Page 22 of Faking the Pass
Presley’s brow creased again. “What happened? Was it the world’s shortest marriage? Like one of those horror stories you read on Reddit where it ends basically during the reception?”
Ugh. I’d been hoping by some miracle the world’s hottest ex-boyfriend would never know about my life’s most humiliating moment. No such luck.
“Did he smash the cake in your face or fuck a bridesmaid or something?” Presley asked.
I couldn’t help but laugh, which was remarkable considering the day I’d had. Maybe it was one of thoseif you don’t laugh you’ll crysituations.
“She wasn’t actually a bridesmaid,” I said. “And I didn’t actually get married.”
“Did he ditch you at the altar?” Presley’s voice had lost all humor and now sounded angry.
Not sure whathehad to be angry about, but I certainly was.
Though I’d really have preferred not to talk about it, I felt like I owed him something in exchange for the t-shirt and the wine bottle I’d drained—not to mention a whole box of delicious cupcakes and several hours of slumber in the most comfortable bed I’d ever slept in.
“Actually I ditchedhim—after meeting his girlfriend… who appeared to be days away from giving birth to their child.”
Presley’s eyes widened. “You didn’t know about her?”
“Of course not,” I said. “You really think I’d choose to marry a man with a pregnant girlfriend? I didn’t have a clue. Which makes me literally clueless, I guess.”
My face dropped into my hands. “I feel like an idiot. In fact, I’m pretty sure Iamone.”
Yep. The flaky theater freak label was feeling awfully accurate right about now.
The act of covering my eyes seemed to throw me off balance again. Swaying then stumbling to the side, I caught myself on the bed. This was just getting worse and worse.
“And I’m drunk,” I confessed. “I’m a drunk, idiotic, jilted bride… whose career is over.”
I let out a desperate sounding laugh. “I’m also rude. I didn’t even ask about your arm. Are you in a lot of pain still?”
His right arm—his throwing arm—was in a sling, and I vaguely remembered Wilder mentioning it had been injured in last week’s Nauticals game.
“I’m fine.”
Presley waved off the question with his good hand, as if his injury was of no consequence.
“You’re not idiotic. And your career is not over,” he said a bit harshly. “If anyone should be embarrassed here, it’s Randy. Once people find out what he’s done,hiscareer will probably be over.”
“Ifthey find out—which is doubtful,” I said.
A claustrophobic feeling began climbing up my throat, just thinking about it. Randy was the one with all the power here.
He was in control of the narrative.
“I’m sure he’s not telling anyone what really happened,” I said. “They’d probably forgive him anyway, even if he did. He’s Hollywood’s golden boy. He’s an Oscar winner and a major box office draw. I’m no one.”
Presley just stood there, glowering at me. The hand I could see clenched into a fist like he wanted to hit something.
Probably me, though he’d never been rough with me or any other girl that I knew of.
Poor guy was recovering from surgery and just wanted to go to bed, and he’d stumbled into the messy nuclear meltdown of my personal and professional life.
I was nearly as mortified as I’d been on that day back in high school when I’d walked around the corner locker just as he’d been ridiculing me to his buddies while they all laughed.
Nearlyas mortified.
That incident took the cake and the whole bakery along with it.
