My Big Fat Fake Honeymoon

A bellhop is already unloading our bags from the back, and the driver assures us that everything will be waiting in our room before directing us to the lobby to check in.

“Sorry, girl,” Janey says, shaking her head as we walk through the doors. “I don’t think I’m going home after this wedding is over. You can run the little shop of horrors all by yourself because I’m staying in paradise!”

It’s even more opulent inside the crowded lobby, with pink marble tile flooring, practically gleaming from being freshly mopped, and soaring white stone arches that are at least fifteen feet high.

There’s an airiness flowing through the lobby, bringing with it the smell of fresh sea—salt and sun. And maybe suntan oil?

There are several lines at the front desk, and I wonder how many of these people are here for the Johnson-Kennedy wedding. Claire had mentioned ‘keeping it small and intimate’ and Cole had agreed, limiting their guest list to only two hundred. That number grew over the months, though, which I only know because I had to add additional centerpieces to their order. I guess that’s the price of celebrity.

I’m happily waiting in line, people watching while Janey has wandered off to scope out the bar she saw across the lobby, when I hear a voice from my past.

“Ugh! Honey, I’m beginning to think we should’ve booked our honeymoon in Paris instead of here. It’s beautiful and all, but the customer service is unacceptable!” The pouty entitlement is unmistakable, the tone irritating the small hairs at the nape of my neck.

Oh, God no. Please no.

I go rigid at the sound of the familiar voice, flashbacks assailing me.

For the love of God, please, please, please don't recognize me.

“Calm down, babe,” I hear a man’s voice say behind me. “We’re second in line. The wait is almost over.”

“Yes, but do you see how ridiculously slow they are? We’ll be here another thirty minutes and I have to pee!”

“Well, just go on. I can handle this if you need to use the bathroom.”

The woman huffs unhappily, as though that reasonable course of action is completely intolerable. “But this is our honeymoon!”

And that’s when I feel it. A tap on my shoulder. “Excuse me, we’re on our honeymoon and really can’t wait in this . . . Abi?”

I fought it as long as I could, but when Emily taps me on the shoulder and speaks directly to me, I can’t very well ignore her.

Emily Jones. My high school nemesis.

Maybe that’s too strong a word? More like my high school competition. We’d been engaged in a battle of ‘anything you can do, I can do better’ for as long as I remembered. The only problem was that it was one-sided. I simply hadn’t cared until she started dating my ex . . . while he was still my boyfriend. It didn’t matter that he wasn’t even all that great to start with. It’d been the straw on the proverbial camel’s back. We could compete for top grades, cheerleading positions, popularity contests, and all that was hunky-dory and in good fun. But Emily had crossed a line, breaking girl code rules, and I’d pulled out all the stops from that point on.

“Abi Andrews?” She sounds shocked to see me. Unpleasantly so.

Fuck my life. Not her. Anyone but her.

I slowly turn around, gritting my teeth.

“Hello, Emily.”

“Oh, my God!” Emily shrieks too loudly. Attention whore, I think bitchily.

She looks good, though, I can admit that. To myself. She’s wearing a white sundress that swirls around her thighs and high wedge sandals that bring her up at least a few inches. And she’s standing with a tall, narrow-shouldered guy with blond spiky hair and white teeth.

“It’s so good to see you again, girl!” Emily exclaims, coming forward to give me a hug as if we’re long lost best friends. “What’s it been? Like five years? Six?”

Oh, my God, can you be more full of shit?

“At least,” I say, making our hug brief before pulling back.

“Oh, this is my husband, Doug. He’s a vee-pee of a boutique mutual fund index,” she brags. “Dougie, this is Abi Andrews, of those Andrewses.”

I swallow down the defensive words I want to hurl and put on a mask of serenity. Mom has taught me well, and Courtney has taken Mom’s skills to a whole other level. I try to channel them and not snatch the obvious extensions off Emily’s head.

“Nice to meet you,” I say cordially, offering Doug a handshake.

“Likewise. If you don’t mind my asking, who’s your financial planner? With a name like Andrews, you have to be careful who you let in your inner circle. I’d be happy to go over some options with you if you’d like.”

Doug’s salesman tactics are transparent and misplaced. I don’t need a financial planner. I am my financial planner. Got those skills and lessons firsthand from Dad, thank you very much.