Page 40 of Bridesmaid to Bride

God, I hate water.

Skye’s concerned eyes search mine, urging me to open up. And after everything she and I have been through, even in this unfamiliar place, I trust her. She genuinely cares, and she’s someone who might understand if I let her in. And since the heaviness of my past weighs on me, the thought of sharing it with someone is freeing.

I take a seat next to her on my bed, trying to gather myself. Inhaling, I tell her about how the nightmares have gripped me for so long. How they’re bits and pieces of memories. I blow out a long breath, ready to do something I’ve never done before—tell her everything. But the words won’t come out of my mouth. I try, over and over, but it’s not happening. Finally, I give up and say, “It’s nothing. Just a bad dream. I’m fine really.”

She squeezes my hand. “They’re coming from inside you, so they’re something. And we can work on that when you’re ready.”

“Okay. Thank you.” I meet her gaze. “Which is not right now. In the middle of this wedding mess.”

“But promise me you’ll do it?”

“I will. As soon as I’m ready—I promise.”

It’s Thursday, so early in the morning that the sun hasn’t even had its coffee yet, and my phone is buzzing. It’s Skye.

I yawn, touching my lips, which are still numb from last night’s tryst with West.

God, that was good.

I grab the phone off the nightstand and answer her call.

“Get your tushy over here,” she half-whispers, half-demands. “West is here.”

Automatically, I punch out a text to him.

Me: Skye’s on a mission

West: No kidding

I clean up before I make my way into Skye’s room, wondering if this is about the wedding saboteur or if Skye’s discovered a new yoga pose that aligns your chakras with the universe.

Walking in, it’s like stepping onto the set of a low-budget detective show with way too many dogs. They run around the living room, which is transformed into what I’m sure Skye believes to be the epicenter of crime-solving: Post-Its in every fluorescent hue plastered on the wall, dental floss zigzagging between them like a spiderweb designed by someone after three too many espressos.

I give Coco Chanel a tummy rub and Dior a pet, but Balls is sitting on West’s lap getting a chin scratch.

“Welcome to my lair.” Skye gestures with a Sharpie.

“Is this... dental floss?” West squints at the minty green lines connecting names to either Paige or Zach.

“Peppermint,” Skye says.

“Of course.” I roll my eyes but secretly admire her dedication. Because if there’s one thing I know, it’s that where Skye leads, chaos—and clarity—inevitably follow.

West points at a particularly convoluted section of the board. “This is really something.”

It’s too early in the morning, and I’ve had too little sleep to be fully tuned into Skye’s frequency of quirky gumshoe logic. And Coco Chanel is pawing at me to give her more love.

“Each one of these little sticky squares,” she flicks a neon pink note, “represents a suspect with potential motives.”

I blink at the board, my name sticking out like a sore thumb amidst the group of Post-Its. “Seriously, Skye? I’m on the wall?”

“Of course.” She uses her “duh” tone. “You could be the jealous, evil twin sister. Motive is practically written on your forehead.”

“Right. I’m sabotaging the wedding and then making myself clean up the mess. That makes no sense,” I sputter, hands on hips.

Skye shrugs, unbothered. “Honey, you never know.”

“Okie doke,” I say. “So, the call to the New York bridal shop to find out who requested the alteration didn’t go anywhere. The shop said it wasn’t them, and they even provided a time-stamped copy of what they sent. They think their message was intercepted by a third party.”

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