Page 92 of Life of the Party

“I don’t blame you. What a couple of dicks.” She scoffed.

“Right? Ugh…idiots. ” I frowned, crossing my arms.

We started walking toward the hotel, only a few blocks away. I pulled my cell phone from my purse but the screen was blank—no messages, no nothing, just infuriatingly silent like always. I sighed.

“You know what the worst part is, Charlie?”

“What’s that?

“They’re right. Blake and his brother. About Grey and I.” I looked up at the sky, but I couldn’t see the stars from the bright city lights. “I don’t know what I thought we had…but I think, whatever it was, it must be over now.”

Charlie didn’t have anything to say to that. She slung a comforting arm around my shoulders and we walked in silence the rest of the way.

CHAPTER 37

I leaned heavily against the bathroom counter, my heart pounding furiously in my chest, hammering against my ribs—the blood racing through my veins. I managed a shaky smile, invigorated by the spasms of happiness and pleasure the cocaine gave me. I needed this. There was no way I could act the chipper, ever-helpful bridesmaid all day without a bit of help.

I sucked in a quivering breath and stared at myself in the mirror, wishing Charlie could’ve stayed to help me get ready. The hairdresser had done my hair up in a loose French knot. There was an actual tiara in my hair, perched on the crown of my head, glinting in the bathroom lights. My dress was on in all its pink, sequinned, crinoline splendour; my shoes resembled real ballet slippers, tied up with pink ribbons and all.

This was happening. I was a full-blown ballerina.

I wished Grey could see me. He wouldn’t believe it.

I forced the wave of sadness away. I couldn’t think about Grey again; I didn’t have time to fix my makeup. Instead, I ran around the room in shaky cocaine acceleration, taking care of last-minute details, helping Whitney with her shoes, fixing Marie’s hair. When we were finally ready, we crossed the hall to Marcy’s suite where she was getting dressed with my mother’s eager, helpful hands. Dad was sitting in the living room area, dressed in a stiff dark blue suit, his hair neatly combed and gelled. He looked nervous, flicking randomly through the channels on TV. He ignored me.

Marcy was a sight. I stopped in my charged walking and just stared at her.

There was a flush of nervous excitement in her cheeks, her eyes twinkling happily as she looked in the mirror. Her hair was dark and sleek, straightened in a perfect bob, a simple veil pinned in her hair with tortoiseshell combs. Her dress fit to a tee, accentingher narrow waist and toned arms. A turquoise tear-dropped silver necklace emphasized the neckline of her gown and brought out the perfect evenness of her tan. The wedding dress cascaded around her frame in layers of silky white and sparkling embellishments, pleasing to the eye.

A few emotions flitted through me at that instant—happiness, jealousy, sadness. I stood there, resigned. Never in this lifetime could I ever compete with Marcy. I would always be second, no matter what.

“What do you think, Mac?” she asked me carefully. We hadn’t really spoken since the big fight. She was still guarded around me—actually, they all were, like I could just fly off the handle at any moment.

I smiled quietly, reconciled to the fact. “Marcy…you’re perfect.”

I made it through the ceremony without tripping or fainting or anything else that might ruin a wedding. My bouquet of creamy white peonies shook violently while I made my way up the aisle, unaccustomed to all the eyes on me. The room was packed with people dressed in suits and gowns—at least three-hundred of them filled the wooden pews. The church was gorgeous and old, with stained glass windows and dark, impressively carved wood. Lit candelabras hung from the ceiling, giving the sanctuary a soft glow, a romantic feel. White flowers were everywhere, lining the aisle, overflowing the stage, hanging from the archways.

People may have been looking at me, but it didn’t last long. The moment Marcy stepped into the flower-strewn aisle, all eyes were on her. Mom was on one side of the blushing bride, looking regal and stately in a dark blue dress suit, her dark hair curled perfectly. Dad was on the other side of Marcy, absolutely beaming in his pride. The pianist was playing “Pachelbel’s Canon,” and the beautiful song floated softly in the air as they walked slowly toward Blake’s love-soft face.

I could do nothing but stand by and watch while Marcy married Blake-the-dick.

It was a thankfully short ceremony. I couldn’t stand all the love talk, the sickeningly sweet glances Marcy and Blake were giving each other, the tears in my mother’s eyes as she watched them kiss.

Afterward, the wedding party piled into an awaiting stretch limousine. Whitney popped open a bottle of champagne from the stocked bar inside while Marcy and Blake sat together in the back, holding hands and kissing and giggling in their newlywed bliss.

I chugged back my champagne and hurriedly held out my glass for more.

Jake always managed to be irritatingly close to me. He kept smiling my way, waiting for my resolve to break, certain of my eventual surrender to his arrogant charms.

“You make a beautiful ballerina.” He commented in the limo, the corner of his mouth lifting as he took me in. He reached out, tugging gently on a curl from my hair, lacing it through his fingers.

“I have a boyfriend, Jake,” I reminded him, pulling away.

“Right… Look, you’re going to feel really embarrassed when you realize I’m perfect for you.” He grinned. “I’m just trying to save you the trouble.”

I shook my head, trying to ignore him.

“If I were him, I’d never let you out of my sight.” Jake continued, lowering his voice, his languid gaze crawling over me. “Trust me. If he really cared, he’d be here.”

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