Bad Cruz

“Nessy…” Hiccup. “I…” Hiccup. “Makeup…” Hiccup. “Gone wrong…”

I screwed my mouth into a scowl, looking around us.

“The driver will have to take us to the park or something. Somewhere sunnier where I can have some natural light.”

“I’ll ask him.” Mom nodded, flicking a button to make the partition roll down as she spewed out instructions.

A few moments later, I was doing a bride’s makeup while she sat on an old, rusty swing, in full wedding gown, while ignoring her tearful apologies to me.

“Thank you. Thank you so much. Oh, Nessy, I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t thank me. Thank your lucky stars we’re genetically sisters, or I’d have left you to walk down the aisle looking like your nephew painted your face while you were asleep.”

The ceremony itself was okay.

I couldn’t stop staring at Cruz, who completely ignored my existence.

I knew people were paying close attention to the two of us, considering how crazy the rumors had been, and I was also aware that it looked like he had dumped me and now I was pining for him for eternity.

And strangely…I didn’t care.

I had put so much emphasis on looking strong and unfazed throughout the years…and it got me absolutely nowhere. Now, I was hurting, and it was okay. I didn’t want to conceal it.

It was the truth.

Wyatt and Trinity exchanged vows. There were a lot of tears. Most of them were his. Man, did the man bawl his eyes out. I wasn’t sure if he was devastated to tie himself to another crazy woman, or suffered from some sort of a hormonal influx.

Cruz had to hand him a tissue midway through his oath.

Even Father O’Neill rushed through the if anyone can show just cause why this couple should not be lawfully joined together in matrimony, let them speak now or forever hold their peace part, suspecting Wyatt himself was going to do just that, and we’d have a runaway groom on our hands (which reminded me—why were there no books and movies about runaway grooms? Surely, they existed, too?).

When Father O’Neill instructed Wyatt to kiss Trinity, it looked like they were trying to give each other mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.

Then Trinity burst out in tears after holding herself together for so long and whacked him with the bouquet, moaning, what the hell is wrong with you? followed closely by look what you made me do. I swore in a church, goddammit!

On the way to the reception, there was a human-train accident. One of Trinity’s childhood friends stepped over another woman’s dress, and they both toppled over an elderly couple.

Soon, there was a pile of people by the pews, trying to untangle themselves from one another. I was pretty sure Trinity was having a heart attack. She always liked everything to be perfect, especially when her new mother-in-law was in the vicinity.

But when I stole a glance at my sister, she looked a little amused and not at all tearful anymore at the sight of people trying to stumble out of church without slipping over one another.

Her eyes met mine unexpectedly.

“Bet you this is the only thing people are going to remember when they talk about my wedding years from now,” she said to me, her way of handing me an olive branch.

But I wasn’t quite so ready to let our feud go.

“I don’t know,” I said. “The groom cried like a little girl who watched Bambi for the first time. Don’t count on it.”

When we got to the venue on the outskirts of Fairhope, things began to look up. The weather was glorious—a little on the hot side, but still beautiful—and the flowers surrounding the open barn were in full bloom.

The tables and seats were rustic and elegant, freshly painted in white, swathed in romantic tablecloths, and a centerpiece flower arrangement on each of them, consisting of fresh daisies, lilies, and roses.

There were sparkling fountains, a floating gazebo, manicured lawns, and a family of swans shyly angling their faces to take in the guests in a nearby pond.

I also heard that the food was delicious, and that Wyatt and Trinity went for the most expensive culinary options, so I was hopeful the unlucky streak of the new Costello couple had come to an end, even if I still desired to beach-slap the bride.

The Turners and the Costellos (sounds like a seventies’ band full of people with big hair and bell bottom jeans) were seated at a long king’s table decorated with pink roses, antique candleholders, and lanterns.