He’ll be here for an entire week. A weekend is blissful, but a week?
Oh my God.
He’s going to be here when I poop.
That’s not the sort of thing that happens in the first month of a relationship, right? Is it? It’s not, right?
Oh my God, am I going to have to try not to poop for an entire week?
Is he going to dump me over a—a literal dump?
Don’t be silly, Isla, he is fully aware you’re a human being. He’s not going to freak out because you need to use the bathroom.
He’s definitely going to see me without makeup at some point this week. Or with my hair a mess. There’s no way I can keep up my appearance constantly for the next seven days. Two or three over a weekend, sure, but a whole week? Not a chance. And what if he finds the music box or the avocado cushion, or the other little trinkets I’ve been stashing away? (Oh, I’m so happy Mr. Harris didn’t lecture him long enough for me to actually get around to taking them out of their hiding places.) Not to mention I don’t think I have enough lingerie to last me an entire week. What’s he going to think when he sees me in plain old granny pants that don’t match my faithfully comfy used-to-be-white-once-upon-a-time bra, without a bow or frill or bit of lace in sight?
Suddenly, I regret every moment of our relationship so far: I’ve put in all this effort, and now I’ve set his expectations way too high.
“A whole week,” Danny confirms, grinning all over again, like this is the best news ever. He seems so upbeat, so enthusiastic, so damn happy to be stuck with me, that it makes me forget about the germs and how horrifyingly weird this entire situation is. And really, it’s . . .
It’s actually pretty great news, isn’t it? A whole week, just me and Danny. Isn’t this the sort of thing I wanted, for him not to have to leave?
If this weekend was anything to go by, the next few days will be nothing short of idyllic.
And he can cook for me! All week! How great will that be!
Plus, come on, he probably won’t even notice if I wear an old, ordinary bra. Right?
This will be really good for us, come to think of it. This might really help cement what we have as something real, and serious, and if we do have to spend some time apart, we’ll be all the stronger for this one week together. I shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth.
This isn’t a problem, it’s a blessing.
Right?
Danny seems to be on the same page, because he spreads his arms wide, and then lifts me up, spinning me around once before setting me back on my feet and planting a noisy, smacking kiss on my lips.
“I’m all yours, baby.”
apartment #22 – olivia
Chapter Five
Host a DIY wedding weekend for all the bridesmaids, Liv! It’ll be so fun, we’ll have a great time. You could host it at your place, Liv! Save us money, rather than renting some cottage somewhere. We can spend that cash on some bubbly and Indian takeout instead, haha!
I like to think I’m the perfect candidate for maid of honor. I’m organized, I’m prepared, I’m good at putting other people first and making sure they’re having fun, and most importantly, I know how to have a good time.
And, quite frankly, I have been an incredible maid of honor. Kim is lucky to have me.
But damn if I’m not relieved this weekend is over.
We’d had this weekend planned for ages. It’s only six months until the wedding, and four until the bachelorette party; although, right now, it’s looking like that weekend up in York going from club to club in neon-pink feather boas and draping Kim in a cheap veil and Bride to Be! sash isn’t going to happen if all this virus nonsense carries on. Or if the wedding will even go ahead, for that matter.
But that’s a problem for another time, I tell myself.
Kim always swore she wouldn’t be a bridezilla, but those of us who know her all laughed and reassured her that we were fully prepared for her to lose her mind to wedding prep. She’s the kind of person who was born to get married. She’s so dreamy eyed, such a romantic. Nothing like me, let’s face it. She and Jeremy have even already started working out when they want to start trying for babies, and how they’ll manage it when babies do come along.
(Plus, you know, they’re thinking about trying for babies.
Intentionally coming off birth control, not just forgetting to take it. I break out in a cold sweat just thinking about that kind of commitment.)
My best friend is sweet and thoughtful and always there as a shoulder to lean on, but she also likes everything to be done just so.
Kim didn’t spend three weeks planning a six-person dinner party to celebrate my twenty-first birthday on a whim, after all. (Seriously.
There were balloon arrangements and a dress code and everything.
And that was her idea of “something small and intimate.”) So, yeah, Kim was definitely going to be a bridezilla.
It was never a matter of if, but of when.
She’s had her moments, throughout the last year, since Jeremy proposed. There was the meltdown when her mum and grandma got stuck in traffic and missed the wedding fair, and another when she decided she’d found The Dress but it was double the cost of the wedding dress budget even before she considered shoes, a veil, or alterations, so she and Jeremy had a big row about whether it was worth it or if they should cut costs elsewhere and did she really expect them not to pay for the absurdly expensive hotel room for his grandparents the weekend of the wedding? Oh, and there was the time she actually screamed at the hairdresser who did a trial run, because it didn’t look the way the picture on Pinterest did (although, to be fair, the highlights were a little on the orange side, rather than the warm honey tones she’d been looking for).
I held her hand and consoled her through all of it, and reassured her that she wasn’t overreacting while apologizing to people behind her back on her behalf.
It was all my job, my duty, as maid of honor. And besides, she’s probably been doing the same for me for years, whenever people think I’m being rude and don’t like them, when really, I’m just that blunt and have the same resting bitch face with everyone.
Admittedly, I’ve quite enjoyed it all. The maid of honor stuff, that is, not the incurable resting bitch face. Kim and I had always joked about me being her maid of honor since we were little kids, and I love having a project to sink my teeth into. And Kim’s wedding has been a pretty fucking big project.
I dared not complain whenever things got . . . intense.
I did, however, dare to float the idea a few days ago that we should, maybe, perhaps, sort of, somehow, cancel this weekend.
After all, there’s a pandemic going on. You shouldn’t be traveling, they’re saying on the news, unless you have to. You should stay at home.
A stickler for rules, I dared to say as much to Kim. “Maybe you should all stay at home.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Kim blustered over the phone, puffing and panting because she was out power walking at the time. (Part of a strict prewedding exercise regime, to counter all the cake testing.) “We’ve had this planned for ages. How else am I going to get all the wedding favors and the centerpieces done? Don’t you remember we had to cut the entire budget almost to nothing after I agreed to let Jeremy plan that ludicrous weekend in Budapest for his bachelor party?”