Prologue
A starry night.
A lady in white.
A shoe full of fright.
This is the beginning of the end of this love story. Where girls are beautiful and boys are handsome and cats are rock stars. Where friendships endure and relationships mature. Skirts are flippy and emotions are trippy and everyone gets a happy ending . . . don’t they?
Zoom in on happy couples. Zoom in on love everlasting. Zoom in on a chapel.
This is the way the story ends.
This is the way the story ends.
This is the way the story ends.
Not with a whimper, but with a bang.
Chapter one
“This is bad. This is so bad.”
“It’s okay, we can . . . wow, it really got everywhere, didn’t it?” I said.
“This is bad. This is so bad,” Sophia repeated.
“Just get me some paper towels, I can try and wash this off . . . Christ, that’s disgusting.”
“This is bad. This is so bad.”
I stomped my feet in protest. “Will you stop saying that? We have to fix this before—shit.”
Mimi had just arrived.
“What the hell is on my wedding dress?”
The fastest way to get demoted from bridesmaid to dishonored guest is to vomit on the bride’s wedding gown. But if you do ever vomit on a wedding gown, make sure the bride is the perfect mix of anal-retentive, hyper planner, and fairy-tale whimsical.
Mimi was a type A personality with a side of Disney. Which meant she couldn’t decide on one wedding gown, so she had two. Custom made. One for the ceremony, one for the reception. So when one was defiled by semidigested corn flakes, and I mean defiled, she went into crisis-averting mode and immediately pronounced herself a genius for having the foresight to purchase two gowns. Reception gown became main event gown, and all was peaceful in the land of tulle and lace.
Until we realized that there were also semidigested corn flakes splattered across her Jimmy Choo bridal shoes. And maybe a flake or two inside as well . . .
In the end, it was Sophia’s belly that saved her from being banished from the church. I held Mimi back, but barely. She was strong for only being ninety-eight pounds.
“You ruined my Choos!”
“I didn’t mean to! You know I can’t help it. I’m like a fountain anymore, it just comes spewing out. I’m too hot, I throw up. I’m too cold, I throw up. I get a whiff of perfume—which smells lovely by the way, great choice—I throw up. You should see how many ties of Neil’s I’ve ruined. It’s disgusting.” She clutched her rounded belly. “But I’m pregnant. You wouldn’t hold the miracle of life against me now, would you?”
“Oh boy,” I muttered, rolling my eyes. Sophia made the most stunning pregnant woman ever created. We were all in agreement on this. Her skin glowed, her hair was luxurious, her eyes sparkled, and her tits were even more fantastic. Stunning. Except for five or six times a day when her skin would turn green, her forehead would speckle with perspiration, and she’d projectile vomit the entire contents of her stomach everywhere if she couldn’t make it to a bathroom in time. Or a garbage can. Or a potted plant. Or the gutter outside her apartment—I was present for that one. But within moments, she’d return to her perfect, shining example of premotherhood, complete with delicate hands placed gently on her bump of baby. Left hand arranged over right, not an accident. She took every opportunity to show off her new engagement ring. As well she should; it was incredible. Rumor has it Neil needed a crane to lift it and get it on her finger . . .
She had currently assumed this defensive position, complete with wide eyes and innocent expression, and blingy bling, as I wrestled with the bride, who was envisioning her carefully orchestrated wedding crashing down around her ears. Which were flaming red; she was really steamed.
“Backup dress, I have. Backup Choos? I don’t! What the hell am I going to wear on my feet?”
“Can we clean them?” I asked, tugging her back as she lunged once more at Sophia. Who was currently auditioning to play the part of Mary, before they got to the inn.
“They’re not going to be clean in time! Besides, I’m not walking around on my wedding day with feet that smell like stomach lining!” Mimi cried.
“Okay, now I’m getting a little nauseous. Can we stop all the vomit talk?” I asked, swallowing thickly. “You can wear my shoes; I’ll go barefoot.”
“You have giant Anglo feet! I’d be flopping around like a clown all day in those gunboats!” Mimi shouted.
By the way? I only wear a size seven.
“I can’t wear anyone else’s shoes unless you can find someone with size-five feet and exquisite taste in twenty minutes!” Her lower lip started to tremble.
I looked frantically at Sophia, who I knew already felt terrible about what she’d done. As I was mentally calculating how fast I could get to the closest high-end department store, there was a knock on the door.
“Mimi?” Ryan’s voice. “Mimi, you in there?”
“Ryan? Ryan, you can’t be here, you can’t see me!” Mimi freed herself from my arms and ran to hide behind the door, clad only in white satin panties, a white lace corset, and a blue ribboned garter. Had I forgotten to mention that? “Seriously, it’s bad luck to see the bride before the—”
“Hush, you silly girl. I’d never mess with tradition like that,” he soothed. “I just wanted to tell you something—you know, before the whole walk-down-the-aisle thing.”