Present…
ALL RIGHT. MAYBE I’M A wee bit tipsy. That, or the elegantly decorated ladies’ room is spinning, causing a beautiful kaleidoscope of colors to flourish about my head.
As I make my way past the large antique mirror, I pause, catching a glimpse at my reflection. Smiling, I concur with what it tells me. I don’t look tipsy, I look blitzed.
This is why I keep to drinking beer. Not wine. Never wine.
My hair is falling out of the loose braid my mom put it in before dinner. My cheeks are flushed; a bright red highlight sits beneath my eyes. My dress is coming down at the side, revealing more of my shoulder than it was made to do.
Good Lord, but I’m a hot mess.
Sighing, I turn away and make my way down the row of empty bathroom stalls.
Stumbling into the last one, I wince as the door slams shut louder than intended. The thick stained-glass door is heavier than I thought.
Lunch with Jax and Mason was surprisingly pleasant. It was freeing to get away from the newly arriving guests and get someplace where I knew I could be myself without judgment. Not that I care what anyone would have to say. Jaxson smiled and laughed with Mason and me. It felt almost as if the three months of silence hadn’t happened and we were where we used to be.
Almost.
As soon as I’m finished, set to make my way out, the main entrance to the bathroom opens. The sound of music and chatter filters through until it closes. No longer alone, I halt before turning the handle.
“Did you see her gown? What in the world is she thinking?” a husky female voice questions, not five feet from where I’m hidden.
A few pairs of high heels click across the black marble floor. Whoever’s in here, must not be aware of their captive audience stowed away. That or they don’t care. Rather than face anyone in my semi-drunken state, I hold my breath and keep still.
“She’s wearing black and red, for God’s sake. To her own rehearsal dinner,” another voice enters, this one carrying a higher pitch than the last.
The collective giggles give way to there being more than just the two.
My assumption is proven right when a third voice chimes, “Goes to show, that timid little girl is not ready to call herself Mrs. Brayden Wills III.”
These three hen bitches are talking about Amelia. My fucking sister.
My thoughts fall to my parents. My mom, losing herself to a man who wanted more out of life than what she could give him. My heart breaks, remembering how lost she was without the man she truly loved. And how she spent fifteen years married to the wrong man before finding the right one again.
I’d hate this for Amelia. But just as much, I hate these fucking bitches who judge her without knowing the person she really is: strong, smart, independent, and determined.
Those snarly Smurfs!
At my agitation, the small stall starts to spin. I grip the wall for balance and take a seat on the closed stool, while wondering how long the hatefest out there will carry on.
Any other time, I’d step out and give them what they deserve. Then again, any other time I wouldn’t be loaded with chilled white wine.
Shit.
The third voice enters again, her tone deeper than her friends, High Pitch and Husky. “Amelia Dyer may as well say ‘I do’ wearing all black. She’s marrying an Adonis for goodness sakes. No doubt she’ll be mourning the loss of him eventually.”
Now they wanna talk shit about my soon-to-be brother-in-law? Who the hell are these bitches?
Just as I make a move to stand, High Pitch deems, “All right. That’s enough. We’re not here for Brayden or his newest pet.”
“We’re not,” Husky agrees. “And my dad paid a lot of money to get the room Chad and I deserve. Good thing he had contacts, or we’d be getting married in that god-awful broom closet.”
What?
Deep Voice woman presses, “So, how does your dad know Brayden’s dad?”
“They work together. When he saw the wedding Brayden was planning, he showed me the pamphlets and I agreed. What a lovely place to get married.”
“On the same weekend,” the high voice chides in return.
How convenient.
There are times I’m calm, diplomatic, and able to deal with those I hate. There are times, I’m standoffish in a way the other party knows they’ve pissed me off. Neither of these will be now. I’m livid. I’m optioning my revenge. In my twisted, alcohol-soaked brain, I come to the realization of what I should’ve weeks ago.
Amelia Terese Dyer’s wedding will be all she hoped it would be. Because my sister is a good person who deserves all she should ever have.
Through the small crack in the door, I watch as two women are leaning toward the mirror, painting their lips a god-awful coral color. The other is standing between them, fluffing out her long blonde hair. These girls are a tribe of walking, talking reject Barbies. Parasites with agendas. They’re nothing to anyone who matters.
“Give Brayden a couple months with Miss Priss,” High Pitch claims and I sneer. “I heard from a good source that she was a virgin before him.”
“Shut up,” one insists.
“Water cooler talk at Dad’s office says so,” High Pitch goes on.
Just as I start to make my presence known, the girl on the left asks, “Any of you get a good look at that groomsman?”
“The hot one with dark hair and green eyes?”
Oh. Hell. No. They’re talking about Jaxson.
“Jaxson Cole,” Husky puts in.
“He doesn’t disappoint,” High Pitch observes.
Stepping back, the blonde puckers her lips, gives her perfect complexion a once-over and says, “Men like him are why women, married or not, have ‘the drawer.’”
The three bitches giggle and collect their clutches from the basin.
“Let’s go. If I’m not back out there soon, Chad will put the troops on high alert to find us.”
“Yes,” fluff hair girl states, wrapping her arm in one of the others. “Let’s go see what the hired help has done with your wedding room.”
If ever a woman were to be labeled a cunt, I’d call this one in. I don’t though, instead I stew in my own deviance. A plan will develop, its execution swift and punishing. Exactly what they deserve.
Gathering my composure and plastering a feigned smile, I open the door to the bathroom; even knowing my attempt to remain calm is a wasted effort.
Fuck them.