Page 153 of Mexico Can Choke On It
I catch Fiona glitch for the barest second. Blink and you’d miss it. But I don’t miss much.
“Oh yes, probably!” she says with a beauty pageant smile.
Probably?The word triggers my internal alarm system, but I shut it down fast. New Petra no longer assumes the worst.
Nigel, unfazed by interruptions, continues, “Mr. Brinkman, Mr. Sterling, please demonstrate your entrance sequence from the eastern pavilion. That will signal the beginning of the ceremony.”
I watch Bryce approach the altar behind my brother, both of them decked out in three-piece suits. Gavin looks sharp and self-assured in his charcoal gray, but Bryce outshines him in every way. Especially that navy suit, which brings his blue eyes to life.
Drown me in that ocean, please.
His jaw flexes, smiling slightly as he looks my way—like he’s remembering everything we did last night in vivid, skin-on-skin detail.
Yeah. Me too, Blue Eyes.
Off to the side, a woman starts playing a grand piano, the familiar notes of Pachelbel’s “Canon in D” filling the air. Then a man joins in with his cello, weaving a melody that’s as serene as it is magical.
“Bridesmaids,” Nigel calls out, “please begin your procession.”
I smooth my hand over the lavender silk of my Prada sundress and follow Hana down the aisle, locked into the same slow-motion bridal zombie walk she’s performing.
Step. Pause. Smile. Repeat.
I glance up, and he’s looking at me. Not at the décor. Not at Gavin. Atme.
And for one dizzy second, my breath catches. What if this was our wedding? What if he was waiting for me?
I’d be sobbing through winged eyeliner, overwhelmed with happiness. We’d present our own vows—real ones. I’d tell him he makes me feel like I’m worth choosing, and then he’d say he only sees the best parts of me, the ones that everybody else misses.
We’d kiss—a naughty, hungry lip-lock so hot and heavy the guests would blush and look away. Then we’d race to our luxury hotel suite and spend our entire honeymoon dining on room service and each other.
Quit torturing yourself, Petra. This will all be over soon.
I wish I could stop myself from hoping this was more than just a secret fling.But after last night, how can I not imagine being his for real?
Four thousand baby steps later, Hana and I position ourselves across the altar from Bryce and my brother.
Fiona appears at the top of the aisle on Echo’s arm, and the staff-turned-pretend-guests rise as Nigel says, “Now we shall witness the bride’s grand entrance.”
Today’s Echo ensemble is surprisingly toned down. Sure, the guy’s wearing purple leather pants vacuum-sealed to his legs and he has enough jewelry to open a pawn shop, but there’s no body glitter and his nipples are covered, so that’s practically black-tie for him.
Fiona clutches his arm as if he’s a status symbol. Her white rehearsal dress sparkles, and her makeup is impeccable. She’s stunning.
Witnessing her glow with happiness at Gavin waiting at the altar, I feel this strange twist in my stomach.
No warning bells. No fury.
Today, I am not the suspicious sister.
I’m a girl in love.
Fiona takes her place beside my brother, and it’s like they stepped right out of the pages of a wedding magazine—elegant and beaming.
The song ends, and Nigel strides to center stage, facing the audience. “And now,” he says, “the officiant would begin by saying, ‘We are gathered here today for a sacred celebration of unity—the joining of Gavin Brinkman and Fiona Whitfield in marriage.’”
I peer at Bryce, and he’s locked on to me. His stare doesn’t waver.
What if I could belong in his world?
