Page 44 of Not a Perfect Save

“Oh, that’s wonderful! I’ll text you the arrangements. Can I put you down for the chicken or the fish?”

Chapter Twenty-Eight

ELLA

In the end,I show up to the welcome dinner sans-date. I don’t need a shield for this event. I’m perfectly capable of looking after myself. I am woman, hear me roar, and all that.

This first circle of hell, also known as the ballroom of the New Jersey Summit Hotel, is flooded with golds and yellows and oranges—the perfect fall palette pulled directly from Hannah’s Pinterest board. Round tables surround a huge dance floor. The band, runner ups from a recent season of America’s Got Talent, shares the adjoining stage with tonight’s cake—a fondant monstrosity with Ken and Barbie doll toppers (surprise, surprise) in outfits that mirror their avatars’ buried in the frosting. Most of the guests are staying in one of the luxurious rooms for the duration of the events, but I’m hightailing it out of here the moment the clock strikes pumpkin o’clock.

As was threatened, I’m seated in a corner beside the projector screen and directly in front of the speaker system. A couple of older men, Hank’s uncles, are at the same table. Great-Aunt Cynthia, partially deaf, took one glimpse of the set up, extracted her hearing aids and stuck them in her leopard-print designer purse.Teach me your ways, oh wise one.

But even my obscure position doesn’t deter my well-meaning parents. It’s hard not to notice that each of the single men who speaks with Mom and Dad eventually makes his way over to me for a token hello. I am the pit stop on the way to the men’s room.Thanks boys. Real smooth.

Initially, I fend them off. But when the waiters serving hors d’oeuvres never seem to be in my vicinity—likely on orders of Hannah—I start dispatching my erstwhile suitors to procure appetizers for me and Aunt Cynthia while I keep myself immobile—all the better to maintain the farce of my still-injured foot, re-splinted and on full display.

I play with the place card in front of me while I wait for the next delivery—I’m hoping for the shrimp skewers. The black and white script says ‘Ella Mary Dixon’.Couldn’t even get my name right. Off with the wedding planner’s head.

I watch men congratulate Hank and women air-kiss Hannah. The dress I spent weeks of my life on is a definite standout, exactly like my sister.

I’m on my fifth Old Fashioned and munching on a mini crab cake when I hear it, “Connor! I’m so glad you came!” Hannah’s voice echoes in the room.

I whip around. And there he is. Mr. Hall.

Holy Fucci. In a tuxedo. His is the wardrobe that just keeps on giving.

My brain screeches ‘Foul!’ What is he doing here? I ‘lost’ his invitation weeks ago.

Still, my heart clenches, and a traitorous delight begins to fizz in my belly. He’s here. My heart shushes my head, and for once, it listens, allowing me to bask in the happiness as I eye him greedily, taking in his blue eyes, his strong jawline, his blond hair, perfectly in place.

I wait for him to search me out, head my way, but he follows Hannah to her group of friends. She puts her hand possessively on his chest as she introduces her prize catch.

Connor smiles at one of the other women and extends his hand. Instead of merely shaking it, she covers it with her other one.What a burbitch.I want to pry her fingers apart and free him from her clutches, tell her he’s mine. But part of me also registers that he’s making no effort to disengage himself. She’s in a silver, Swarovski-encrusted Givenchy gown from this season’s runway show. I want to fault her for her good taste, but I can’t.

How foolish I am. Ridiculous, really. A flush of embarrassment creeps up my neck. Many of the guests know about my so-called relationship with Connor thanks to my parents. I’ve never felt more out of my skin than I do right now, in this awful dress in this space where I’ve regressed to the worst version of myself. Where everyone in this room has witnessed me at my most pathetic. I want to hide.

Of course, that’s the moment Connor’s gaze finally finds mine. Our eyes lock. But he doesn’t smile, reserving all his charm for the sycophants around him.

Maybe I should go first? I order my lips to stretch, not entirely sure how well my motor functions obey.

Connor doesn’t grin back. Instead, he slips his hands into his pockets and continues to eye me. Why do guys seem so much sexier in that pose? Is it because it looks like they are fondling themselves on the sly?Ick.Still, there’s just something about that hands-in-pocket thing. Further examination is required. But not right now, with my brain cells flooded in booze.

A second to breathe arrives when Hank pulls Connor over to a group of buddies. He shakes hands and makes small talk with the men who crowd around him and the women busy making eyes at him. He handles the attention like the pro he is, laughing, smiling, taking selfies with his fans.

I force myself to look away and grab the arm of a visiting boy. “Hey, can you get me another drink?” There’s a full glass in front of me, but I’m all about planning for the future.

Aunt Cynthia says something. I move my jaw in response, praying that her skills stop at reading lips because I’m probably making horse-shaped movements with my mouth.

I sneak another glance at Connor. His eyes are on me again, even though he’s speaking with yet another woman—this time a statuesque redhead. A Jessica Rabbit. Seriously, who can compete with this bunch? When the woman notices his attention isn’t fully on her, she twists to see who he’s looking at. She gives me an assessing glare, but obviously doesn’t think much of the competition (there is none) because she swivels back to Connor, and maneuvers so he has to turn his back on me or appear rude.

Jealousy spears through me, and I shake my head in an attempt to dislodge the green goblin. I try to focus on the half-eaten crab cake in front of me. I pop it into my mouth and choke it down. The texture resembles pre-chewed gummy bears instead of flaky freshness.

The music changes and Hannah and Hank move to the dance floor accompanied by their entourage. Connor follows at the urging of the woman he’s with. I blink. He can move. Really, why does it surprise me that he knows how to dance? We’ve already established that he is perfect. Humiliation and misery mingle in my belly when he winks at her, now giving her his full attention. He’s so attractive, it makes my eyeballs hurt.

Ugly desperation fills me. There’s no need to witness more. My parents won’t notice if I go missing. Much. I knock back my glass in one swig, then wipe my mouth with the back of my hand—classy is my middle name.

“Excuse me,” I say, pushing up from the table. My gait is unsteady from the booze and I teeter in my heels, as if I really do need the crutches. I take a step back to steady myself, right as one of Hank’s uncles knocks into me. Green carpet rushes up to greet me just as an arm loops around my waist from behind.

“Falling at my feet again, Ms. Fly?” a husky voice whispers against my ear as I’m pulled against a solid chest. My skin tingles as I’m slowly turned until I’m staring into familiar blue eyes.

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