Very poetic.
And here he thought his mother was the literary lover. She was a librarian after all.
He was still bent at the waist, heaving, tears streaming down his face at the force of just heaving up a little whiskey and a hell of a lot of spittle when a light hand hit the small of his back.
Rhett felt the heat of it even through his tux jacket and the too stiff dress shirt. Fuck. The thing cost two grand. What the fuck was he supposed to do with it? Burn it? He’d actually pay another two for the pleasure. His mind swiveled from thoughts of vows and a honeymoon to Jamaica and traveled in the direction of gas cans and bonfires. He wondered where the nearest station was.
“Hey… uh- are you okay?”
Rhett let out a sharp exhale. Female. The hand was female. The voice was high and feminine, beautiful and light. Not Sarah’s duskier, sex laden voice. Was it fake? Her voice? Had all of it been fake?
He straightened and whirled around to find a dark-haired woman standing behind him. She backed up, dark eyes wide, but dug in her clutch and handed him a tissue. He took it, hand shaking. Damn it to hell. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d actually cried, but he felt a little like breaking down at the small act of kindness. Pathetic. Maybe the small dick comment was metaphorical. She’d actually said that. Right to her bridesmaids.
“I- I take it by the puke show it’s not just nerves. I saw you in the hall ahead of me. I know you overheard what my sister was saying.”
“Sister?” he choked.
Right. Sarah had two sisters. A blonde one, Stephanie, who was just as perfect and manicured as Sarah. She was married to a lawyer. She and Sarah were close. It figured since they liked living the same kind of trophy style life.
Rhett pushed the uncharitable thoughts aside. He’d never viewed Sarah like that before. Or Steph. It was easier to be a prick when he just found out, thankfully before he’d married her, that his fiancée was pooching a man named fucking Bob and thought that he, Rhett, her damn fiancé, the man she actually lived with and was supposed to swear fidelity to in her wedding vows, had a small penis.
Sarah also had another sister. The black sheep sister.
Bella.
The one her parents didn’t like to talk about. The one who embarrassed the family because she liked to wear black lipstick and had too many tattoos.
Sarah’s words. Sarah’s mother’s words. On occasion, Steph’s words. Not his.
“Yeah. I was walking down to get her, seeing as I’m too much of a disgrace to actually be in the bridal party- and- uh- well I saw you walking ahead of me. I kind of hung back because I thought you were coming to say something sappy or whatever through the door like some grooms do, so you wouldn’t spoil the surprise of seeing Sarah in her wedding dress and I heard what she said. I know you heard it too. I saw you stop, like someone just shit kicked you right in the nuts.”
“Shit kicked,” he mumbled. “That’s about right.”
The music overhead picked up in intensity, and he knew he was probably missing his cue. Everyone was likely getting restless, wondering where the hell he was. His mother was likely having a heart attack up there. Or maybe she was relieved, thinking he’d ditched on his own wedding. She never liked Sarah and now he knew why.
His mother called her pretentious and fake. He thought she was being old fashioned. She said any woman who wanted a pair of fake tits wouldn’t make a good wife. He thought that was extremely old thinking and even sexist. Fake tits didn’t determine a person’s character. There were many women with fake breasts who were smart, funny, kind people.
Sarah apparently just wasn’t one of them.
And she didn’t even have the D’s she wanted, because he’d refused.
Maybe he was old fashioned too, but he liked Sarah the way she was.
He’d put her off whenever she asked. She was fucking thirty-one for god sakes. The amount of plastic surgery she’d asked about was astounding. Maybe it should have been a red flag. The lips, the imaginary wrinkles, the tummy tuck when she was a damn size two… he’d talked her out of all of it, but god…
Bella stood there awkwardly. She clasped her lithe hands in front of her. Her arms were both tattooed, dark ink snaking down her pale skin. Her hands were tattooed. Her fingers were even tattooed with letters he couldn’t read but could just glimpse. Her nails were painted black. However, she seemed to have foregone the garish black lipstick. Her face was actually devoid of any makeup at all. Her features were beautiful, real and natural.