Page 16 of Bridesmaid to Bride

“Coco Chanel and Balls ended up spending a day together.” My mom waves her hands like she’s directing traffic. “They struck a deal to be respectful siblings. Now everyone’s right as rain.”

“Charming story,” Neil says dryly, scanning the crowd for a rescue.

“Isn’t it?” I resolve to upgrade to the strongest cocktail available at the bar. That story’s not even true—I ended up adopting Balls to help Zach out. And I love that damn dog, who’s going to join me as a groomsman on the day of the wedding.

“Speaking of charming stories,” my mom chirps, “we’re over the moon about West’s next adventure!”

I nearly choke on nothing before managing to whisper, “That’s not for sure yet, Mom. Shh—”

“West is gonna be the next heartthrob on Groomsman to Groom!” Dad booms so loudly a flock of seagulls takes flight. “Just imagine, our boy dating thirty women at once!”

Mom blows out a dramatic phew. “Remember when he was on Paige’s season? Thank goodness that went as flat as a Boomer without Viagra.”

I beg the ground to swallow me whole and say through gritted teeth, “Ah, yes, silver linings.” I really hope I’m not in trouble since they announced something that’s not been decided yet. “Not supposed to talk about that,” I whisper. “New topic.”

“Plus, those sponsorship bucks are gonna be a godsend for our intimate shop, Toys ‘n Joys,” Dad continues, oblivious to the snickers erupting around us. “We’re talking an erotic renaissance! Amazon’s got nothing on our personal touch.”

“Personal experience,” Mom corrects with a nod, as if discussing the weather. She pats Dad’s shoulder. “That reminds me, we have to hand out those samples of organic avocado oil and mango lubricant.”

Faces focus in, some flushed with mirth, others with horror—it’s a toss-up which is worse. I need anything to save me from this social suicide. At least they’re done outing my Groomsman to Groom secret.

Then Eva appears, with all that glossy, midnight hair, and I swear, every coiled muscle in my body unwinds. She sweeps in, saying, “Mr. and Mrs. Quinn!” as she pulls my parents into a hug that sucks the awkwardness out of the air. “I’ve heard so much about your store’s relaunch. Count me in for the grand opening—I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

“Darling, we’d be delighted! We’re giving kegel-strengthening classes.” Mom beams, clapping her hands. And just like that, the tension deflates like one of my parents’ blow-up love partners.

“Thanks, Manhattan,” I murmur, relief washing over me. Foster isn’t anywhere around, thank you, Jesus.

“Ahh, no worries,” she says. “I love your parents. They’re awesome, like their son.”

And there it is—that effortless way she turns the tide, smoothing over life’s crinkles like she’s ironing out one of those sexy dresses she wears. It’s one of the countless reasons I admire her. Okay, and care for her deeply. But for now, I’m just content she’s by my side.

8

Plus One for The Money

EVA

The sun dips low, splashing the horizon with a cocktail of oranges and pinks. After getting West’s parents into their seats at the back of the patio, Tyson decided to interview them. I mean, they have a great story, and I hope the TV exposure helps their store. When that finished, I returned to Foster, and we’ve fallen into easy conversation—inheritance this, expectation that.

“Your father’s very proud.” Foster dabs his mouth with a napkin after an adventurous encounter with a lobster cake.

“Um, I think the jury’s still out on that one.” I take a sip of water, trying to suppress the pang of guilt.

“No way. He speaks so highly of you.” Foster flags down a server with the kind of effortless authority that comes from a lifetime of privilege, and two flutes of champagne appear. He hands me one with a wink that suggests he’s aware of the tiny power plays of our upbringing.

“Cheers to surviving high expectations,” he toasts, like he’s read the Cliff Notes on my life.

“Surviving?” I take a sip. “I’d say thriving. Like houseplants given just enough neglect to prove we can make it without watering.”

“Spoken like a true cactus.” Foster’s laughter is a pleasant rumble.

We fall into a rhythm, volleying back and forth about charity galas as competitive sports and cutthroat summer internships. It’s all punctuated with clever barbs and self-deprecating humor that makes it clear: we’re two peas from the same privileged pod.

“Ever feel like you’re in a play?” I swirl the champagne in my glass. “Like, everyone has a role, and there’s a script we’re supposed to stick to?”

“Every damn day.” There’s an edge to his smile now, a shared secret between us. “But sometimes, I improvise.”

“Rebel.” Beneath the banter, I feel a sense of kinship that’s comforting. And no doubt, Foster’s charming, has sharp wit, and looks to spare. But there’s this niggling thought poking at me, and I can’t figure out whether it’s the universe’s way of telling me to ease up or my own stubborn resistance. Or maybe it’s the fact that I keep glancing at West, who’s having a grand old time yakking up the bartender. He can have fun with anyone.

---