Page 10 of So Wrong It's Right

Chapter Five

Stella

It’s Friday afternoon, and I’m tidying up the kitchen and making a list for Sunday’s salads when Megan pops in the back door.

Damn it. I almost made it. Doc is coming back on Tuesday—if I can just keep up the ruse a few more days, I swear I’ll break up with Christopher.

“Meg, what are you doing here?” I edge closer to the door, hoping to keep her contained to the entryway so she won’t make herself too comfy.

Because my life has the potential to become anI Love Lucyepisode really fast.

“I wanted to apologize.” She pushes right past me and heads for the coffee pot. As usual, Megan looks gorgeous in her little coral Calvin Klein dress and matching pumps.

Wait, what?

Did she say apologize?

“I...thank you?”

Megan finds the plain white coffee mug in the cupboard, the one Christopher tends to favor, and pours herself a cup. “I was pretty bitchy on the phone again last night. I don’t really think you have big boobs solely for the purpose of screwing up the wedding.”

I join her at the coffee maker. “You’re right, I don’t. I have big boobs solely for the purpose of screwing up your life, not just Leo’s wedding.”

“Ha-ha. I’m serious. I don’t even know what is wrong with me. I start every day with a positive mantra about how I will not lash out at people around me and I will try to enjoy the wedding planning and not let it stress me out, and every day I turn into a total bitch and I’m sorry.”

I put my arm around her shoulders. “You’re just under a lot of stress. I love you anyway.”

Megan hugs me back, careful not to mess up her make-up or hair. “Thank you for being so gracious. I hope you’ll let me plan your wedding someday. I’ll find an Elvis impersonator to marry you and just the right harmonica player to play the Wedding March.” She pulls back. “Hey, did you talk to Christopher yet?”

“Talk to me about what?”

Lucy, I’m home...

Be cool, Stella.

Christopher is sporting an honest-to-Goddess pocket protector on his white doctor coat today. I want to start calling him Eugene or Poindexter. I also want to scale his body like a tree and lick him from head to toe. I’m feeling quite conflicted about this very strange man I’m sort of dating. “Um, hi, Dr. Lockwood. Did you need some coffee? I can bring it to you.”

He looks behind him. Like there might be cameras. “You told me you don’t do coffee bringing.”

Because he’d pulled that crap day one. And I’d had to set him straight.

If I could pause time, just once, I’d like to muss him up. Untuck his shirt. Smudge his glasses. Unpart his hair. And then start time again just to watch him freak out about hair number 6,789 being incorrectly positioned. “I’m just trying to be nice,” I say through my teeth from a smile as artificial as aspartame.

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