Page 4 of My Wife
“Where are you, Rexlan?” I whisper.
In the last month or so, he’s neglected to tell me about several late-night meetings, work trips, and important appointments to further the reach of the Skink Society—his mother’s pet project turned six-figure online venture. Could he have forgotten our wedding day?
The guy is busy and has his assistant in a tizzy. Every time I’ve seen Cassleigh lately, her cheeks flame red like Rexlan has been making her work so hard she can scarcely catch her breath.
That’s how I feel now. My chest tightens because he has to know this is our big day. The one we’ve planned for. Well, the one his mother orchestrated, but still.
Where is he?
Standing behind a pair of wooden doors inlaid with etched glass while the guests eagerly await our appearance, I nervously bounce on my toes.
A grandfather clock ticks loudly, punishing me with worry as the seconds pass. A cold sweat prickles against the itchy crinoline inside my wedding gown—or that could be the special blue collie webbed lizard skin pouch filled with crystals that Sorsha Coogan, Rexlan’s mother, sewed inside so I’d have something old, new, borrowed, and blue—technically, the thread was the new thing.
If you ask me, her belief in the omnipotence of skinks is a big load of nonsense. But people buy it every day. I’ve spent the last three months packaging and mailing orders for her website, among other things.
This family wants me to be part of theirs, so how can I say no? After all, this is everything I’ve ever wanted.
Maybe except for the wedding cake. I would’ve gone with personal-size Bundts in a variety of flavors for everyone.
Also, I didn’t get a say about the guest list.
This wedding gown wasn’t my choice either.
According to Sorsha, it’s a trumpet fit, which I read does not complement my figure, but mymomster-in-law to-be knows best. It’s more like a tube on the top, giving way to a wide skirt. In the back is a bustle and a long train. I look like a bloated, upside-down goose. I set out to be an actress but didn’t have this in mind.
I dab my forehead with a tissue as the women in my bridal party mutedly whisper among themselves.
“Do you have your phone?” asks Amy, one of the bridesmaids.
Pamberlie, Rexlan’s sister and the maid of honor, just moved back to Los Angeles from Phoenix a few days after Christmas last month. She waves her hand dismissively. “Don’t make a fuss. He’ll be here. Probably.”
He, being my fiancé, also said he’d be home from a business trip to Singapore on my birthday, but flight delays left him stranded. Not that I hold that against him. But it didn’t escape my notice that when unforeseen circumstances attempt to keep him from his important meetings, he finds a way. Or, rather, Cassleigh does.
Speaking of, I’m surprised she’s not here. Despite Sorsha insisting Cassleigh not join us, Rexlan placed her at a top table, claiming she’s the one who keeps him afloat.
I want to think that’s my role.
The MOG, the mother of the groom, waves her phone. “Rexlan is not answering my calls. He always picks up for me. You two looked like you argued last night.” The line between her eyebrows is already an inch deep.
I look around as if she could be speaking to anyone but me. My mouth opens and closes. “Argued? No.”
“There was tension during the rehearsal dinner,” she accuses.
“He wanted to leave early. Said he had a few things to finish up for the Skink Society.” I assumed it was because we’d be gone for ten days on our honeymoon.
“He’s turning into his father.”
I hope not. The man is on wife number six.
“Where’s Rex’s assistant? She always knows where he is,” Pamberlie says.
The wedding planner appears and pumps her hands in a slow-down motion. “Everyone relax. This happens all the time.”
“It does?” I read at least twenty-five hundred square feet worth of wedding magazines along with the equivalent in blog articles and it seems rare for a groom to be late.
“He probably has a good reason. A great one. No one would pass up their wedding day, especially to their one true love.” The wedding planner’s smile is one part consolation and one part pity. Or perhaps I’m too much in my head.
“I assumed he’d pick someone taller,” Pamberlie says, towering over me. She’s a former model with a slender build that is a perfect contrast to my curvy one.
