Page 7 of Not Your Basic Love Story

“I broke up with him.” Lies.

“Aw, sweetie. I’m so sorry to hear that.” Her fake pout wasn’t fooling me.

Thankfully, the other girls finished up before Nicole could ask any more stupid questions and we all headed back out to the reception.

Nicole approached a gorgeous, unnaturally tall man whose muscles barely fit within his extremely well-tailored shirt and tasteful slacks. I didn’t mean to check him out, but damn—that ass. Nicole rested an arm on his bicep and he turned to face us, a winning smile on his face. “Becky, this is my boyfriend Chaz. He plays for the Canucks.”

Of course, he does.

“Nice to meet you,” I said, offering my hand and doing my best not to blush, but failing. Damn me and my easy-to-blush pale genes. He took my hand and gave it a tight squeeze, my knuckles pushing together painfully under the pressure.

“Hey,” was all he said. Great. Thanks for contributing to the conversation.

We stood there for a few painful, awkward moments in near silence until we were saved by an announcement. Someone made a toast, and then there were some speeches. Afterwards, a dance area was lit up and a DJ hit the stage. The absolute last thing I wanted to do was dance. Nope. As Nicole and Chaz excused themselves to the dancefloor, I headed back to wherever those crab cakes were. Unfortunately, I didn’t quite make it.

In front of me jumped a tall, lanky guy with a very loud shirt and shorts which came up far too high.

“Hi, there! You must be Becky?” he said. He seemed a little overeager to meet me. Had someone told him I was single? Dammit.

“Rebecca,” I corrected while politely offering my hand. He took it and gave it a weak shake, hanging on too long, his grasp clammy. Poor guy was probably super nervous. I should be nice.

“I’m Hank.”

Hank felt like such an old man's name. Who named their kid Hank anymore? Maybe it was a family name. Regardless, I couldn’t imagine saying it in the throes of passion. And now I was imagining him naked. Why did my mind always go there?

“Hi, Hank. How do you know Miranda?” I asked, refocusing.

“I work with Derek at the charity. I’m one of his groomsmen. We’ll be walking down the aisle together!”

He blushed. I blushed. Everyone was blushing.

“Oh. Great.”

“Yeah, so we should probably get to know one another.”

The first thing I learned about Hank was that he struggled with personal space. He was all up in my bubble. The second thing I learned about him was that he liked to look at my boobs, which was especially odd considering I barely had any boobs at all. Despite these facts, I was too socially awkward to find a way out of the conversation. And so the next hour and a half was spent with me drinking chardonnay and eating crab cakes while he went on and on about himself.

When he asked me to dance, I respectfully declined. Looking at my phone, it was close to eleven and a totally reasonable time to bow out of the conversation with the excuse of being tired. My head was very truthfully pounding from the DJ anyway. I made my way through the maze of increasingly intoxicated people. Miranda was on the dance floor with Nicole dancing toBarbie Girlin what appeared to be a routine they’d made up for some drunken karaoke escapade back in their college days.

I smiled and waved, but Miranda didn’t see me, so I left.

Instead of going back to my suite, I made my way to the ocean. Carrying my wedges, I walked barefoot in the sand. The breeze ruffled my hair as I dipped my freshly shellacked turquoise toes in the water. I walked along the edge, the waves sloshing up to my ankles, past rows upon rows of empty lounge chairs and the occasional couple fooling around.

That could have been us.

But you had to go and fuck it all up.

Maybe it was the stress of travel, maybe it was the chardonnay, maybe it was Nicole and Chaz, or maybe it was the fact that my best friend was getting married in two days and didn’t have time for me, but tears threatened my composure. I forced them back, feeling silly.

My eyes wandered down the beach to what looked like a party going on at another resort. I listened to the deep bass for a moment and watched the coloured lights as they danced along the sand. Part of me wanted to go over there. Investigate. Have a few more drinks. But the pounding in my head and the aching in my heart told me it was a bad idea. Instead, I retreated back to my room where I could sleep all alone in my giant king-sized bed and, possibly, make good use of my vibrator.

CHAPTER THREE

I woke the next morning with no hangover. I thanked myself for making the responsible choice and heading to bed early last night. Showered, blow-dried, make-upped, sun-screened, and clad in booty shorts and a flowing tank-top, I donned my bright pink flamingo flip-flops and oversized sunglasses and headed out to find some breakfast. Today called for a mimosa. Or three.

After dropping my airplane clothes off at the front desk to be dry-cleaned, I went to the buffet. I was quick to spot Miranda’s sister Angelina with her parents. They waved me over, gesturing to sit with them. I pushed my sunglasses back on my head, grabbed a mimosa and a yogurt, and joined them at their table. They got up and gave me a hug, Miranda’s mom kissing me on both cheeks.

“Hey, Susan, Frank! What has it been, like two years since I’ve seen you? You weren’t at the reception last night.” I paused to sip my mimosa. It was delightful.

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