Present…
HOW DID I MISS THIS?
This is what’s been playing on Averie’s mind so clearly. I’m not sure why I didn’t recognize it before. Time and time again for-fucking-years, in her own confusing way, she’s so much as told me.
My best friend is lost.
Averie stands alone, her back to the wall, as she looks out into the crowd of her family and Amelia’s friends.
She has no place here with them, and for the first time in a long time, she doesn’t know what to do with herself.
“We took a look and I think it’ll be okay,” Amelia states with confidence. “I mean, it’s not what we’d hoped, but Brayden agreed we can definitely work with what we have.”
“But no windows?” Justine, the maid of honor mockingly questions. “The Callum suite was perfect. No other room could possibly be good enough.”
Averie doesn’t miss Amelia’s pained expression. She says nothing, but her eyes narrow at the maid of honor. Mine do as well.
Justine Meyers is a pretentious cunt. It’s on rare occasion I throw the term around without it being earned.
Justine’s father is a high-powered attorney, like Brayden’s. Boys to men following in the paths of their fathers in work is one thing, though. Girls to women following in paths of spoiled wives is another.
These friends of Amelia’s aren’t like her in many ways. Sure, they’re educated, and likely smart. However, Amelia worked hard through college, paying her own way with a full-ride scholarship. She sacrificed a lot of time and recreation to finish with the accolades she did.
These bitches had daddy’s money to pave their way. They don’t know or understand what hard work truly means. I don’t have to know them personally to realize this either. The way they’ve acted out all morning proves my point.
“Averie has some ideas we think will work,” Amelia defends her position again, giving credit where it’s due.
As Mason and I spent yesterday getting the final fits to our tuxedos, Katherine, Averie, and Amelia were busy planning. I was wary in how the trip with all of them together would go, being the sisters aren’t close, and planning for an event as big as this one can be daunting regardless of that.
However, when we got back to the mansion, Katherine and her girls were saddled at the table, looking through boxes of candle samples they’d picked up in town.
So many candles, all shapes, sizes and colors, were being scent tested and placed in various piles.
Averie ignored me as I entered. Which I had expected. She may be doing all she can to help her sister, it’s obvious she’s still pissed as fuck at me.
“Can’t we try to talk to Jen again? Get her to negotiate with the other party? I mean, really. This isn’t right,” Justine continues her crusade to fluster the bride-to-be.
Amelia and Averie share a glance and Amelia shrugs. “I like Averie’s layout. The guests will be closer than if we were in the other room, but cozy isn’t a bad idea.”
“Cozy is never a bad idea,” Holly Miles, the other Stepford bridesmaid, nudges my shoulder.
When I look down, her perfectly set eyes demand consideration. Her intent still wouldn’t be well received, even if she hadn’t done this in front of the woman I’ve contemplated bare-handed strangling all day.
Holly is the social clone of her best friend, Justine. Only her father isn’t an attorney. He’s a surgeon; a well-known one at that.
Stepping away, I leave Holly to her pout and wander out to the other room. Since there are no doors in the entire open-plan of main floor, I can still hear the maids chirping all the way into the television room.
“She okay?” Mason questions, coming to sit in the chair next to the one I take.
“Which she are you asking about?”
“Pain in the ass,” he chooses.
He’s checking on Averie, ensuring I’m doing what I said I’d do in watching her.
Rubbing my forehead, I tell him, “Pain in the ass is fine.”
“Katie says she’s become a savior to her sister,” he mentions.
Unexpected pride swells my chest knowing Katherine’s right. Averie’s stepping up, helping Amelia in a way she should’ve all along.
“Tonight’s rehearsal dinner will be interesting,” Mason notes. “Thomas wants the toast.”
“Of course he does,” I reply.
At one time, Katherine’s ex-husband, Thomas Dyer, was a piece of shit. But he can’t be faulted for how his marriage to her ended either. He cheated first, but that wasn’t what broke them. Kat’s never-ending love for Mason likely did.
He’s remarried now, finally tying the knot after dating the same woman, Sibyl Genson, for five years. Apparently, he was in no rush to make the same life mistake twice. Maybe he’s learned.
“I get the reception,” Mason grouses, rubbing his hands down his face.
I couldn’t have heard this right.
“What did you say?”
“Reception toast is mine,” he moods out again.
Caught completely off guard, I turn to find his expression stoic.
He looks almost afraid and I fight a laugh, but barely.
“You’re serious?” I prod.
“Amelia requested I say a few words.”
Reaching over to slap his shoulder, I state, “That’s all you ever really have anyway. A few words. So you’re good.”
“Not funny,” he punishes. “Any advice?”
The great Mason Allen Cole asking me for advice? Fuck, he’s not afraid. He’s terrified.
Shrugging and bringing the cold bottle of beer to my lips, I offer, “Recite a poem.”
“Excuse me?”
“I’m serious.”
“You’re fuckin’ not,” he admonishes.
He doesn’t believe that this is truly done. To save him, I attempt to further convince.
“People like you do readings all the time.”
“Fuck that,” he hisses. “I’m not readin’ a fuckin’ poem in front an audience.”
“It’s not meant for an audience. It’s meant for Amelia.”
Mason calms. “Fuckin’ hell.”
“Want me to find you one?”
“No, I do not. I want you to tell me what the fuck to say. Give me some pointers.”
“I could, but why not read what a professional wrote?”
Mason’s beside himself. “You think anyone expects me stand up there and gush over words about love and shit?”
Shaking my head at his dilemma, I laugh.
“Nah, just go with that,” I tell him. “Just wish the happy couple well with all their ‘love and shit.’”
“Christ,” he clips.
“I’ll find you an appropriate verse. I took English lit in college. Remember?”
“This is why Thomas passed the goddamn buck,” he realizes.
“Do you want my help or not?”
“Yes,” he grinds out.
“Yes, please,” I goad back.
Before Mason can get his hands around my neck, as I’m sure he’d enjoy, Averie stomps her way into the room.
She’s wearing her standard attire of jean shorts, faded concert tee shirt, and flip-flops. Her hair is up in a messy whatever the fuck that knot is on her head, and her face is beating back a hard scowl.
Mason tips his head to her and mirrors her expression.
“What now?” he demands.
“Oh, nothing,” she gives, slamming herself in the chair across from us. “Will blood stain my pretty colored bridesmaid dress?”
Fuck.
“Averie, what are you goin’ on about?” Mason queries.
Averie rolls her eyes. “If I ever get married, I’m not dealing with this crap.”
Smiling, I say, “As if you’re ever getting married.”
For the first time in months, Averie cracks a smile in my direction. It’s small but it’s there. And I’ll be damned if my fingers don’t ache to touch those lips as I take it in.
“I’m going to elope,” she claims.
Mason’s aim hits its target quick. “Not even. Won’t happen. You’re never gettin’ married, so we don’t have anything to worry about.”
“I might,” she baits him. “If the right guy asks, I could get married. You don’t know.”
“I do know,” he boldly and harshly rejects. “’Cause if I’m livin’, I won’t let you marry anyone.”
Averie’s tension passes quickly, knowing Mason as she does, in that he only says what he means.
Pacifying him, she agrees, “You’re right. I probably won’t get married.”
In a chorus of confirmation, both Mason and I say at the same time, “Thank fuck.”
“Take me to lunch before rehearsal tonight,” she insists. “I need a drink. I’m feeling stabby.”