My Big Fat Fake Honeymoon - Lauren Landish Page 0,115

hyena. Courtney snorts, trying to contain laughter of her own and doing a much better job of maintaining a sense of proper decorum.

There’s a mix of laughter and horror from the crowd, who aren’t even pretending to ignore the spectacle now.

Ross throws his napkin to the table and stands. “Enough!” he shouts, and even Emily has the good sense to flinch.

But it’s my dad who truly saves me.

He doesn’t even put his fork down, make a face, break a sweat, or throw things . . . all things I’ve done in the last several seconds since Emily walked up and nuclear bombed my life.

But Dad is the cloth we’re all cut from and has perfected his skills around boardroom tables we can only dream of one day sitting at, so he coldly demands, “Are you quite finished now, young lady? I was rather enjoying a quiet dinner of celebration with my family before you came up and started spewing your venom all over my chicken marsala. It’s obvious you are no friend of Abi’s, and therefore, no friend of mine.” He makes a shooing motion with his fork, a bit of sauce slinging on Emily’s white dress too. “Leave us alone so we can continue to celebrate her good fortune as an artist and as a new bride. And you can go back to enjoying a night away from your new husband too.” Dad glances at the table of women who are sitting straight and slack-jawed now. “I’m sure your husband is particularly enjoying the evening away from you.”

Whoa! Dad is . . . stone-cold brutal. I’m really glad he’s on my team.

“Harrumph!” Emily makes a sound of displeasure before spinning on her toe and stomping back to her table. She snaps her fingers and calls across the room, “Check, please!”

We’re quiet as Emily gathers her purse and entourage, stomping some more as she heads toward the door and loudly remarks, “Some people . . .” But the door closes on whatever she was going to say about people like me and my family.

I shrink in my chair, wishing I could fall straight through the floor. I’m in hell already. Might as well get a little tan from the flames too. “Dad, I . . . sorry, I—”

He cuts his eyes to me, giving me a hard look. “Eat. Tell me about the flowers at this fancy wedding,” he demands. But the true order is in his eyes, promising me that we’re going to have a conversation about all of this, but not now, not here.

“Yes, where was I? Oh, the cooler broke right when we got there and we had to source replacements on the fly . . .”

Walking into Dad’s office, he heads straight for the scotch. He pours a skinny pour, upends and swallows it, and then eyes me critically. I don’t know what he’s searching for as I stand there feeling like I’m a child again, waiting for a lecture. But whatever he sees, he goes for a second pour before sitting down.

Mom isn’t waiting on him. She barely restrained her questions for the remainder of dinner, which we boldly ate while conversing about nothing of consequence to be sure we were seen as strong and unwilling to put up with shit from someone like Emily Jones. I mean, Daniels.

Ugh.

“You’ve got some explaining to do, so you’d best get to it, Abi,” Mom starts.

I nod, finding a chair to plop into defeatedly. This is going to suck. I’m embarrassed, angry, and know I should’ve handled Emily with more grace, but in the moment, throwing my drink seemed like the right thing to do and the fastest way to shut her up.

“I know,” I sigh, “Emily and I weren’t friends in school. More like competitors—”

Dad interrupts me. “Yeah, yeah. We got that part. She’s a bitch.”

Mom gasps, “Morgan!”

He lifts a sardonic brow. “Am I wrong?”

Mom doesn’t say anything for a long second, and then she shakes her head, on the verge of laughter but fighting it valiantly. “No, that girl was a bitch.” She sounds like the very word is a delight to say. I’m a little proud of Mom. She’s loving and kind, sweet and strong, but she’s not exactly one to let her ugly thoughts and feelings run amok.

Dad gestures widely, giving me back the floor. “Now that that’s settled, continue. But start with Aruba, not schoolyard stupidity.”

I need to get this off my chest, this craziness that I’ve gotten myself into that’s worse than