Page 87 of Beautifully Messy
“Sydney, will you listen to me? Do you know he hasn’t participated in a single decision for this wedding? He nods, goes along with whatever Ivy wants. He’s so clearly heartbroken. A shell of himself. Ivy knows something is wrong. But she’s steamrolling toward the altar and won’t listen to reason. I don’t know what’s going on with her, but it’s like she’s decided being Mrs. James Navarro is the only thing that matters.”
“Jules, just support her. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be there, with a smile on my face.”
She exhaled so hard I could practically hear her pacing on the other end of the line.
“This isn’t even about you and James. Or you and Mason. It’s about you. Why are you doing this to yourself? Staying with Mason like some penance for a crime you didn’t commit?”
I said nothing. Sealed my lips tight so no sound escaped.
Her voice softened, while her words hit, sharp and unrelenting.
“I’ve thought about why he’s going through with the wedding. Why he’s not backing out. And I think I finally get it. It’s how he keeps a connection with you.”
My lungs stopped working. A sharp gasp broke through.
“If he ends it with Ivy, there’s no reason to see you. You’ll vanish into your world, he’ll disappear into his, and you’ll both spend the rest of your lives pretending you aren’t miserable.”
“Fuck off, Jules. I don’t need this from you.”
“No, Syd. You do need to hear this. Because it’s not too late. You have to stop letting fear run your life, stop letting your past trap you. Choose yourself.”
I closed my eyes, feeling the sting behind them, willing the walls to slam back into place.
“I’ve got to go.” And I hung up.
We haven’t spoken since. I’m utterly alone walking into tonight. I close my eyes, roll my shoulders back, and lift my chin. Take the final step. Grab a glass of some sickly-sweet, pink concoction to hide the tremor in my hands.
The basement is a pink paradise—soft, romantic, and unmistakably Ivy. Bouquets of peonies spill from every corner, their delicate fragrance blending with the warm vanilla of flickering candles.
Everything is beautiful.
Everything is perfect.
Everything feels suffocating.
I tug at the hem of my deep burgundy dress, its thick wool hugging my body in a way that feels both comforting and armored. Paired with nude tights andsky-high stilettos, it’s a deliberate contrast to the lacy pastels and glittering fabrics worn by the other women.
A quiet rebellion against the pretense of my attending.
I needed something that made me seem put-together. To not let Ivy see the wreckage beneath.
Jules stands at the center of the room, backlit like the ringleader of some elegant circus. When our eyes meet, a wicked grin plays at her lips as she brandishes a handwritten list. “Alright, ladies. Time for a game I call: Ivy’s Wedding Hangover! I asked James all these questions earlier, so no fibbing, Ivy.”
The room erupts, and Ivy, already flushed from cosmos and attention, claps excitedly. She glows, eyes glittering at every mention of James. She touches her engagement ring absentmindedly, in awe that this is her life.
It starts light, harmless.
“How did they meet?”In the elevator at their office building.
“How does he take his coffee?”Black.
“What’s his favorite color?”Green.
Ivy nails every answer, giggling like a schoolgirl. Until the questions shift.
The surface-level trivia fades, and the questions begin probing deeper. His hopes and dreams, the moments from the past that have shaped him, things that make him…him.
Ivy’s smile falters. Her eyes shift with uncertainty. She laughs it off and takes a sip of her drink.
