“I thought you guys would be more excited about being bridesmaids.” Isabella’s washed out image looks disappointed. I can only imagine how much worse my pale skin appears on her screen.
“We are, chick,” Penny says through a stiff smile. “It just sounds a bit complicated.”
“Yeah. I know it’s crap I can’t be there to do more. But I’ve got an idea of what I want. It’s just different seeing it all in person and actually being there to check out the reception venue, the church, and the florist etcetera. So, are you guys in?”
“Yes,” we say.
Is it ever okay to say no to being asked to be a bridesmaid?
“Great.” A relieved smile. “Now the tough part. I need a maid of honour—just to keep everything on track.”
I would’ve expected the bride to choose either Mia or Penny for the top bridesmaid job but maybe she doesn’t want to offend one by choosing the other.
“I couldn’t decide…” Isabella says, peering into our image for a sign.
We don’t say anything. It’s like that last chip in the bowl. No one wants to grab it even though they all want it—except me, of course. What a nightmare. I can’t think of anything worse than putting all that work into a wedding. Knowing Isabella, there’ll be a lot more to the day than the big, “I do.”
“Okay,” Isabella continues when we don’t speak up, “so I thought I’d put your names in a hat and pull one out. Are you fine with that, or do either of you really want to be maid of honour?”
For a second Penny seems on the verge of piping up. But she just nibbles on a carrot stick dripping in dip while Isabella writes our names on four small slips of paper. Scrunching these up into balls, she puts them into a Brisbane Broncos supporter cap.
“Babe, can you pick a name out of this hat for me, please?” she calls off screen.
“What are you doing?” We hear Byron’s voice as his hand dips into the cap. He gives the scrunched up piece of paper to his fiancée.
“Thanks, babe.” Isabella unfolds the little ball and reads out the name. “Jess.”
I cringe. This is what I get for not speaking up to pull out of the running. I don’t usually “win” anything. If you can call this winning—I just got drafted against my will.
“I could draw again,” Isabella offers.
I smile in relief. She was probably hoping to pick either Mia or Penny’s name anyway. Honestly, I know myself enough to be sure I would suck at organising her wedding. The petty side of me would probably sabotage her big day.
“The choice was much easier for Byron. The obvious person to pick for best man is his brother,” Isabella says, dipping her hand into the cap again.
I lose my hearing like I’m underwater, and nothing else she says filters through.
“I’ll do it,” I say quickly. It’s sad but I changed my mind as soon as I heard Keats is going to be involved. If he’s the best man and I’m the maid of honour, that means we get to walk down the aisle and have our photos taken together. And maybe I’d finally get to know him in the process. With luck, he won’t be as great as I’ve fantasised about all these years, and I can finally, finally, get over him.
“Are you sure?” Isabella asks in a way that sounds more like, “Please change your mind.”
“Yeah. I have a lot of free time. Receptionist, remember? I can make calls for you all day.”
“Okay. Great. Well, your first call is to Keats. Maybe you guys can meet and talk about the wedding. Do you have your phone? I can give you his number now.”
Hells, yeah! I try to hide my smile while I fish for my mobile in my bag. This must be what it’s like to get the private number to the Bat phone.
Talk about instant good karma.
Chapter 2
Mid-April
He stood me up. My first non-date with Keats McAllister and he never showed. No texts or missed calls. I never imagined dating him would include waiting around nursing water during my lunch break. But I guess fantasies of relationships when you’re twelve aren’t very detail-oriented. Not that today was supposed to be a date.
Around me now, the early evening crowd of the bar laughs and continues their excited conversations mixed with the thuds of glass hitting wood as orders are placed. It’s the perfect place to whinge after work.
“You know what gets me?” I accidentally spit on Jillie—my nineteen-year-old workmate—with that statement but she’s either too polite or too drunk to show it. The spittle hits her right in the middle of her forehead and I look at it instead of her bleary eyes.
“He didn’t even let me know he wasn’t coming,” I continue. “What? I’m not worth a text message? Doesn’t he check his voicemail?”
I rang him at lunchtime the day after Isabella’s big news—my self-control could only wait that long. I would’ve called him that same Thursday night but I couldn’t leave Penny’s house till nine p.m., and I learnt from Isabella a long time ago that it was rude to call people’s homes after eight. Actually, I learnt a lot of what families are like from sleepovers at her house, and from my babysitter, the television.
That was the only time I’d spoken to him. I’d been totally transported back to high school—tongue-tied and talking around the foot in my mouth. I can’t believe the words “second most important couple” had actually left my lips, and he’d heard it. I know because he’d sounded uncertain when he’d replied with an, “Um, sure.”
Anyway, that phone call was two months ago. We’ve only exchanged emails since—mainly me updating him of my
