My Big Fat Fake Honeymoon - Lauren Landish Page 0,84

“Oh, mia rosa,” he murmurs softly.

I can sense Lorenzo and Janey having a silent conversation around me and blink the tears away long enough to see Janey shrug, telling Lorenzo that she doesn’t know what to do.

About me? About this mess? About tomorrow?

Probably all of the above. I’m not the fall-apart type. I’m the crisis management sort that you want on your team when the shit hits the fan.

“We can handle this, Abs. You and me, we got this. Flower power all the way,” Janey vows.

“Breathe, Abigail. Focus on the here and now and just breathe.” I tune in to Lorenzo’s calm breaths . . . in and out, in and out . . . making myself breathe with him.

Between the two of them and a deep well of my own strength, I pull it together, remembering who I am and what I’m capable of. I make the conscious decision to pull up my big girl panties and handle my shit.

I am Abigail Fucking Andrews—flower lover, businesswoman, and creative problem solver.

Nothing has happened yet. This is still nothing more than the potential for failure, not an actual catastrophe.

I wipe my tears away with the back of my hand, give Lorenzo a soft smile of apology that he returns slowly, and smooth my dress and hair. Like Mom always said, ‘you can’t be put together if you’re not put together.’

Well, it was something like that. Or maybe I’m making it up on the fly because I need a little pep talk? Whatever she did or didn’t say, I feel better with my back straight and my worries exposed to the light of day to be addressed.

“New plan. Let’s go talk to the captain. See what the ETA is on the repairman because if it’s the same guy who worked on the cooler, we need a plan B.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Janey clips out with a salute.

Lorenzo places his hand on the small of my back as he leads me across the floor once again. There’s no time for any booty shaking or playing this time, but even that small supportive touch is all I need. A show of his strength and that though he’s guiding me, I’m leading this ship. If I can just get it to fucking move.

We are on a mission.

Halfway across the floor, Emily calls out, “Abi! There you are, silly girl! I was looking for you.” She doesn’t miss a step of the dance she and Doug are doing. “We’re going to hit the blackjack table again since we’ve got some more time. Wanna play with us?”

“Sorry, can’t,” I say dismissively, trying to move through the crowd.

“Aw, c’mon! It’ll be fun. They’re giving chips out now, no money needed,” she cajoles.

Her smile is plastered on, but one look in her eyes tells me exactly what she’s alluding to.

She thinks I care about the money? Is that supposed to be a dig about my family’s riches compared to my lack thereof?

Emily must sense that she’s made her point because she verbally dances backward. “You know because of the engine thing.” She waves her hand in the air like the ‘engine thing’ is nothing.

God, how did I let myself get caught up in this again? Especially when there are more important things going on. She’s deftly played me right into a corner where she can pretend she was being friendly and inviting me to play a game, and if I say anything snarky, I come out looking like the overreacting bitch.

“No,” I tell her more firmly.

“Ooh, you scared I’ll beat you again?” she teases, but I can hear the mean-girl thread of challenge. Two steps forward, jab-jab, retreat. It’s a ploy she’s used time and time again.

One I’ve honestly played myself a time or two as well, not shutting this down from the get-go but fighting back in small slices of verbal warfare. I just can’t anymore. I’m at the end of my rope, and my give-a-fucker is fresh out of fucks to give. At least about this.

Truthfully, my heart hasn’t been in it for years, and look where falling back into this trap has gotten me. I’m disappointed in myself.

No more.

“I’m done, Emily,” I say flatly. “Done with cards, done with playing games, done with competing with you for no reason. I’m better than this. Hell, maybe you’re better than this too and we just fell into old habits? But I’m done. Truthfully, I haven’t thought of you or high school in years, and we both know why. As of