Page 16 of Karma's Kiss

Let’s get Matthew hitched. #EmmaChoseMatthew

Matthew, this is your uncle Bob. Call me when you can. Aunt Dorothy and I are excited about your wedding. Is there a room block at the Waldorf?

Then further down, I see it. The engagement announcement post. A photo of Matthew on one knee, a blonde woman holding her hands over her mouth in surprise, her thin frame poured into a provocative red dress.

SHE SAID YES!the caption reads.

Matthew is marrying his mistress weeks after ending our engagement. He’s deleted every trace of me from his Facebook profile, and his family and friends—people I’ve known for years—apparently think it’s totally fine.

I feel rage like I’ve never experienced. It might explode out of me like a power surge. I call the Waldorf and ask for Patricia. She’s not available, but her assistant is.

“This is Madison from Evermore Events,” I tell her.

“Hey, Madison!”

“I’m just calling to confirm details for the Mason wedding the first week of July.”

“Oh sure, let me pull up the info. It’ll just take a second. This computer has been so slow today. You having a good day?”

The fact that I have to do small talk at a time like this is so absurd I could laugh.

“Oh, I’m swell. How about you?”

“So-so. My IBS has been acting up more than usual and my doctor thinks it could be related to…” I squeeze my eyes closed and think about a tropical island. A soft breeze. A coconut cocktail. Then finally, “Okay, here we go. I have July 1st, sunset ceremony at 6:30, followed by cocktails and light bites. The reception is slated for the Shanghai ballroom.”

“With Tinsel Cakes?”

“Yes. They’ll provide the wedding cake and—”

“Petit fours,” I finish for her. “And are the Cover-Ups playing the reception?”

“Yes. Actually while I have you here, I was wondering if you’d decided what time you wanted—”

I hang up on her.

Matthew is marrying his mistress and doing my dream wedding. They will have their first kiss as man and wife just before the sun drops below the horizon. They will cut into an almond cake with vanilla buttercream and playfully dab alittle bit of frosting on each other’s noses. She will carry a white bouquet made of peonies, calla lilies, and orchids that I painstakingly designed with Fiona.

I’m going to be sick.

I rush to the bathroom, yank open the toilet lid, and wait for something to happen. When it doesn’t, I feel cheated. I slam the lid closed again and take a seat on top of it, wondering what I should do next. Cry? I blink and focus my attention there, willing if not a deluge of tears then at least a single dramatic drop to roll cinematically down my cheek.

Nothin’.

Apparently, the well’s dry. I can’t force sadness, but I can feel fury. Boatloads of it.

I could call Matthew. Call Evermore Events. But what is there to be done? Shout? Riot? Show up to the Waldorf, bide my time at the back of the crowd, and wave my hand wildly in the air when the officiant says, “If anyone objects to this marriage, speak now or forever hold your peace”? The idea holds a certain kind of appeal, but ultimately, I know I won’t do it.

Kendra is the person I call. She lets me unspool my anger and outrage and listens dutifully while she simultaneously gets out paint supplies for her kids and makes her family a spaghetti dinner because that’s what friends do. She agrees with me that it’s totally insane for Matthew to be doing this. We’re both almost more weirded out by the stolen wedding than by the suddenness of their nuptials.

“And doesn’tshethink it’s weird that they’re using all of your ideas?” She gasps. “OH MY GOD, what if she’s wearing your dress?”

I hadn’t thought of that. The idea is so crazy that—

I put Kendra on hold, call my dress shop in Montgomery, and then report back a few minutes later.

“Different dress.”

“Oh thank god.”

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