Page 15 of How to Ruin Your Ex's Wedding
The server brings us water and Hunter orders a bottle of champagne to accompany our lunch.
“Are we celebrating?” I ask, smiling.
“Every day with you is a celebration, my queen.”
My smile starts to falter, but I work to keep it bright on my face. I’ve got to tell him my feelings on the “my queen”nickname.
“I thought we would celebrate choosing a wedding coordinator and a date for the wedding,” he says.
Both of which he selected.
“That sounds lovely,” I tell him. His chest puffs out at the praise. I already know I won’t have more than a glass, if that. First, alcohol is extra unnecessary calories that go straight to my mid-section. Second, I don’t like losing control or my inhibitions. Ever.
“A toast,” Hunter says, after we’ve each been poured a glass of the Billecart-Salmon. “To us, and a seamless wedding planning process.”
I raise my glass and say, “Cheers.” The bubbles tickle my nose slightly as I sip, but it tastes amazing. If I was going to drink a lot, I’d choose this as my beverage of choice for sure.
Our salads arrive—mine with way too much dressing. I try to eat around it, but it’s across everything. I’m tempted to wipe the leaves of lettuce off with a napkin. I should have asked for dressing on the side.
“You should wear your hair like that more often.” Hunter chomps away at his salad, oblivious to the amount of dressing that is drowning it. “It’s very regal.”
I put a hand to my hair. It’s in a quick chignon today, which, when I do it right, hides that I have any curls in my hair at all. Hunter is not a huge fan of my curls, says they are too unruly.
“Thank you.”
“Did I tell you that CompyCat wants to interview me about my next project?” he asks, excited. CompyCat is a very well-known tech blog.
“No, that’s great news.”
“I’m going to tell them about . . .”
I tune him out, while maintaining eye contact, a skill I learned at a very young age. It’s self-preservation. Do you have any idea how many people think they can spout their inane ideas for this, that, and the other when you are a celebrity? It’s worse when you’re a kid because they just assume you don’t have anything better to do than listen to them.
It’s not that I’m not interested in Hunter’s work, I am. But I don’t need to hear about the behind the scenes stuff that goes into it. When it’s all finished and pretty, go ahead and tell me what it does. If I like it, I’ll use it.
Movement in the mirror behind Hunter’s head catches my eye and I glance up.
Gregor Stravinsky.
Pax’s best friend.
Otherwise known to me as Igor BigJerksy.
Ugh.
My heart skips a beat in fear that Pax may be with him. But I don’t see him anywhere. I see Gregor out and about every so often. It’s hard to miss him. He’s a giant. A loud, rude, boorish giant. I avoid his pubs intentionally, or places I think he might frequent. To say that we don’t like one another is an understatement. It goes back to my high school days, when I first started seeing Pax, and therefore met Gregor.
Mostly because I took Pax’s attention away from Igor BigJerksy and he didn’t like that. Gregor was focused on three things during high school and at the University of Washington: football, his friends, and his studies. That’s it. He didn’t date much, so when ItookPax from him—his word, not mine—he lost one third of his interests. Which was too much for the big lug to handle.
File that under “not my problem.”
Except, he made it my problem. And Pax’s problem. And anyone else within a twenty-mile radius who cared to listen.
I responded in kind.
We became steadfast enemies.
Nothing has changed in the last ten years.
