Total pages in book: 129
Estimated words: 125257 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 626(@200wpm)___ 501(@250wpm)___ 418(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 125257 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 626(@200wpm)___ 501(@250wpm)___ 418(@300wpm)
And she’s off, returning to her domain. I follow her, and when I reach the patio where the picnic tables are set up, I find Fallon, with her tablet and stern expression. “Hi, Fallon. Can I get a reapplication?”
Like a robot, she dips her pale hand into her makeup bag, and hands me a disposable applicator. “Now, be sure to smile and show how well it holds up against an ex test.”
As I slick on some lipstick, it takes a few seconds for me to realize what the Ex Test is—the pictures with Jameson. Which means Fallon knows we were together. And Fallon’s probably seen the Jumbotron Dump. And Fallon doesn’t want anything resembling that at the wedding her brand is sponsoring.
A flush of embarrassment crawls up my neck. “Of course,” I say, feeling chastened, like I’m the loser little sister.
I check my reflection in the phone camera. It looks perfect, like I know she’ll want it to be. “Thanks.”
She stares at me, appraising the application. At least I think that’s what she’s doing. “Yes, that’s good for a glow-up.”
That word sticks in my gut. That’s why she wanted the pics of me with a sexy smile—to prove I’m not the loser. That’s what Fresh Face gets out of me being here, showing off their makeup. To prove that rebounds work.
My stomach twists, but I understand the assignment. I drop the applicator into a bag Fallon offers for makeup recyclables.
Time to ace the Ex Test. I join the full wedding party for pics, flanking the bride on one side, with Jameson standing next to the groom. As the photographer snaps photos, I think of Lake. I imagine my plus-one making out with me in public, in private, anywhere. And I smile so hard, so well, so vibrantly.
Take that, Fallon. I’m the MOH who doesn’t even care that her ex is in a photo with her.
I’d like my A-plus right now.
* * *
Once the pics are done, it’s time to eat. Lake and I slide onto a bench at the picnic table across from my parents and near my sister and Parker. The photographer circles, taking pics of the meal, the laughter, the vibe.
As I reach for some spring salad to spoon onto my plate, my mother shoots me a thoughtful look, her light brown eyes crinkling at the corner in curiosity. “It’s such a treat to sit with you, Lake,” she says.
Lake flashes her a smile that surprises me with its size, its wattage. It’s warm and bright, and he’s not really a smiley guy. But evidently today he is. “And you as well, Mrs. Hatmaker.”
Mom tilts her head, studying us once more, her dyed brown bob barely moving. She’s a put-together woman who does cardio every day, who plays brain games each morning, who misses nothing since my mother doesn’t permit failure. “So this all happened quickly?” she asks the two of us, and I’m not sure what she’s getting at.
But I’d better answer quickly.
“Sure did,” I reply, like the speed of my response will hide the way my pulse kicked up just there.
Mom shakes her head, like she’s trying to work something out. After a beat, she swings her shrewd gaze back to me. “Remy, I’m just surprised you never mentioned anything about Lake even though we talked nearly every day for a couple of weeks there.”
Oh, shoot. She’s right. Why didn’t I mention Lake to her then? I gulp, then try to improvise. “Oh, I thought I had.”
“No,” she insists, and she’s a lot like Caroline, strong-headed—no surprise. My mom stood by my father’s side while he battled some mental health demons while I was a kid. She was fierce, resolute, and determined to help her man. She’s still that way. No wonder she became one of the country’s most sought-after wedding planners before her retirement—she believes in the I do with the power of a thousand suns, and if she had to be the glue in their marriage, then dammit she’d be sticky. “I even asked if you were ready to date again,” she points out.
“Can confirm,” my dad puts in, with a flash of a smile for her, always for her. “Well, she told me about every call as soon as she hung up. She said you were taking some time off from dating.”
Mom pats his hand as if thanking him for backing her up.
I rub my palms along my khakis, trying to figure out how to explain this discrepancy. “That was the plan at the time,” I say evasively, hoping that throws them off the scent.
I steal a glance down the table at Jameson, and he’s watching us like it’s a tennis match.
Great. Just great.
I’d assumed his presence might dent our fake dating armor today, and I was ready for that interaction. But I wasn’t prepared for my parents to give me the third degree, while my ex watches…like he’s eating it up.