Don't Kiss the Bride

But still, there’s a faint gnaw of fear in my stomach. I could be making a horrible mistake. What if things go wrong and I have to move out? I won’t be able to move back in with my mother once her avalanche of stuff takes over my room. Where would I go? Would I end up in an even worse situation than I was to begin with? I might have to live in my car or under a bridge.

Oh, God.

No, I silently tell myself as I put my clothes away. I’ll be okay.

It’s almost two a.m. when I finally turn out the light, crawl into bed, and tuck myself under the new, soft comforter. I press my face into the pillow, inhaling the clean scent. I don’t even know what the scent is, other than it smells fresh. Comforting. Even though I love older, vintage things, being in this room full of new bedding and furniture is a welcome change. All I want to do is breathe and breathe and breathe, as if it can somehow get inside me and give me a new beginning.

Maybe, hopefully, this is a new beginning.

Chapter 14

Skylar

Three Weeks Later

Today’s the big day.

In some alternate reality, this would be the happiest day of my life. I’d be stepping into a white gown. Knowing me, it’d be something bohemian, long and lacy, with hundreds of tiny buttons. I’d wear vintage leather boots. My father would be pacing outside, waiting to walk me down the aisle. My mother would be trying her hardest to calm my anxiety. Megan would be my maid of honor, and she’d be telling me how pretty I am and how lucky I am that Jude has a great body and hair. I’d be saying yes to the man of my dreams, and we’d be starting our happily ever after.

But the reality is I don’t believe in weddings, Mister Right, or happily ever-afters. And no one is with me on this day except Jude.

The officiant, whose name is Carol, will be here within the hour. The ceremony will be next to the flower garden in the far corner of Jude’s backyard, under an old arbor with vines snaking through it.

What does one wear to her wedding when it’s not a real wedding?

I’ve been standing in front of my closet, chewing on my lip, for five minutes asking myself that question. I finally decide on a flirty, tutu-style white skirt, and a long-sleeved, black-lace body suit. I throw a vintage black-leather motorcycle jacket over it and pull pink Converse sneakers over my white-lace socks. I top it off with a little veil attached to a hair clip, and fan it out over the back of my hair. I smile at my reflection in the full-length mirror. The outfit is super cute. Especially the white skirt. I want to look at least somewhat bride-ish so the officiant believes we’re really getting married. Jude and I talked about this last night—we can’t let her know our vows to have and to hold ’til death do us part are pure bullshit.

If she knew this was a marriage of convenience, she might not marry us.

After I do my makeup and spritz on some perfume I got from Belongings, I go downstairs. I find Jude sitting in a wicker chair in the sunroom with Cassie and Gus who, like us, have become comfortable roommates. Happily coexisting in the same space and staying out of each other’s way.

“Hi,” I say. “Carol should be here soon.”

“Yeah.” He glances up from his phone, and his eyes slowly travel from my face, down the length of my body. My stomach flutters when his attention lingers on my long legs, and a faint grin of admiration tips his lips. That is, until his gaze lands on my feet, and he does a quick double take, his smile disappearing.

“Skylar, you can’t wear pink sneakers.”

I look down at my feet. “Why not?”

“Because they make you look young.”

I cock my head and stare at him. They’re only sneakers. It’s not like I walked in the room with a rattle in my hand. “I am young.”

“I know but we’re getting married. We don’t have to advertise your age to the justice of the peace.”

I cross my arms defiantly. “Lots of people wear pink sneakers. And I’m not doing this if you’re ashamed of me, Jude. Screw that.”

He lets out a sigh and puts his phone on the small table next to him. “I’m not ashamed of you. But you look young for your age. People always assume the worst. I don’t want anyone to think I’ve done something to you.”

I’m not sure where this is coming from—who he thinks this “anyone” is, or what this “something” could be.

“Like what?” I ask. “Slipped me a roofie and dragged me into the backyard to marry you?”