Wedding Night

“Huh?”

“We … we hooked up. We ran into each other near the registry office and we had a few drinks and one thing led to another.”

She’s going to hear about it anyway, and I’d rather be the one who told her.

“No way!” Lottie’s voice fizzes over. “Oh, that’s perfect! We can have a double wedding!”

Only Lottie. Only she would say this.

“Snap!” I say. “That’s just what I was thinking, too. Can we ride up the aisle on matching ponies?”

This time the sarcasm does reach her ears.

“Don’t be like that!” she says reprovingly. “You never know. Keep an open mind. I met up with Ben on spec and look! Here we are.”

Yes! Here we are. A girl on the rebound and a guy having a midlife crisis, hurtling into ill-considered matrimony. I’m sure there’s a Disney song about that. It rhymes “kiss” with “bitter legal battle.”

“It was a shag,” I say patiently. “That’s it. End of.”

“It might lead to more,” retorts Lottie. “He might turn out to be the love of your life. Did you have a good time? Did you like him? Is he hot?”

“Yes, yes, and yes.”

“Well, then! Don’t rule it out. Hey, I’m looking at this wedding website. Shall we have a profiterole cake? Or what about a pyramid of cupcakes?”

I shut my eyes. She’s like a steamroller.

“That’s what they had at Aunt Diana’s wedding, remember,” Lottie’s saying. “How big was that?”

“Small.”

“Are you sure? I remember it as quite a big occasion.”

She was five at the time. Of course she remembers it as big.

“Seriously, tiny. The whole night was such an ordeal. I had to pretend I was having a good time, and all along …” I pull a revolted face. I still remember the too-tight bridesmaid’s dress they made me wear. And dancing with Aunt Diana’s beery grown-up friends.

“Really?” She sounds puzzled. “But the ceremony was nice, wasn’t it?”

“No. Terrible. And afterward wasn’t much better.”

“Ooh! You can get profiteroles with sparkly icing.” She’s not even listening. “Shall I send you the link?”

“I feel ill at the very thought,” I say firmly. “In fact, I might throw up. And then Lorcan will never love me, and we’ll never get married in a double wedding on matching ponies—”

A sound makes me turn. The blood rushes to my head. Shit. Shit.

He’s there. Lorcan’s standing there, about ten foot high in the doorway. How long has he been there? What did he hear me say?

“Gotta go, Lotts.” I quickly turn off my phone. “Just talking to my sister,” I add, as casually as I can. “Just … joking. Joking about things. Like you do.”

Suddenly I remember I’m wearing his fencing helmet. My stomach clenches with fresh embarrassment. Let’s see this through his eyes: I’m standing in his house in his dressing gown, wearing his helmet, and talking about a double wedding. Hastily, I grab the helmet and lift it off my head.

“This is … nice,” I say inanely.

“I didn’t know if you wanted it black or not,” he says after what seems like an eternity.

“Oh. The coffee.”

There’s some other vibe going on here. What? My own voice runs through my head: I had to pretend I was having a good time.…

He didn’t hear that, surely? He didn’t think I was talking about—

Seriously, tiny. The whole night was such an ordeal.

He couldn’t have thought I meant—

My stomach drops in horror and I clap a hand over my mouth, quelling a shocked laugh. No. No.

Should I say— Should I apologize—

NO.

But shouldn’t I at least explain—

I raise my eyes warily to his. His face is blank. He might not have heard anything. Or he might have.

There is simply no way to bring up this subject that will not backfire horrendously and make us both want to die. What I need to do is go. Move my feet. Now. Go.

“So … Thanks for the … um.” I replace the helmet on the hook. Exit, Fliss. Now.

All morning, I feel aftershocks of embarrassment.

At least I managed to streak from the taxi to my front door with no neighbors seeing me. I ripped off the purple dress, had the quickest shower known to mankind, then called Noah on speakerphone while I was trying to do speedy makeup. (There is no point in rushing mascara application. I know this. So why do I always fall into the same trap and end up wiping blobs of it off my cheeks and forehead and mirror?) Evidently Noah’s sleepover was a 100 percent rip-roaring, triumphant success. Wish I could say the same about mine.