Page 77 of Married With Lies

“I don’t know why either. But be sure to keep my flaws in mind the next time you have a wedding.”

Judging by my sister’s expression, I’m sure she wouldn’t mind slapping me in front of all three hundred guests. At least she has the sense not to risk the social media infamy. She gives me the evil eye and struts off to the bathroom with hapless bridesmaid Shayna in tow.

The lettuce goes down with a sour aftertaste. I chase it with some lemon water and search the room for Cale. I’m certain he’d give me a high five for refusing to act as Hadley’s bathroom handmaiden but he seems to have disappeared for now. Whoever was in charge of the guest place settings has a sense of humor and placed him at a table full of the groom’s teenage cousins. I can’t blame Cale if he’s wandered off because he’s bored. I’m kind of bored too.

Moreover, I feel rather conspicuous perched up here at the head table while watching guests spasm out on the dance floor. The white-jacketed staff is collecting all the plates with dinner leftovers, which is a good sign that this phase of the reception is over, bringing the event one step closer to conclusion. All that’s left is the cake cutting and maybe another hour of celebrating before Hadley makes her grand exit.

Then I’ll be free.

I’m hoping Cale will still want to hang out later. Last night my mind kept replaying our goodbye kiss until I feel asleep. Then I dreamed of him. In my dreams there was no audience watching us kiss. There were also no clothes involved. I woke up gasping. I stared at the dark ceiling as I waited for my heart to quit pounding and wished that I’d packed my trustiest vibrator so I could take care of business.

Frankly, I’d rather be Hadley’s chamber maid for a week than admit to Cale that he has the honor of being my primary self-pleasure fodder. I tell myself there’s no harm in hot secret fantasies. Besides, if I’m going to fantasize about anyone then that person ought to be my husband. Cale would probably be amused by the confession.

Or Cale might not be amused at all. That dangerous spark might return to his eyes and then he might seize me in his arms, demand my mouth, invade with his tongue, and grind his hips to show off just how badly he wants the same thing. He might push this ugly dress up to my waist, shove my damp panties down with impatience and use his strong fingers to tease and torment while I tremble and gasp. Then he might smirk with satisfaction and say that all I need to do is prove I can TAKE IT ALL LIKE A GOOD GIRL before he gives me…

“Sadie, can we talk?”

NOOOOOOO!!!!

EWWWWW!!!!

It’s always a bummer to have your steamy sex daydream interrupted.

It’s downright revolting to be on the verge of a fictional orgasm when your disgusting ex decides to plop down in the seat beside you.

I’m forced to banish the delicious mental image of Cale about to drop his pants in order to confront the pompous, sweaty face of Grant Gallant.

“I’m way too busy,” I say.

Grant makes himself comfortable anyway. “I figured this would be a good time for us to clear the air.”

“Well, it’s not. I’m the maid of honor so I have better things to do than clear your air.”

“You don’t have to behave like a child.”

“If I wanted to behave like a child then I’d dump my ice water in your lap and tell everyone you’ve wet your pants.”

“Sadie,” he says in a tone that implies he’s a man of infinite patience. “Our families are close. This feud between us has gone on long enough. I understand you’ve had your own issues to sort out and I’m not angry anymore.”

I look at him, really look at him, this man who was my only serious long term boyfriend. The man I thought I’d marry.

Most people would say Grant is handsome and they’d be right. He claims people compare him to a young Bradley Cooper and I think that’s a stretch but if you squint and don’t examine too closely, the resemblance is there.

“Fuck off,” I say.

I can’t recall the last time I used profanity. Amazing how the words just naturally roll off my tongue. Downright liberating. Cale definitely has the right idea. In some situations, cursing is the best response.

Grant’s eyes narrow. His nostrils flare. He’s tried the diplomatic approach. Now he’s angry that his efforts were wasted. Perhaps I should give him the middle finger to cap off the encounter.

Instead of taking a cue to leave, Grant leans back in his chair. The pause in our conversation is filled with guests on the dance floor singing along to a Beyonce tune.

Grant’s eyes scroll to the ring on my left hand and he purses his smug mouth. “By the way, where did that husband of yours go? Looks like he can’t even stand to keep you company for a few hours.”

“Weak. You should really work on upgrading your insult skills. Cale just stepped out for a minute.”

“He doesn’t seem like your type.”

“That’s because you never knew my type. Anyway, I remember hearing that you’ll soon have a wife of your own to fret over. You’d best go snap the leash on before she wises up and runs for the hills.”

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