My Big Fat Fake Honeymoon

“But I wanted to get you something that would show how much I love you and support your weirdness in every form, something you’d still tell stories about when we’re old. I had a lot of ideas . . . a lot of really bad ideas. That’s where Madison came in to talk me down.” He stage-whispers into the mic, “Thank her later for that. Trust me, Claire Bear.”

The crowd laughs again and I am so confused. This all sounds . . . okay? Or good?

“So, without further ado . . .”

There’s a collective gasp I don’t understand, and then I see it . . .

“May I present N’Sync singing It’s Gonna be Me!”

A scream of pure, unadulterated joy explodes from Claire as she runs for the stage, pressing her expensive white gown right up against it. And then the band—I think that’s really them—starts singing.

I’m crying, boo-hooing snotty tears . . . for Claire, for Cole, for myself. And I’m not the only one. I’m so glad I didn’t ruin their day. This is what Cole was planning with that phone call. I know it in my heart.

Just like I’m sure that given the chance, Lorenzo will follow his heart and cook somewhere new. It might be here with Esmar or somewhere else . . . but eventually, he’ll leave. It’s what he does.

I knew that. I knew it all along. He made no secret of his dreams of travel and his love of spontaneity. Hell, he jumped in to save me on a whim and got caught up in this crazy scheme because I just couldn’t let the drama from high school with Emily go. It’s my own fault I let it go this far.

It just felt like maybe . . . this time would be different. For Lorenzo and for me. Like we left the whole fake honeymoon thing behind us and had reached somewhere deeper and better. And real.

But if this was just a flash in the pan, a vacation fling or some wild story I’ll remember with a fond laugh one day, I’ll have to be okay with that.

I’m Abigail Andrews. I always land on my feet.

And as the party rages on around me, the concert turns into karaoke as Claire and Cole, along with Madison and the rest of the bridal party, sing along with every song. Who knew a young twenty-something social media darling would be a secret ’Sync-er?

But if Claire, in all her apparent quirks, found Cole, who’s obviously more than his family name would lead one to believe, then there’s got to be hope for the rest of us.

I want that. What they have . . . happily singing along into a ladle they swiped from the punch bowl with hearts in their eyes and the promise of forever.

I didn’t get it this time. But one day, I will. In the meantime, I guess I’m going to enjoy this scheme for all it’s worth.

Enjoy Lorenzo in paradise . . . for one more night, I think hollowly.Chapter 20Lorenzo“Abigail,” I call out as I enter our suite.

Tonight has been exhausting. Rewarding, but exhausting. The wedding service went off with only a few minor hiccups. Well, minor if you can call Gilberto getting his sleeve caught in the pasta maker and it taking three of us to set him free. Oh, and then there was the cake designer coming into the kitchen like he was the freshly crowned prince of Weddingtopia and demanding a central workstation for his masterpiece.

“You won’t believe the story I have to tell you, mia rosa!”

Oh, Esmar had thrown me a side-eye, told the cake guru ‘right this way’, and set him up to make delicate sugar flowers . . . right by the hot cooktop. He hadn’t lasted thirty minutes before declaring that he could not work in such hostile conditions, and we’d openly laughed as we shuffled him off to the back where he could create in relative comfort.

There’s no answer in the suite. No outrageous stories from Abigail or bawdry stories from Janey. It’s quiet.

I suppose they’re still cleaning up downstairs. I consider going to help but reject the idea because I don’t think it would serve Abigail to have Meredith see me playing the role of helper boy. I’m worried about the fallout of Meredith’s veiled threats for Abigail when we get home.

Home.

The word has never seemed so loaded before. I’ve always considered Positano my true home, the place I grew up. But wherever I lay my head is home too—the sense of comfort and belonging one I cultivate everywhere I go on my adventures.

And spending time with Abigail . . . it’s home too.

But could Aruba be home? In Esmar’s kitchen or one of my own, here on the island?

It’s a big decision. One I can’t make tonight with my head fuzzy with exhaustion.