Page 7 of Maid of Dishonor

The first thing my brain snags on is that she wants to marry a guy she rarely says anything good about.

This has all the hallmarks of a terrible idea.

“Are you sure—” I begin hesitantly. “I mean, are you sure you want to marry this man? You complain about him all the time, Maya.”

“Love is sacrifice,” she says. She won’t meet my eye; she’s staring at the constellation map on the wall, her gaze lost in each of the horoscope signs.

“What makes you think you’re in love?” I ask without thinking. But really, despite how rude it might come off, I do want to know.

Maya’s lips tighten into a compressed line as she looks back at me, but it doesn’t quite mask the uncertainty that creeps over the rest of her features. “I don’t know, Carter. We—we have fun.” She thinks for a second before going on. “He’s fun. He’s spontaneous. Adventurous. Just like me. And he loves me.” Her voice is meek by the end, and though I can’t pinpoint why, the sound makes me sad for her.

I nod slowly, and the glance Sam shoots me tells me she’s thinking the same thing I am: that none of those qualities equal love. I mean, I’m not in Maya’s head or heart. And if she genuinely wants to marry him, she probably does love him, to some degree. Butloveisn’t necessarily enough.

I’m just about to speak when Maya suddenly slaps one hand over her mouth. She blanches, then makes a dive for the trash can and unceremoniously throws up into it. The splattering sound is slight, but it’s definitely audible.

I curse, yanking Sam off the couch and making a beeline for the bathroom. She stumbles after me, and we just barely make it to the toilet before she too is throwing up. I hastily gather her hair as she heaves, expelling the lunch we just ate.

It’s…not great.

I hear Maya’s faint apology from the other room, but I’m too busy helping Sam to respond—and anyway, Maya doesn’t need to apologize for throwing up. So I just sit with Sam until she’s done, then grab her a cup to rinse her mouth out with. Her brown eyes meet mine over the rim of her glass as she drinks, and my heart warms at the gratitude I see there. I just nod, accepting her silent thanks, and we return to the living room, dragging the kitchen trash can along with us.

“Still doing that, huh?” Maya says, wincing at Sam.

Sam just nods once before sitting back on the loveseat.

“I usually feel better after,” Maya offers. “So I should be good for a while.”

Sam simply nods again.

I, on the other hand, am eager to stop talking about vomiting, so I jump on thatstat. Heck, I’ll happily talk about this baby or wedding or whatever.

“Right. So. You’re pregnant,” I say.

“Yes. And I’m getting married, because like I said, Chet and I are in love.” She sets her jaw stubbornly. “Plus I want my baby to have two parents.”

I take a deep breath and relish the absence of vomit-related talk. Seconds later, though, I’m hit once again with the seriousness of this conversation.

“And that’s a nice sentiment,” I allow, keeping my voice even and calm. What am I supposed to be saying right now? How do I have this talk?

I glance over at Sam for help, but she just widens her eyes and jerks her head subtly in Maya’s direction. So that’s no help at all. I take a deep breath and prepare myself.

I’m just going to have to wing it.

“And—and I understand why you feel that way,” I go on. “You grew up mostly with just your dad.” That’s good, right? Showing her I understand? Sam always nags me to try to see things from different points of view. So check that box off, move on to the next. “But are you sure this is the guy you want to spend your life with? Getting knocked up isn’t necessarily a good reason to get married. You haven’t made this dude sound great.”

Sam sighs next to me. “You were doing so well,” she murmurs sadly.

I wince, and the wince only intensifies when I see Maya’s glare.

“This dudeis my fiancé. We’re getting married. Short of aseriousmessage from the universe telling me otherwise, this is happening,” she says. She glances, I notice, at a large wall poster that has a quote about paying attention to the voice of the universe—Maya is a big believer in signs and omens and whatnot—and I file that idea away for later.

“End of story,” she goes on. “I invited you here to ask for help, because I’m really too sick to get out of the house. Should I assume your answer is no?”

Next to me, Sam clears her throat and begins to stand up. “This is feeling like a verypersonal conversation,” she says slowly. “So I’m just gonna—”

“Nope,” I say, grabbing the back of her jersey and giving a firm tug. She plops ungracefully back to her position next to me. She gives me herI’m going to murder youglare, which I return with myNo way are you abandoning melook. Especially since Maya truly doesn’t seem to mind Sam’s presence. Everyone and their dog knows that I’m not the most tactful person in the world, so I could really use the help. Conversations like this are at the top of the list of things I never wanted to discuss.

Sam sighs—inaudibly, but I feel it in the slouch of her body next to mine—before saying, “Okay, tell us more about your fiancé. I don’t know much about him.”

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