Page 88 of Beautifully Messy
But I see it. The moment she realizes she doesn’t know the answers.
She’s marrying him, and yet, she doesn’t know.
But I do.
A reluctant smile tugs at my lips because these aren’t hard questions, not for me.
“What musician is James most looking forward to seeing in the amphitheater he designed?”
Ivy straightens, confidence snapping back into place. “U2!”
“Taylor Swift.” I scoff, letting the answer slip out in a whisper, barely audible.
“Drink up, Ives.” Jules clinks her glass against Ivy’s. “It’s Taylor Swift.”
Ivy’s cheeks flush, but she waves it off.
“Where does James want to travel most in the world?” Jules keeps asking, keeps pushing.
“Africa?” Ivy ventures.
“Not good enough. It’s a big continent. Be specific.”
I breathe out, soft as a snowflake landing. “Climb Kilimanjaro.”
Jules watches me, a hint of trouble glinting behind her lashes as she delivers the correct answer. The one I didn’t have to hesitate to find.
It’s like she’s forcing me to see this. Hear it. She planned this whole game for this moment. For me. For Ivy. A cruel airing—for Ivy to see how wrong they are for each other, and for me to finally admit everything I’ve denied this past year.
“Dear, don’t you think this is enough?” Margaret’s voice breaks the tension. Jules stares at her sister, as if willing her to concede and bow out.
Ivy fluffs her hair, smiles wider. “It’s all good, Mom. Just a harmless game.”
The look on Margaret’s face suggests otherwise.
Jules doesn’t wait—she fires off the next question, her voice all innocence and sugar. “What’s James’s favorite book?”
“Oh, that’s easy!The Alchemist.” Ivy lights up in triumph.
I groan but keep myself under control. “Dune” is the correct answer. Jules smirks like she’s developed a sixth sense for things I mumble under my breath. She gives Ivy the correct response and turns her smile directly to me as if she’s daring me to break.
“What is James’s favorite comfort meal? The one his mom made for him growing up?”
Ivy shifts uncomfortably as all eyes in the room land on her. “Lasagna?”
Something inside me snaps.
“Drink up, Ivy.” My voice is loud and clear. “It’s her Chicken Parmesan.”
The room stills.
A long pause follows.
The kind that comes after a bomb goes off.
The friends who know me as Ivy’s sister-in-law look puzzled. The extended family eyes me wearily. Margaret wraps her arms around herself and looks off intothe night sky. Jules watches with quiet satisfaction. Ivy’s eyes, usually clear and kind, hold the fury of a nor’easter.
“Sorry, it’s nothing,” I laugh half-heartedly and will my face not to flush. The lie comes out easily: “Just a little trivia Vera mentioned when we were working. NowIdrink for interrupting the game!”
