My Big Fat Fake Honeymoon - Lauren Landish Page 0,114

and what Emily is playing at. Courtney jumps in first, on defense, “Forgive me for forgetting you, Emily, but how far behind Abi were you? In school, I mean.”

Ooh, she’s good. So damn good. I forget how skilled my sister is with her words, cutting like knives as she tells Emily to her face that she was utterly forgettable while making it sound like simple pleasantries.

Emily’s lips purse. “We were in the same class. But that was so long ago.” She forces a smile to her bright red lips, making her look like Pennywise, evil clown incarnate. “Imagine my surprise to see her in Aruba! And for both of us to be there on our honeymoons!”

Her voice has gotten loud, enough so that conversation at the tables surrounding us has all but stopped as people look our way. She’s a good strategist.

Even Mom loses any semblance of caring about her public face and screeches, “Honeymoon? Abi, what is she talking about?”

Thanks, Mom! If everyone wasn’t already looking, that would’ve gotten their attention for sure. And Emily is cunning enough to know she’s struck a nerve with a direct hit.

She feigns horror, her eyes wide and her hands covering her mouth, but she makes sure to drop them and enunciate so everyone hears her loud and clear. “Well, yeah. Abi’s husband, Lorenzo. She said they were on their honeymoon in Aruba last week too. Of course, I saw her working there one day and everyone saw the mention of her little flower shop, SweetPea Boutique, on Claire Johnson’s ’gram this morning, and I just thought it was the sweetest thing that Abi could piggyback her honeymoon on a work trip. Double dipping and all. Must’ve been cost effective to have Claire pay for your honeymoon, huh, Abi?” She lifts a shoulder at me, almost like she’s giving me a friendly nudge, but she’s a solid foot away and talking louder and louder, dropping names left and right to demolish me with every word.

The room is no longer quiet. A hum of whispers surrounds us and disgusted glares are being thrown at me from every angle. Except from one table behind Emily, where a group of women sit . . . women I know from school. They were Emily’s friends then and apparently are her tag-alongs still, because they’re smirking with victory at taking The Abi Andrews down so publicly. Vaguely, I wonder what Emily told them about our week and the childish competition we’d resorted to. I’m sure it was nothing flattering to me.

My tongue is thick in my mouth. For all my brilliance, I can’t find a word of explanation that can somehow make this okay. But knowing I have to try, I sputter out, “No, that’s not . . . Emily.” I take a sip of my water, trying in vain to find the ability to speak.

Emily takes advantage of the opening I’ve left, smirking as she fires another bomb, “Oh, no, did your family not know about you and Lorenzo? I can understand. A bit awkward to keep it in the family that way with his being Violet’s cousin. Unless . . .” Her eyes narrow in glee, and I know that whatever she says next is her true purpose, the real reason she came over here.

“The whole thing was fake . . . like your brother’s wedding and your sister’s engagement.” She tsks and adds, “You Andrewses just can’t stop faking, can you?”

The crowd openly gasps in shock at the accusation. It should be ridiculous, but it’s a bit too plausible considering Ross and Courtney really did fake their relationships, so everyone quickly assumes I’ve done the same thing. That I did doesn’t make it any easier to refute.

Sorry, Mom and Dad! I know you taught me better, but I’m past looking for words in my fried brain. Impulsive, spontaneous, crazy action is the coping mechanism I default to. I stand, throwing my water in Emily’s face.

“Ah!” she screams. “What—”

Water drips from her eyelashes, her makeup ruined and her hair flopping down to make her look like a spluttering, drowned rat. Her white dress—yeah, white like she’s still a bride—is nearly see-through, but the country club is definitely not a venue that holds wet T-shirt contests.

I freeze, not believing I actually did that. I should feel remorse, should be horrified. But what I feel is . . . free.

Laughter bubbles up, fizzy and warm and bright, exploding past my lips and making me sound like a manic