The Enemy (It Happened in Charleston 2)

It doesn’t matter now.

It’s Stacy’s special day, and that’s all I need to focus on.

I roll over and grab my phone and shoot her a text.

JUNE: Do you hear that sound????

STACY: What sound?

JUNE: WEDDING BELLS!!!!

STACY: *Gif of old lady dancing in the kitchen*

JUNE: *Gif of a couple French kissing*

STACY: Hey, do you have my green jumper? I need it for the honeymoon.

JUNE: Why? You don’t need clothes on your honeymoon.

STACY: June…bring the jumper. You’ve had it for like six months.

JUNE: CRACKLE CRACKLE CRACKLE. Bad service. Can’t hear you. Sorry!!!

Stacy’s out of her mind if she thinks she’s ever getting that jumper back. My phone buzzes again, but it’s not Stacy this time.

RYAN: Want to get an early lunch later before we have to go to the church?

I throw my phone on my bed and avoid it for the next ten minutes. I brush my teeth. I throw on my running clothes and tennis shoes. I tie my hair in a ponytail and fill up my water bottle, all while avoiding the phone on my bed at all cost. I’m Frodo Baggins, though, because I swear I can hear that thing calling for me from the other room even though the volume is not on.

By now, I’ve formulated a very eloquent piece of literature in my brain, explaining all the reasons why I can’t go with him to lunch. It centers around my heart and my hurts and my fears. I lay it all out in a way that will help Ryan see and understand me better.

And then when that thought scares me too much, I shoot him this little gem.

JUNE: Can’t. Sorry.

He doesn’t respond. And I jog for twice as long as I normally would, forcing myself to go until my lungs squeeze as painfully as my heart at the thought of losing Ryan again.

It’s go time.

I expect “Eye of the Tiger” to start playing when I step into the bridal suite at the church, loaded down with all the essentials for a best friend’s wedding day. There’s a box of Darlin’ Donuts in my hand, a bottle of white wine under my arm, a portable steamer draped over my shoulder, and a pair of new fluffy, white house slippers in my other hand for Stacy to wear through the day. Right now, I am the epitome of what every bride wants in a maid of honor.

I am prepared to risk my life to keep away anyone that Stacy does not want to see on her special day.

I will body check Great Aunt Mildred if she comes within twenty feet of Stacy with her overpowering hibiscus perfume and cheek-pinching fingers. And I plan on telling Logan's bratty younger sister that the bridal suite is on the opposite end of the church from where it really is.

Most importantly, I will not let Ryan enter my thoughts even once during the hours leading up to the ceremony. Not once. None at all. Nada. SHOOT, I’m picturing him shirtless with his James Dean smile and lifeguard hair.

But not again.

“IT’S YOUR WEDDING DAY!!” I yell as soon as I kick the door open and step into the bridal suite, finding my best friend lounging on the couch in her adorable white silk robe.

Stacy’s pretty blue eyes light up, and she jumps onto a chair, raises her glass of champagne into the air, and repeats my battle cry. “IT’S MY WEDDING DAY!!” We will paint our faces in the traditional wedding war paint of soft-pink lips, smokey eyes, and softly penciled-in brows.

The rest of the bridal party hoots and hollers, and it’s then that I realize the bottle of wine under my arm was not at all necessary. I should have brought coffee instead. Empty shot glasses are laying haphazardly around the room, and these inane bridesmaids are hammered already. How? I thought I was early!

Stacy notices my concerned look and crinkles her nose, hops down from the chair, and comes to help me unload my wedding day ammunition. “Yeah, they apparently got here at, like, eight o’clock this morning and have been partying this whole time.”

“You’re kidding.”