Saturday.”
The wedding I was no longer invited to. The invitation was hanging on the fridge as a reminder.
The day after she’d invited me, I’d secretly gone out and bought a new suit for it. Okay, it was used from Red’s Resale shop but it was like new and it fit like it was made for me. I’d wanted to surprise Sarah by dressing up.
“Her ex-boyfriend is going to be there. Apparently, they dated for like four years and then he dumped her six months ago.”
“Shi—shoot.” I caught myself this time, even though my heart was pounding with what I’d just learned. “She never told me that.”
Shalene tipped her head to one side. “It’s not exactly something a woman wants to admit. She’d still broken up about it. She was crying. She called herself unlovable.”
“Fuck.” One more for the swear jar.
I shook my head. At myself for not seeing how hurt Sarah was. At Sarah for not confiding in me
“How do you know all this? Did she tell you?” I asked.
I had to admit I was a little jealous that Sarah would spill her guts to Shalene but not me.
“No. She was on her phone. I wasn’t trying to overhear, I swear. At least not in the beginning. But once I heard her talking about you . . .” She cringed. “I’m sorry. I’m horrible for eavesdropping like that.”
“Don’t apologize. I needed to know.” I just wished Sarah would have told me herself. “I’ll handle it.”
“Please don’t tell her I told you,” Shalene begged.
“I won’t.” I didn’t know my game plan yet, but I’d figure it out.
Now that I knew what was wrong, I was better equipped to figure out how to deal with it.
I was going to have to prove to Sarah that it didn’t matter what other people thought about us being together.
More than that, I was going to have to repair the damage done to her by the no-ball dickhead who’d dumped her and made her think she was unlovable.
Unlovable!
That guy deserved to be throttled and if I knew where to find him I’d be happy to be the one to do it—
Wait. I did know where to find him.
I knew exactly where he’d be Saturday night. The same place Sarah would be. At that wedding. And there was no way in hell I wasn’t going to be there too.
I turned to my cousin and pulled her in for a big hug. “Thanks, Shay.”
She laughed. “For what?”
“For everything.”
TWENTY-THREE
Sarah
I’d rejected and left behind a dozen dresses in a heap on the floor of my bedroom in Mudville for various reasons.
Some were too revealing. The last thing I wanted to do was look desperate.
Others were too staid. They made me look like the single-minded workaholic spinster I’d become.
This one fell somewhere in between. With my highest heels, the look was understated but still sexy.
The color—solid black—seemed appropriate since I was mourning the death of my love life.
I’d been happy with this dress before I’d left the house, but I still had the urge to hide as I walked through the door of the venue now.
I managed to arrive at the last minute and hide in the back of the church for the ceremony, but here at the cocktail hour, there was no hiding.
Familiar faces swarmed around me. Young. Old. Some I hadn’t seen in a decade. Others were far too familiar. I saw my mother across the room, dragging my poor father toward the shrimp table, no doubt so she could take two plates full and not look like a glutton.
I’d called and tried my best to talk her out of attending, mainly so I could get away with not being here too, but there was no talking her out of it.
She swore my father wasn’t contagious. Short of making her produce a doctor’s note, I didn’t know what else to do to prevent them from coming.
At least while she was occupied with the buffet table, I would have a moment’s peace.
I spotted a waiter with a tray filled with champagne and snagged a glass, thereby avoiding the growing line at the bar.
Avoiding people for as long as possible was paramount. Eventually I’d have to sit for dinner. My only hope was that my cousin had sat me at the singles table with a bunch of people I didn’t know.
That would be perfect. Small talk with strangers I could handle. It was encountering the people I knew that struck fear in my heart.
Speaking of my worst fear . . .