Untamed - A. G. Howard Page 0,59
tendrils coil at her neck.
“You look perfect,” I tell her, dreamily.
She fights a grin and rolls her eyes. “Wish I could say the same for you.”
“Has Corb seen you yet?” My question is rhetorical. The two have been joined at the hip for years, and now that Corbin has almost completed his bachelor’s degree in advertising, he’s planning to move with her to New York by the end of the summer.
Just last month, he asked for “her hand in marriage.” Dressed in medieval chain mail, he rode up to our duplex in a horse-drawn carriage. Jeb had helped him refinish an old Chevy they found in a junkyard. Jeb took the body and scrapped all the clunky, unnecessary parts, making it a shell lightweight enough to be pulled by the two white horses Corbin borrowed from a friend. After adding a sturdy harness, replacing the tires with buggy wheels, and painting the body a glossy white with red trim, they had the perfect Texan knight’s carriage. When Corbin pulled up in Jen’s driveway with three dozen roses in hand and asked her to ride off with him into the sunset, she nearly fainted.
It was old-fashioned—yet modern—and oh so sweet.
Lost in her own nostalgic haze, Jenara admires the sparkly engagement ring on her finger. Her grin breaks loose, along with an attractive blush to her cheeks. “Well, yah. My betrothed approves of my latest creation. But you’re the one who’s about to be in the spotlight.” She tosses the bottle of stones into my opened suitcase and then reaches into the closet for my dress. Jeb and I had decided Jenara’s beautiful creations got a bad rap at prom, and deserved the spotlight in a good memory.
Over the past few weeks, Jenara did a masterful job stitching rips and patching holes with sequined appliqués—one of which she’d found in an antique store, so it was also my “something old.” Any stains were masked with airbrushed periwinkle dye followed by a sweep of glitter. Now the strapless white dress looks brand-new. Or as new as a vintage wedding gown can look when it’s been modified to resemble shadowy, moldering fabric fresh from the grave.
“Come on, Al, get the lead out,” Jenara scolds, losing patience.
I grunt in response.
She tosses the sheer purple-gray underskirt my way and it drifts over my head, surrounding me like a perfume-scented cloud.
“I’ll prep the makeup,” she says. A loud clatter follows as she dumps her cosmetic bag onto the table next to Mom’s birthday card. “Maybe nail polish remover will work on your lips.”
I crinkle my nose. “Yuck . . . really?”
She shrugs. “Desperate times call for disgusting measures.” On the other side of the iridescent netting covering my face, she sorts out eye shadows, liners, brushes, and blush.
My body feels light, like I could float away. It’s partly elation . . . partly nerves . . . and something more. Something I’ve never felt before.
Or have I?
The skin around my eyes tingles, as does the skin at my shoulder blades.
Muffled laughter and footsteps drift through the living room’s paper-thin wall. It sounds like part of the crowd is headed out for a while. The beach house my dad rented has seven bedrooms, a loft, and four and a half bathrooms, but is still barely big enough for my and Jeb’s combined guests. I can’t imagine how packed it will be once the rest arrive.
Gathering my energy, I drag off the netting and slide the newspaper clipping back into its spot in my scrapbook. I’m tempted to flip through the other pages. To glance over pictures of our art sales—limited edition paintings that Jeb will never be able to replicate, and my glass gem mosaics—along with goofy snapshots of the past four Halloweens, Christmases, summer picnics, snowball fights, and college pranks. Just one last glimpse of our time together as an engaged couple, captured between sleeves of polypropylene film, before we start this next chapter in a new scrapbook, embellished with white satin and tiny strings of pearls.
Every inch of my skin flushes, thinking of what comes after the ceremony. It hadn’t been easy to wait the past few years, but life was complicated enough, working through Jeb’s grief over his lost artistic abilities, going to college, and balancing my royal duties in Wonderland with our human life. It never seemed to be the right time, until now. We’ve adjusted to our new roles, learned to make compromises while being honest, and have always been there for each