Page 17 of How to Ruin Your Ex's Wedding
It’s not fair that he still has an impact on me. We haven’t been together in forever. I’ve moved on. I’m engaged to the man across the table, we are drinking champagne, and he and I are happy. Beyond happy, even. I grab my glass and drink half of the champagne down in one gulp.
Hunter’s eyes widen as he looks at me. “Thirsty?” He chuckles.
“It’s just so good,” I enthuse. “Have we had this one before?”
He refills my glass. “We’ve had it a couple times, and we have a case or so at home. If you like it, maybe this should be the one we consider for the wedding. What do you think?”
I take another large gulp, then burp lightly into my napkin. “I love that idea.”
“Remember not to drink too much, my queen. We aren’t day drinkers.”
I nod in response.
Hunter continues talking about his next project and the team he plans to assemble to assist him. I look just beyond his head to the mirror behind him and watch Igor BigJerksy and his pal Pax spread their testosterone around the room like fairy dust, collecting admiring glances from men and women alike.
Luckily, Hunter hasn’t seen them yet. He knows a little bit about my history with Pax, but not all of it. And I’m not even sure if he would recognize Pax if he saw him. It’s just that he’s a huge fan of Gregor’s. Really all Seattle Seabirds, past and present. He has season tickets, hats, jerseys, scarfs, beanies, blankets, seat cushions, flags, fingers, a cooler, and lawn chairs. Theman cavein our house has one wall painted in the appropriate green and blue. The only thing he won’t do is put a bumper sticker on his precious Tesla. But he does have one lying just inside the back window so it’s still visible without being permanent.
He would want an autograph. And probably a selfie. Which he would then print and have framed to put on the wall of said man cave. Lucky for me, he has friends who go to the Seabirds games with him. It’s an all-day event. They tailgate in a nearby lot—Seabirds Field does not allow it on premises—starting at nine o’clock in the morning, and not ending until an hour or so after the game is through.
I love Sundays for that reason. And sometimes Mondays and Thursdays. Don’t get me wrong, I adore spending time with Hunter, but I value my time alone even more.
I notice when a woman approaches Gregor and Pax’s table and asks for an autograph.
On her breasts.
Figures.
Gregor is happy to oblige. The woman pulls her top down low. Gregor produces a Sharpie I’m sure he keeps in his pocket for this very reason, and signs away. Pax looks politely to the side while the woman exposes herself, laugh-coughing into his fist. And meets my eyes in the mirror.
His face registers surprise for just a moment before he raises one eyebrow in the way that only he can and bobs his chin in greeting. I look away at once and close my eyes.
Stupid. Stupid. Stupid, Tabatha.
I interrupt Hunter mid-sentence. “I’m sorry, darling. Will you excuse me a moment? I’m not feeling well.” I stand and place my napkin on the table beside my plate. Hunter half stands and holds a hand out to me.
“Shall I go with you? Do you want to leave?”
I shake my head. “No need to go with me. But I may want to leave if you don’t mind.”
“Of course, my queen. I will have the food boxed—”
“Not mine, thank you.”
“Okay, I’ll send for the car and see to the bill.”
I smile gratefully as I back away, not looking into the mirror again. Pax’s back is to me, but he can still see me in the mirror. And Gregor will be able to see me walking to the restroom if Pax mentions it.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
I make it to the restroom and lock myself inside a stall. My breath erratic and face warm. I don’t want to run into him. Either of the hims. I lower myself to the commode and press my face against the cool stone of the stall wall. Bile rises in my throat. I work on forcing it back down, using mild meditation techniques to get everything in my body to still and calm.
I’ve worked hard to portray a cool and calm woman who does not easily excite, nor fluster. It is in direct contrast to the hothead with a short temper and a diva complex of my youth. I want to keep it that way. With Hunter, I maintain composure at all times. With Pax, I never did.
I leave the stall and run my hands under cool water, then press a damp towelette gently to my face, careful not to smudge my makeup or touch my new eyelashes.
Deep breath.
And a pep talk. “All you have to do now is walk to the front entrance and wait for Hunter. He’ll have taken care of the bill, generously donated the remainder of the champagne to the servers, and summoned the car from the valet.”
