Page 6 of Three Grumpy Groomsmen

Liam, who knows me better than anyone on the planet, including my disappearing groom, takes me at face value that I need a drink and stalks over to a side table that has a whiskey bottle and glasses on it. It’s not tequila but I’ll drink anything short of rubbing alcohol right now.

I’m struggling not to laugh, my face flushed with both rage and embarrassment, and because I’m wearing a skintight fitted wedding gown, my chest is rising up and falling painfully.

This can’t be happening.

But it most definitely is.

I watch as Harrison scrubs a hand over his face and mutters, “I’m going to fucking kill him.”

Okay, so this is why they were talking about killing Brad.

At least I’m not the only one who wants bodily harm to come to Brad right now.

I look at Ford. He’s looking at me with clear concern. He takes a step toward me. He even murmurs, “It’s okay. You’re going to be okay.”

Liam hands me a glass and I toss back the liquor in one big gulp, shuddering as it burns down my throat. Whiskey dribbles on my chin and I don’t even care because it has the desired effect—it grounds me and negates the urge to dissolve into hysterics.

“One more, please.” I hand Liam the glass back.

He turns on his heel and heads back to the table.

Two hundred.

That’s how many guests are sitting in the garden right now. Two hundred people who are here to witness a wedding that isn’t going to happen.

There are thousands of dollars in floral arrangements, crates of wine and champagne, a hand-painted sign by a renowned local artist that declares, “Welcome to Ivy and Brad’s Happily Ever After!” and an entirebarnfestooned with ivy in my honor,along with a seven-course meal to be served by some of the city's most celebrated chefs as a nod to Brad.

Do you know how hard it is to find a suitable barn in Los Angeles?

Not easy, let me tell you.

And this incredibly gorgeous and insanely expensive wedding is not happening because Brad decidedtodayhe didn’t want to getmarried?

He askedme! I wasn’t even thinking about getting married until he planned a trip to Santa Barbara for us and got down on one knee and proposed with a hired mariachi band behind us in his favorite seaside Mexican restaurant. He said the theme of the evening was “quaint” and that with me, he felt rooted, grounded. Himself.

So apparently “himself” is a dick and his roots are rotten.

I throw my hand out for the glass Liam is shoving at me for the second time. He has the entire bottle in his free hand.

“This isbullshit,” I manage to spit out, before taking another fortifying sip. “He could have had the decency to tell me himself!”

Ford nods rapidly. “I agree. I totally agree. This is just cowardly.”

“The minute I see him, I’m going to punch him for you,” Harrison says. “There’s no excuse for this.”

There really isn’t.

I know we’ve been fighting lately, but I chalked that up to wedding stress. Even with a wedding planner, it’s consumed tons and tons of my time. Plus, we’re moving across the country right after the wedding. Brad seemed almost jealous of the time both took away from him, or so I’d thought. Even though both the big wedding and the move were his idea.

Now it seems like all that meant a hell of a lot more than I realized.

That Brad doesn’t want to marry me.

Which is ironic as hell.

Because more than once over the last six months I’ve had the tiny, what-I-thought-was-a-traitorous fear that I don’t want to marryhim. But I stuffed it down. Deep. Because he loves me and I ground him.

“What am I supposed to do?” I groan. “There’s all those people out there. All that food. Oh, my God, we’removingtomorrow. To Honeysuckle Harbor, South Carolina.”

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