Page 78 of Vicious Saint
I can tell how eager she is for us to be close, and a part of me—ahugepart of me—wishes we could be just that. Especially since I haven’t been seeing as much of Bex as I’d like. But the more she says things like this, tells me about her stories growing up, asks to go shopping and for advice, the more my guilt eats at me like a cancer.
I’ve considered coming clean a few times but decided against it to save my mom the drama. I do intend to, though, very soon. Probably while our parents are on their honeymoon.
All I have time to respond with is a heartfelt smile, because the “Bridal Chorus” begins to fill the air of Vic’s parish church.
Everyone rises, their attention focused on the entrance where the double doors swing open. Mom, appearing absolutely stunning behind a veil in her Alexander McQueen gown, starts walking down the aisle
I close my eyes, still unaware of how I went from being the center of her world to having to share it with two new people I’m not sure I should like—and one I know damn fucking well I should not.
After an inwardly curse, I respond to Theory with, “Ask me that question in about two hours, when I’m drowning in alcohol and bad decisions.”
Theory chuckles next to me as Mom moves like a princess toward Vic, the rising gasps of breath from everyone around her completely warranted.
When she finally reaches him, the smile on her face is bright as Auntie Pop raises the veil over her head.
She looks so happy it makes me sad, because I know I want her to feel this way as much as I don’t want to feel this way.
My chest tightens as I watch Auntie Pop kiss her cheek, it’s even worse when Mom blows me one too.
I mouth the words “I love you” and she does so back as Vic reaches for her hand, Mom and Auntie hugging before he turns with Mom to face the priest.
Vic doesn’t seem to be paying attention to his holiness as he stares longingly at his bride, so filled with adoration it’s impossible to think his feelings aren’t genuine.
The wholesomeness of the moment piques my curiosity—specifically for his son and how he truly feels about the turn of events.
Is Saint happy for his Dad in spite of having to share him? To hell with me, will he at least treat my mom the way she deserves?
My concerns turn to answers when the crawling feeling returns again, and when I look at him I’m met with a stare lethalenough to kill. Saint, proving exactly why I’ll be spending the rest of my life in resentment, reveals a gold ring in his hand, which he hands to his father when requested.
No eye contact with the man, or exchange of words, as he plays his part but keeps his attention on me. His dad notices yet doesn’t bother trying to correct the behavior. He just takes the ring from his son and fakes a smile, exactly what Saint would be doing if he harbored any human decency.
Saint’s facial features tense as his father begins speaking his vows, then morphs into satisfaction when Auntie Pop’s asked to hand over Vic’s ring. The walls close in on me as Mom repeats the same words back to Vic, tears stinging my eyes when they share their first kiss as husband and wife.
And there it is.
The end of the world as I know it.
The whole room cheers, whistles, and hundreds of pink juniper flowers are tossed in the air by the crowd. Mom and Vic make their way down the aisle arm and arm, leaving me no choice but to meet Saint halfway to do the same.
Stupid wedding traditions.
My knees rattle with each step closer, and the hairs on my neck stand on end at the sight of Saint holding out his arm.
Reluctantly, I slide mine around it, feeling the heat of his skin radiating from beneath his jacket. My breaths are shaky as he squeezes my arm tighter.
And tighter, until I wince from the pain.
The entire room watches, waiting curiously for us to get moving, but Saint no longer seems to give a shit about appearances.
Or abiding by tradition.
Instead, he leans over, lips ghosting over my ear as he whispers, “Here’s to the start of the inevitable.”
My hand fastens around another glass of Prosecco as I retrieve it from the bartender, my body swaying lazily to the current Bruno Mars song playing. I look around, watching an endless amount of strangers dressed to the nines in suits and gowns not at all equipped for the summer spread throughout the largest ballroom in The Sherry Park Castle.
Have rich people never heard of cocktail dresses?
Fancy castles or not, geez.
