You May Kiss the Bridesmaid - Camilla Isley Page 0,60

which would usually fight to find me in a room, turned away.

Her stare is pointed straight ahead, and so lifeless it might as well belong to a robot.

Please look at me, I chant in my head as she walks toward me. Come on, look up. Look at me.

When I’m about to lose hope she’ll meet my gaze, her eyes lock on mine and it’s the most powerful sensation I’ve ever experienced. My stomach drops as if I were free-falling, my head spins, and my heart beats so fast it might jump out of my rib cage and go prostrate itself at her feet. Is this what being in love feels like?

No, I prefer thinking that to be in love is to lie in bed next to the other person without a care in the world and wishing you were nowhere else. It’s having my heart jump in my throat because a message from her has arrived when I wasn’t expecting it. Or counting the minutes until a stupid bachelor party will be over so I can run back to her. Or feeling like the luckiest man on Earth whenever she kisses me.

What I’m experiencing right now isn’t love; it’s fear, pure and primal. A cold dread that I’ve ruined everything with my stupid commitment phobia.

Winter reaches the altar. I didn’t even notice the bride make her entrance, and I spot her now only because she cuts into my line of view of her sister. Logan hurries to take Winter’s hand, a goofy, what-did-I-do-to-deserve-you smile stamped on his lips. And for the second time in a few minutes, I can’t help but think, You lucky bastard.

The bride and groom reach their positions at the altar and free my vision field again. I’m worried Summer might have dropped her gaze, but her eyes are there, waiting for me, giving me hope.

All I need is a second chance, and I won’t screw up this time.

Twenty-three

Summer

The ceremony is romantic and sweet.

The groom is dashing in his tux, and sure and calm as he professes his undying love for the woman standing by his side. Only a trace of happy tears glistening his eyes gives away the depth of his emotions.

The bride’s voice trembles the slightest bit while she’s in the middle of her vows, but she recovers quickly and, with a resplendent smile, is able to finish without crying.

The guests follow the celebration of love in moved silence while the mother of the bride’s sobs can be heard in the background.

The only hiccup comes when the best man has to be nudged by his fellow groomsman to bring the rings forward. Apparently, he was too busy staring at one of the bridesmaids—me—to realize his big moment had come.

How do I feel about it all?

So confused.

Weddings are too emotional. I shouldn’t be forced to reflect on my love life while attending one.

The way Archie is staring at me, he could ask me to be his casual fling for the rest of our lives and I’d gladly say yes. That’s why I have to avoid him at all costs. Tomorrow morning the party will be over. Winter and Logan will go on their honeymoon. My parents will head back to Pasadena. And Archie will be off to Berkley, out of my life for good. I have to resist twenty-four hours, tops. I can do it.

It’s easy to avoid him in the melee that follows the happy couple out of the chapel. Two groups form outside, ready to throw rice at the bride and groom as they exit the church. I make sure Archie and I are on opposite sides.

Before moving to the reception, we have to pose for a few pictures. But it’s all very orchestrated: bridesmaids on one side, groomsmen on the other, now only the bride and bridesmaids, groom and groomsmen, let’s switch it up, bring the parents in, and we’re done. No occasion to talk.

Next, the reception. The weather has been nice, allowing for the lunch to be served outside.

The party will take place on a portion of estate opposite to the vineyard. This patch of green, short-cut lawn is enclosed by tall, majestic trees—a clearing in a magical forest straight out of a storybook. The seating area has been staged to perfection: a rectangular raised stage under a white pole structure resembling a house with no walls. Crystal chandeliers dangle from the high middle pole, and white canvas with wide gaps between them serve as a roof. Long, rectangular tables fill the