Page 16 of Sinners Atone
I told her what I was doing.
She told me I was an idiot.
Then she called me something even worse when I refused her offer to drive me home.
Tayce doesn’t look like one of the world’s most sought-after tattoo artists. She doesn’t have a smidge of ink on her entire body. Instead, she looks like one of those girls on Pinterest—hot and unapproachable. Tonight, she’s wearing a gold satin dress, but only because I reminded her it’s bad luck to wear black to anything wedding related. Her long midnight hair falls straightto her hip in a sharp middle part, and her full lips are forever painted red.
I once asked her if they’re her own or if she paid for them, but she told me to “Mind my own fucking business.”
I don’t dare ask about her boobs.
“Wren!”
My gaze follows the sound of my name and lands on a mass of blonde curls bobbing over the sea of dancers. Long limbs and a sparkly clutch part the crowd, then a body crashes into me.
“Oops, sorry. I think that girl pushed me,” Rory mumbles, glancing over her shoulder. Tayce glares at the crowd too, though we both know Rory can’t stand in heels, let alone walk, after two white wine spritzers.
When she finds her balance, she tugs down the hem of her dress and grins up at me. “We’ve been looking for you. Where have you been?”
“Leah was sick on her boots,” Tayce yells in her ear.
Rory frowns, scanning the club. “The girl from the diner?”
I flutter a dismissive hand. I’ve been walking my other best friend, Rory, through the six degrees of separation between her and her guests all night. Her fiancé hired the party planner, who booked this huge club, and Rory was too proud to admit she doesn’t have enough friends to fill it. Luckily, with all my hobbies, volunteer work, and the fact I’ll strike up a conversation with anyone who sits within five seats of me on the bus, I had no trouble rustling up a guest list.
I was going to leave my input at that. After all, I don’t like to step on anyone’s toes. But then I caught a glimpse of the decor plan, and well, I thought it was best to take over that too. And the music because there wasn’t a single crowd-pleaser on the set list, and by that point, it was just easier if I did everything myself. Besides, I don’t trust a party planner who would choose a barnamed after a cemetery for a bachelorette partyandschedule it the night before the wedding.
As much as I’d love to say it was my social skills that convinced the girls who don’t really know Rory to attend, it’s much more likely that the Visconti name was the real draw. No one on this coastline is passing up the opportunity to drink free-flowing champagne and analyze why Aurora Carter managed to snag Devil’s Dip’s most-eligible bachelor when they couldn’t.
And I suppose I wouldn’t blame them if they only remember Rory from our school days. She was the weird kid who carried tadpoles around in jam jars. But she was also the only one who would talk to me when I moved here from Seattle in sixth grade. Shy small talk evolved into her teaching me about bird migration and the importance of bees, and when we grew into awkward teenagers, I taught her about leave-in conditioner and the importance of matching your foundation to your skintone.
Looking at her tonight, you’d never know she used to keep injured birds in a shoe box beside her bed. She’s every bit the rich businessman’s bride: a vision in a white designer mini dress, her long blonde curls tumbling down her back.
I’m so happy for her, I could cry.
Again.
She wobbles backward for no other reasons than her drinks are strong and her heels are high. I steady her before she takes Tayce down with her too.
“Jeez.” She touches her necklace and sweeps the crowd with bewilderment. “Where did you get these girls from, Wren? Fight school?”
Tayce laughs and grabs both of our hands. “You’re so damn drunk, Rory. You need water; Wren needs shoes. Go and sit down while I figure this shit out.”
I purse my lips, trapping in a comment about the irony of Tayce looking aftermein a nightclub for a change, and let her lead us to the VIP area before disappearing back into the crowd.
Rory looks down the long table, taking in the sweating ice buckets, penis straws, and half-eaten cupcakes. There’s finger foods, games, sparkly confetti. Sashes, pink cowboy hats. Against the back wall, helium balloons spelling outBride to Bebob lazily under recessed lights, and beneath them, a cutout of Angelo Visconti’s face is stuck to a dart board. He glares over at me, clearly not amused that we’re using his likeness for a cruder version of Pin the Tail on the Donkey.
Rory clamps her hands to her chest. “Thanks for doing all of this, Wren. If you ever change your mind about going to law school next year, you should consider becoming a party planner for a living.”
Law school.
Sometimes, it feels as though my future is an invisible hand. It likes to roll up its sleeve, shove itself down my throat, and stir up the contents of my stomach.
I gulp down the churning panic and tape over it with a weak smile before sliding into the booth next to Rory.
Law school is future Wren’s problem. Current Wren’s only problem is making sure her best friend makes it to the altar tomorrow without puking down the aisle.
“Hey, who’s been kissing my husband?”
