Page 3 of Strictly Pretend

The words escape my lips before I even think them through. She turns around in a hurry, her brow dipping as she looks in the darkness for me. I hold up the bottle like it’s going to make everything better.

“What is it?” she asks, as though I’m a wine waiter leaning over the table at dinner.

“Whiskey.”

“I hate whiskey.” She takes a step toward me. I can barely see her toes peeping out from the tulle of her dress.

“Me too. But it makes things better.” And stops me thinking about things I don’t want to.

“Does it?” she asks, looking interested.

I lift the glass to my lips. “Not sure. Ask me again in the morning.”

“I won’t be here in the morning. I’ll be long gone.”

I tip my head to the side, taking her in. She’s come about two steps closer, like an untamed animal desperate for food but wary of human contact. “I thought all the bridesmaids are staying until brunch.”

“Not this bridesmaid.” She’s closer still. And I remember seeing her at the reception. She was dancing with some guy. Laughing and smiling at him.

But now there’s no trace of a smile on her face. Just smudged mascara and a scowl. Yet somehow they work. She looks surprisingly pretty.

“One for the road then,” I say.

“Okay.” She nods. “Pour me a glass.”

“Ah,” I hold up the only glass. “We’ll have to share.”

She sits down next to me. Or as close as she can get in that dress. The pink skirt spills over the grass. She looks like she should be in some kind of costume drama.

“Where did you learn to yell like that?” I say. “Your lung capacity is amazing.”

“You heard me?”

“Yep.”

She holds her hand out for the glass and swallows it all down. She doesn’t even blanch at the heat of the whiskey.

“I didn’t learn it anywhere. I’m obviously a natural howler.”

“Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you.” I hold out my hand and she takes it. Close up she looks like she might be in her late twenties. Early thirties at the most. The older I get, the harder itis to tell, but at thirty-two, I don’t think there’s that much of an age gap between us.

“Bride or groom?” she asks me.

“Groom. We roomed together during college.” About a hundred years ago. Feels like a different lifetime. “You?”

She looks down at her dress and up at me again. “Take a guess.”

“Hey, some bridesmaids are related to the groom.”

“I’m all bride.”

“How do you know Mia?”

She holds the glass up – because it’s obviously become hers now – and I fill it halfway with whiskey. She lifts it to her mouth and I watch her swallow it down. She has such a pretty neck. Who knew necks could be pretty?

“I used to go to school with her.”

“Oh, you went to Columbia?” I ask.

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