“Spit it out, Parker.”
“Jules, well, she forgot to cut a few guests from the list we made originally, and…Christ, there’s no easy way to say this, Sis. Blake RSVP’d. With a plus one.”
Every ounce of strength I’d fooled myself that I’d found these last two months drains away in that moment, leaving me floundering and breathless and miserably aware of the fact that despite my best efforts, I’m still sickeningly in love with my ex-husband.
Asshole.
“That’s fine,” I lie, grasping the paintbrush so hard I feel it snap between my fingers.
Of course it isn’t. I can’t stand the thought of watching him saunter in with whichever tart he’s banging this month. Not when I dream about him—not every night anymore, thank God—but at least twice a week.
It also doesn’t help any that I’ve started second guessing my actions to the point where I’m ashamed to admit that I may have thrown a tantrum and gone overboard with the whole divorce thing.
Right now I’m almost positive that I should have taken Mama’s advice and fought Vincent tooth and nail to admit that he loved me.
Too late now, asshole. He’s definitely moved on.
“Are you sure, Sissy? I could maybe call him and explain—”
Over my dead body would I allow Parker to let on how crushed I still am about the whole divorce—a girl has some pride. Plus, and it’s more than tragic, I really want to see him. It’ll be torture, but God, the painting hanging over my bed is not equal to the flesh and blood man, and I know it.
“Get over yourself, Parker. It’s fine. I’m so over it all,” I assure him, crossing my fingers guiltily.
At this point I suspect it would take a marriage proposal from Ryan Reynolds to get over him, and I’m not completely sure even that breathtaking wet dream would do it.
“If you’re sure?”
Not even a little.
“Totally.”
“Okay then.”
I force myself to endure another five minutes of conversation before Parker takes the hint and lets me go, leaving me alone to stare sightlessly at the landscape I’d been so proud of only minutes ago.
I’d felt optimistic, hopeful even as I’d made plans to wrap them all and have them delivered tomorrow with a note that said…what? How much I miss him? That some foolish part of me was hoping that maybe we could reconnect and—
I cut the thoughts short with a deep scowl that hurts my eyeballs and glare mutinously at the painting, with its bright green leaves and baby pink cherry blossoms.
They mock me as I grit my teeth and physically force away the moisture coating my corneas.
I’m so fucking stupid and pathetic that I’ve spent two weeks building castles in the sky while a man I shouldn’t want anymore hasn’t given me so much as a thought.
Well, that does it! Tonight I’m luring Marty inside. If I’m gonna be this weird, I might as well go all out!
***
“Stop staring at the ceiling! You look drunk.”
I suck in a breath and hiss at Parker, discreetly flipping him the bird from my place beside him at the altar, my legs practically wobbling like a plate of Jell-O as we stand, waiting for Jules to finally make an appearance.
I know it sounds unbelievable, but I’m more nervous than Parker is right now. I’d spotted Vincent out of my peripheral vision twenty minutes ago when he’d strolled in, my eye twitching blearily enough that I’d yet to see his date or fully focus on his face.
My eye’s still twitching, another reason I’d been staring at the ceiling, trying to get the thing to quit, and I really, really don’t want to give in to temptation and allow my treacherously beady eye to roam the place in search of him.
“I wish I was,” I growl back, flicking an imaginary piece of lint from the lapel of my tailored black suit. I look H. O. T. in the little ensemble Parker had me fitted for, and so surprisingly feminine with my hair super curly and pinned in the front, the length falling down my back. Big gold hoops finish off the look, making me smile smugly, if only to myself, at all this perfection he’s missing out on.
Handsome bastard.
“Your mom’s waving at you,” he mutters out of the corner of his mouth.
“I know. She’s been trying to get me over there since they got here. Ignore her and she’ll quit it eventually,” I say out the corner of my mouth, stifling a laugh at his eye roll.
“You’re a bitch.”
“Cursing in church is blasphemy,” I sing in an undertone, and he laughs, finally relaxing the way I’ve been trying to get him to. “Good. You’re looking less like you have a broomstick impaling your balls. Stand up straighter, here comes your bride, asshole.”