sure, but Pax isn’t in my life, so it doesn’t matter.

  Oh, pashaw.

  The pages from the ghostwriter finish printing and I settle down on the couch with my favorite red pen to rip it to shreds. While a small part of me enjoys recounting stories from my past and allowing another person to turn that into something worthy of audience amusement, a larger part of me wants to make sure the portrayals are accurate without so much of the embellishment that is favored in the entertainment industry.

  My publicist loves to remind me: The smallest detail to you, about you, may be fascinating to a fan.

  However, the details that I don’t need fed to the public are my feelings toward Pax as we journeyed from my high school graduation to living together, moving back to LA, marriage, reality show, and divorce. Against my better judgment, I allowed the ghostwriter to make copies of select journal entries of mine from that time period. A time when I was known to be melodramatic and wordy. This ghostwriter loves to play up the tumultuous love affair aspect that ended so public and tragic on the front lawn of our coastal Los Angeles townhome.

  As such, I “X” out more than a third of what she has sent because it’s too vivid. Too accurate. Too telling. I don’t need people knowing my innermost thoughts. What’s the point of reinventing yourself and becoming someone new if you are just going to send out written invitations to the inner workings of the person you were before?

  6

  Pax

  Liza Littleton is not what I was expecting. The movies always show wedding coordinators as organized, slightly controlling, attractive women, looking for love, which they supplement by helping others with theirs. Funny enough, that’s typically what they are in reality.

  Just not Liza.

  Liza is big: big speaker, big thinker, big spender, and tall. At least six feet tall if my estimation is correct.

  “Matthew Hanhauser?” she calls to me from her office when I enter the reception area.

  “That’s me,” I reply, sauntering in, my Matthew disguise in place, dressed in jeans, white t-shirt, and cowboy boots. An ensemble that is surprisingly effective in masking my true identity. Especially since it’s similar to my typical attire as Pax: jeans, random t-shirt, biker boots, and mirrored aviators. Except Pax has no ’stache and keeps his hair cut close to his head.

  “Well, you are not at all what I was expecting.” She looks me up and down and back up again, pausing briefly at my groin. “You look like you could be in front of the camera not behind it.” She purses her lips and taps her index finger against them. “I’m undecided on the mustache, though. Tell me, does it tickle?”

  “Uh, no. I’m used to it.”

  “I meant with the ladies. Does it tickle the ladies?” She winks.

  I don’t quite know what to say.

  She doesn’t seem to care. “Well, never mind then.” She waves a hand in the air. “I’ve heard a lot about you. I have to say that your reputation definitely precedes you.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Yes, well, come, come, sit, sit. Let’s get started.” She repeats certain words as she speaks. “Have you got your portfolio?”

  I nod and hand it to her as I take a seat across the desk from her.

  “Good. Good,” she says, thumbing through it. “I’ll be honest, you’re my top pick. I mean, what’s not to like? Talented, handsome, in demand, tall, mmm-mmm.” She licks her lips. “But I’m supposed to run a few choices by my clients and let them make the final decision. That said, I already know that you are the right man for the job.”

  “Remind me again who the client is?” I play dumb.

  “Hunter Simpcox, the tech millionaire. Lovely man. Just lovely.”

  “And the bride? Or is it a second groom?”

  Because with a name like Simpcox . . .

  I snicker to myself.

  If Liza notices, she doesn’t say anything. “Tabatha Seton, actress, entrepreneur, and creator of Tab it Together, the clothing line for women.”

  I look at her, brows raised, as though I’m not familiar, even though I’m more than. I helped Tabs start the company before we divorced. And I let her have the entire thing when we split. I do okay with what I do and live comfortably, but Tabs makes bank with that fucking clothing line.

  “It’s the best, absolutely the best. Each article of clothing has a colored tab and as long as you match it with another of the same tab, you know that it goes together. Some tabs are more conservative and others a little crazy with mixed prints. I’m sure I had something similar as a child and loved it. She’s clever, that woman. So clever. I’m wearing one of her outfits now, from the plus-size collection.” She stands and turns, stopping in a pose. I have to admit the outfit works on her. Some kind of tight legging type pant tucked into boots, with a billowy top.

  “It’s very nice,” I say.

  “I know, right?” she replies. “Anyway, enough of that. Let’s talk price. How much are you going to charge for this. I need a quote for the planning, the rehearsals, and the big day.”

  “My hourly rate is three hundred dollars,” I say.

  She doesn’t bat an eye. “You understand there could be events happening every day that require your attention? Every day?”

  “Yes, I do,” I say.

  “And that there is a special in development regarding the courtship and planning, plus parts of the ceremony will be televised. Your pictures will more than likely be used for all of that as well. Will you be charging a licensing fee on top of the hourly fee?”

  “No.” I shake my head.

  She looks surprised.

  Shit, I probably should have added a licensing fee. I’d originally planned on taking the next few months off, so anything I make through this job is gravy. Let’s be honest, I don’t really care what I make from this. I’ll be doing it for sport more than anything else.

  “Okay then.” She picks up some papers from her desk and taps them on the tabletop to straighten them before handing them to me. “Here is the contract we are using for this event. Please review it carefully and return it as soon as possible—”

  “Where do I sign?” I ask.

  “You don’t want to read it?”

  I glance at the top page, seeing boilerplate verbiage. I know it’s stupid to sign anything without reading it. But I want this gig. Rather, Matthew wants this gig. And I don’t care about the rights to the photos of my ex remarrying, which is usually all these contracts talk about anyway. I sign his name in all the correct places and hand it back to her.

  “Well, this is great. Just great. Thank you. I’ll make sure to get a copy of this emailed over to you today. I am looking forward to working with you, Matthew.” She reaches her hand across the desktop and I take it in mine. We shake, but she keeps my hand in her grasp for too long than is customary.

  “You have nice hands, Matthew.” She lets her fingers trail against my palm as she lets go. “I’m going to let the happy couple know that we’ve decided on a photographer. We have a cake tasting this week you’ll be expected to cover. As soon as I have the exact day, time, and location, I will let you know
.”

  “Sounds good, thanks, Liza.”

  “The pleasure is all mine, Matthew. Just a pleasure.”

  Traffic is light on the way back to my house, I catch the ferry at just the right time, and find myself at home with most of the afternoon still free. I remove the ball cap/wig and the porn ’stache then use a special cream to get the remaining adhesive residue from my upper lip.

  My house is built into a hill with a small part of it being subterranean. It makes for an exceptional darkroom. I do some work in there as well as some in my studio, then grab a beer and sit out on my back deck to watch the boats in the sound.

  I grab one of my cameras and capture a few shots as I sit there. I probably have a million of the sound already, but it never grows old. Neither does Mount Rainier or the Olympic Mountain Range. That’s the beauty of nature, it changes by the second and no two shots are ever the same. There is always something new to commit to film or paper.

  I go back inside to start dinner, taking a steak from the fridge to grill and throw a potato in the oven to bake. It’s a simple meal, but still my favorite. I turn on the sports channel while I wait for the potato. One beer turns into three and I start to feel antsy.

  Tabatha’s picture taunts me from the wall. She doesn’t know I still have it. She may not even remember posing for it. She’s sitting on the bed, naked, her head leaning in one direction with her hair covering her face, and her body leaning in the other. Her knees are bent to the side before her with her feet covering any lady parts that might otherwise be exposed to the camera. One arm is crossed in front of her, hiding her breasts, the other crossed over and clasping her side. The shot is incredibly sensual despite not showing any actual nudity.

  I’ve got it enlarged on my wall to near life-like size, and only I know who it is. Even Gregor doesn’t know. I’m sure that Tabs would recognize herself if she ever saw it. But she won’t ever see it, so it doesn’t matter. I took it a few weeks before the final split. During a “good” time in our marriage. You can’t tell from the photo, but she’s on the bed, waiting for me. A little drunk, a little tired, a little turned on. She was in motion when I grabbed the shot, but it’s a perfect moment in time.