Page 3 of The Overtime Kiss

“Sabrina, honey pie, what’s come over you?” Chad asks with so much faux concern I’m pretty sure I’m living in a multiverse.

“What came over me?” I spit out, my voice hitting the ceiling of this hotel. No, it’s hitting the stars above us. “I won’t ask whatyoucame over, since that’s abundantly clear now.”

My mother gasps, then whispers, “Language.”

I don’t point out there’s no language in my statement. Not to my pearl-clutching mom, who fingers the little white balls on her necklace as if it’s choking her.

Chad sets a gentle hand on my shoulder. I recoil, but he tries again, rubbing me soothingly like all I need to do is calm down. “There, there. If you were getting cold feet, you didn’t need to make up something like that. We could have just talked through it as healthy couples do.”

What kind of world am I living in? My eyes pop as I shake off his slithery hand. “Make it up? You left a voicemail about another woman on our wedding day!”

Chad rolls his eyes in that gentle, caring way again. “No one leaves voicemails anymore.”

That’s how he’s defending his infidelity? Like the anachronism of voicemail proves his innocence? “That was literallyyousinging tomyfoster kitten on my phone.” I wave the device in front of his face. It’s teeming with text message notifications, but who cares?

“I just explained the whole thing to your dad. Technology is amazing, isn’t it? I’m impressed you could pull off something so advanced,” Chad says with the smuggest smile I’ve ever seen.

Right. I spent late nights stitching together audio clips ofhis voice to frame him. Because that’s the kind of hobby soon-to-be brides take up between dress fittings and cake tastings. “Gaslight much?”

Chad patronizes me again. “But honey pie, we really should’ve just talked before you did something like that. I know you can be prone to, well, perfectionism,” he says, twisting everything I’ve shared with him, like the lists I kept as a kid in notebook upon notebook. “And if you didn’t think I was good enough for you, we could have discussed your ‘perfectionist’ concerns before all the guests showed up.”

“That’s not what happened,” I seethe, but I feel like I’m fighting a losing battle with them.

My mother’s face pales, contrasting with the velvet rose shade of her Chanel lipstick. She waves a hand in front of her face, like she must locate her smelling salts immediately. “Do you realize what you’ve done, Sabrina? I had to skip my hair appointment this morning to help with last-minute arrangements, and now you’re blowing up the wedding in front of everyone. I’ll never be able to show my face at Pilates again.”

Oh no, not the Pilates moms.

Chad gives her a comforting smile. “It’ll be okay, Mrs. Snow. I’ll fix everything. You know how Sabrina can get when things feel…overwhelming,” he says, and I want to wring his neck so hard, especially when he turns back to me, using the same saccharine tone. “If you want to get back in there right now, I will happily take you as my bride, and we don’t have to speak of this ever again.”

Who even is this man? How can he lie this fearlessly? “Maybe you didn’t get the memo, but…you just cheated on me.”

“No,” he says, like he’s coaxing a toy from a Border Collie. “I didn’t. And you really need to drop this routine.”

I jam my hands into my hair, not caring if I’m messing up my perfect hairstyle. Not even caring that I’ve knocked the tiara askew as I shout, “You got a blow job from Madison!”

My father glares at me, his voice steel. “Your mother said no language.” He points an angry finger in the direction of the grand ballroom. “Are you going to get back in there like a reasonable adult? Or are you going to keep embarrassing all of us with this…this…performance?”

For a few seconds, guilt pricks at me and I wonder if I should have just left a note for the groom. Informed the wedding planner. Walked away quietly. But the fact that I didn’t even consider those options speaks volumes. “I wanted you to know the truth,” I say, holding my ground.

My father steps an inch closer. “The truth? Like that time you said you were too sick to compete in Junior Nationals, but did you really throw up? Or did you toss a can of soup into the toilet bowl and clutch your stomach dramatically?”

Shock reverberates through me. How could he think that? “I had the flu,” I choke out. “I could barely eat.”

“Or maybe you were just afraid to lose. Just like you’re afraid to walk down the aisle today, so you invent this fake song that only exists onyourphone.”

My tears burst forth, unstoppable now. They are geysers. I’m replenishing all of the earth’s dry lakes and waterbeds with my pain. It’s not the cheating or even losing Chad that cuts deep. It’s realizing, once again, that my parents are more concerned with appearances than with me.

“Do you not understand what happened?” I say, my voice wobbly. “Chad’s only marrying me for the bonus you’ll pay him when he hits five years with your company in a few months!”

My father shuts his eyes, his jaw ticking, then opens them, his stony face unreadable, his gaze as hard as onyx. “Listen to yourself, Sabrina,” he says in the quietest voice possible—one that slithers into my ear. “This is a ridiculous tale. When a man cheats, he simply goes to a goddamn hotel room to fuck another woman.”

My mother clings to his arm like she’s fainting. “Horrible,” she mutters.

“His language? No kidding,” I say.

“No, the details about cheating. I can’t bear to hear them,” my mom says with a dramatic sniffle as she fumbles through her bag for her signature lavender sachet for stress relief.

My father intervenes, dipping his hand in and finding it for her. “There, dear,” he says gently.

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