How to Ruin a Wedding(26)
I pinch her cheek. “First you didn’t want me to stay with him, but now you want me to sleep with him.”
“You think I didn’t see his photo?” She whistles. “I’m anxious, but I’m only a woman. No better than a man, really.”
I laugh, then shove her to the side. “Just help me close this suitcase.”
During my two-hour flight, Anders and I exchanged over a hundred messages. If I’m going to show up as the girlfriend he’s allegedly been dating for four months, we need to be completely on the same page—timeline, backstory, favorite sandwich.
I’ve started jotting down Anders-related facts in the journal Taina gave me to help keep track of the weddings I’ve crashed. It’s now doing double duty as a relationship study guide. I figure I should know at least the basics in case someone brings it up or I need to casually drop a detail without inventing a whole new life for him.
And yes, if we’ve been together that long, you’d think I would’ve been at the wedding two weeks ago. Reasonable assumption. Anders has fielded these suspicions by telling his family that he “wasn’t ready for everyone to meet me yet” and wanted to be sure things were serious. Which is very noble and romantic—now that I’ve been called in to fake it.
Favorite color: Green
Favorite movie: Anything with Will Smith
Favorite team: Eagles
Broke his arm trying to climb a tree to save a bird nest from falling when he was 11
A night person
Likes “anything but country” music
Has traveled to seven countries
No allergies
Wanted to be an astronaut growing up, realized he needed to be good at math, immediately moved on
30 years old
No mention of parents, only Aunt Bethany
Has a best friend since childhood, Lucas, who was the one who told him to climb the tree to save the nest
When I land, exhaustion adds weight to my bones, and I drag myself from the plane out the winding path of bars and restaurants to baggage claim. It’s a little after 3:00 p.m., but I barely slept the night before, after spending most of the evening reconvincing Taina not to come with me.
The more anxious she got, the more worried I got, and our late night has added five-pound dumbbells to my eyelids as I try to stay awake while I wait for the conveyor belt to bring my borrowed luggage.
I blink, and I’m not sure how many minutes have passed. One moment, there was silence as I and the other passengers stood around, and the next, the belt was moving and packed with suitcases.
It’s easy to spot the lime-green case hidden under an oversized black one. I drop my matching carry-on on the tiled floor and move toward it.
Nobody comes to retrieve the stray bag, so I try to shove it off, but it’s too heavy. I suck my teeth and shove my palms on the rough canvas, and it budges, but not enough. I keep trying, but the belt moves it whenever I almost get it off, and I lose momentum.
Frustration sprints through my blood, and I brace my foot against it, finally managing to knock it over. I reach for the handle of my own bag and get it halfway off when someone pushes it back onto the belt.
A man dressed in a full camo tracksuit shoves himself directly in front of me. “The hell you get off kicking my luggage?”
I let out a sigh as another body shoves itself between us. So close, I jerk back and get a full view of Anders, in pale-washed jeans and a white shirt rolled at the sleeves, leaning over and gripping my luggage handle with one hand and the black luggage with his other.
The veins in his arms and the muscles in his biceps constrict as he lifts them both off the belt and puts them on their wheels.
Anders turns and faces me. “Any other luggage?”
His unexpected appearance steals my ability to speak, so I shake my head. Camo points his finger over Anders’s shoulder at me. “Hey, are you listening to me?”
Anders half turns, a polite smile on his face. “Your suitcase is right there.”
“Yeah, I can see; I’m not blind. I’m asking why the hell she kicked it.”
With the way his reddened eyes are bulging out of his head, you’d think I kicked him instead. I might. If his voice gets any louder. I wouldn’t beat him in a fight; he’s even taller than Anders, but I would do some damage and run to safety after.
“It was in the way,” Anders goes on, less polite though a smile still pulls at his lips as he turns around to face the man. “And now you are too. We’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t mind ending the scene you’re trying to make.”
We. The word shouldn’t stir the teenager-worthy crush my weak heart decided to develop over Anders. Next thing you know, I’ll be lying in bed, kicking my feet up, writing our names together in tiny bubble hearts.
“Listen, asshole—”
Anders places his hand on the man’s shoulder and says something I can’t hear from where I stand. Whatever it is makes the man frown, half puzzled, half shocked, but completely silenced.
Anders turns back to me with a warm smile as he reaches for my suitcase again. “Let’s go,” he says, walking toward the carry-on I dropped and slinging it on his shoulder. My bones forget how to function for a few moments before I hurry after him.