My Big Fat Fake Honeymoon

Meredith nods serenely. “Of course. Use the privacy in the car while I handle this, dear.” She sounds almost motherly, gentle even, right up until Claire waves and walks out the door. In what I’m guessing is more her true manner, Meredith snaps, “Chop, chop, girls. The flowers won’t load themselves, now will they?” Her face is stone still, but I swear I see glee dancing in her eyes.

I grit my teeth. I’m definitely not a girl, nor am I her employee to boss around. But Claire is worth dealing with Meredith’s attitude. The publicity alone for this wedding is worth dealing with a hundred Merediths.

At least that’s what I tell myself while we load white boxes into the SUV and make the driver promise to go slow and easy on the drive even though we’ve packed the flowers for safe transport.

Meredith does have us open a few of the boxes to peek at the arrangements, something I completely understand but that still irks me given the rest of our meeting. “They are rather . . . colorful, aren’t they?” Colorful sounds like code for ugly as sin.

“Yes, as the bride requested. Beautiful, vibrant flowers to represent the island destination and the wedding’s color palette.” It’s the description Claire herself gave me at our first meeting to discuss her wants, tastes, and floral dreams.

Meredith’s hum is loud with disapproval, even though it’s quiet in volume. “If you’re done, we do have places to go, Miss Andrews.”

Again, she says my name as though it’s physically repulsive for her to do so. What the hell?

Did Dad buy up her family’s land or something? Did Ross not call her daughter back after a hook-up? That would’ve had to be years ago because he’s been locked down with Violet for a long time now. Or is she just averse to me in general because of my family’s wealth? That happens sometimes—the same way people will want to befriend you because you come from money, other people are instantly hateful toward you, as though I have anything to do with my dad’s success.

“All done, Meredith,” I say with a well-practiced smile. I use her first name intentionally, putting us on a more even playing field and letting her know that I’m not intimidated by her.

I am. But showing weakness isn’t how the game is played. I learned that from Mom and Dad, and it’s a lesson I won’t forget. My name might come with some baggage, but no matter what, I’m an Andrews and damn proud of it.

Already turning away before Meredith can respond, I wave and offer a genuine smile to Claire through the SUV’s tinted windows. She rolls the window down, phone still pressed to her ear. “I’ll see you in Aruba, Abi. Thanks again!”

After they pull out, Janey and Samantha pepper me with questions.

“Who the hell was that?”

“What’s she got against our Abster?”

“Need me to kill her and compost her body out back?”

That one was Janey, which doesn’t surprise me. We joke that she’s my work wife, and as such, she takes care of me very well. It’s not one-sided, though. I take care of her and Samantha too. Like now.

“I have no idea what that was all about. What I do know is that we are free and clear for the night. I’m exhausted and still need to pack for this work week in Aruba. Let’s call for Chinese food and take it home. I’m ordering you both to curl up on the couch, eat dinner, and take a relaxing bath. I think we’re going to need it.”

Samantha nods, likely taking mental notes of exactly what I said and in what order because she will actually follow instructions. She’ll do well next week while Janey and I are gone, though I might have Violet stop by to check in. But that’s more about my being nervous about leaving my baby in someone else’s hands than it is about Samantha’s capabilities.

“So what I’m hearing is get drunk, get laid, and pack some Xanax to deal with the Wicked Witch?” Janey smiles as she ticks off her to-do list on her fingers. “And we get overtime pay for this too, right?”

“Pushing it, girl,” I say in a tone that mimics Meredith’s.

Janey’s brows jump together and her head is a heartbeat away from circling on her neck.

“Kidding, just kidding.” I sigh. “But really, let’s get out of here. I have a feeling the next week is going to be long and hard.”

“That’s what my night had better be,” Janey retorts.

I laugh, but secretly, I wish my night were going to resemble Janey’s and not simply be me having a solo fashion show to pack my suitcase with acceptable options for both work and hopefully a small amount of play in Aruba.

Speaking of play, I make a note to myself—pack my purple friend because fuck knows, it’s the only thing giving me a long, hard night these days.