I sit back on my heels and let out a deep sigh.
I left the shoe on the stairs of the church.
Yup, I pulled a flighty Cinderella moment while barreling down the steps.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, startling me to my feet. I pull it out and see my brother’s name scroll across the screen.
With a groan, I lie down on the bed, put the phone on speaker, and then rest the phone on my chest.
“I’m on the verge of death,” I answer.
“You sound like it.” Roarick’s baritone voice fills the quiet space. “Tried to forget last night, I’m assuming.”
“Yeah, something like that.” I think back to the moment I dashed out of the wedding. The whispers. The stares. The light gasps as the church doors slammed behind me. “Dude, last night—”
“I can’t believe you walked out on the wedding.”
I pause and slowly sit up, picking up the phone and bringing it to my ear.
“How do you know that? Did I text you?”
“No,” Roarick answers cautiously. “Dude, it’s trending everywhere. You’re the runaway groomsman. Someone took a video of you flipping off Annalisa and Simon and turned it into a GIF. The lack of care in your expression really screams, ‘I don’t give a fuck.’”
I press my fingers into my brows. “Shit. Is it bad?”
“I mean . . . depends on what bad is to you.”
“Roarick . . .”
“Well, let’s see, you’re all over the news. The shot outside the church was my favorite. Missing shoe, stumbling down the stairs in a light-blue tux. With your blond hair, you truly looked like a modern-day Cinderella.”
“Not fucking funny.”
But he doesn’t care. He still chuckles. “Annalisa claims you ruined her wedding. Simon swears there were no ill feelings between you two and states he even asked your permission to date her—”
“Bullshit.”
“Yes, I’m aware, just telling you what they’re saying. The press is eating it up as the biggest thing to rock Hollywood since talking pictures, and then, of course, the clever trolls on the internet have replaced Julia Roberts’s head with yours on the movie poster for Runaway Bride and changed the title to Runaway Groomsman. It’s pretty convincing. I might have snorted when I saw it.”
Remember when I was talking about rock bottom? I thought I’d hit it.
Nope, this is it.
“Fuck,” I say, flopping back on the bed again as a wave of nausea overtakes me. “This is not good.”
“It doesn’t seem like it is. It actually seems quite bad.”
“You’re not helping,” I groan.
“I didn’t call to help; I called to be the lucky person to check up on you, and hopefully deliver the radiant news about your public oopsie.”
“Can you not call it that?”
It’s bad enough I was slighted by my best friend and ex-girlfriend—and am negatively trending as a result. I don’t need my brother calling it a “public oopsie.”
He chuckles. “Seriously, though, are you okay, man?”
“No.” I breathe out while I smooth my hand over my forehead, willing the pounding of my headache to let up for at least a second. “Having a public meltdown wasn’t necessarily something I wanted to engage in. But, hell, I lost it yesterday. I bottled up the deceit, the pressure from the studio, put on a smile, and I thought I could get through the obnoxious fanfare until they started their vows. It was such a load of crap that . . . hell, man, I snapped.”
“In grand fashion too.”
You could say that. This wouldn’t be half as big a deal if it didn’t involve America’s favorite couple—yeah, it pains me even thinking that, but it’s unfortunately true. And because we’re dealing with a drama-obsessed diva who believes her big toe should have its own Instagram handle, this is going to be blown way out of proportion, with my name dragged through the mud.
Sure, I flipped them off at the altar, but I was also the one who was wronged, so I should get a pass, some compassion.
There should . . .
But I think we all know, given Annalisa’s impeccable ability to cry on cue, that’s not how the public will perceive the mishap.
“Do Mom and Dad know?”
“Oh yeah, they know,” Roarick says, and I hear the laughter in his voice.
“Are they mad?” I wince. Yes, I might be thirty-five, but I still seek out my parents’ approval like I’m a twelve-year-old overachiever.
“Mom’s worried about your mental health, and Dad was more concerned about the sloppy form of your middle finger.”
“There’s no proper form for flipping someone off.”
“According to Dad, there is. He showed me this morning when I dropped off doughnuts before hitting the fields.”
Our family owns a 180-acre vineyard. White grapes, the best in Southern California, as my dad likes to say. He also says we don’t make wine—we grow grapes. They provide grapes to some of the most sought-out wineries in Southern California. Recently Roarick has taken over the duties of running the vineyard, giving Mom and Dad more time to relax—and apparently practice the art of flipping someone off.
“I’m sure he’ll give me a lecture about it at some point.”
“He’s already working on his presentation, which involves a slow-motion video. I think you’ll be impressed with his camera angle,” Roarick says. “So . . . what are you going to do now?”
“I don’t know. I’m sure that Annalisa and Simon are soaking up all the limelight, which of course makes my life a living hell.”
“Oh, from the brief interviews I’ve seen, your apartment is definitely swarmed—lots of paparazzi camping outside.”
“Yeah, there’s no way I’m going back there right now.” I glance around the cabin, taking in the quiet space—only the distant sound of a cricket chirping outside fills the air.
“Where are you now?”
“Uh . . . someplace called Canoodle.”
“Canoodle? Wait, isn’t that up in the San Jacinto Mountains? I think Mom and Dad like a wing restaurant there. They stop whenever they’re driving back to Palm Springs after visiting you.”
“Yeah, that sounds familiar. I stopped here because I saw a bar as I was driving and found the idea of drinking myself into oblivion very appealing.”
“Understandable. I’m sure any other person in your shoes—well, shoe—would have done the same. Although, from the sounds of it, it seems like you drank the entire bar.”
“Feels like it.” I heave a sigh. “I’m in some cabin right now. I have no idea how I got here.”
“Dude, that’s terrifying.”
“Tell me about it. It’s a very unsettling feeling, waking up in an unfamiliar location with no idea how I got there. It was also unsettling when I couldn’t recall where I left my other shoe. But none of that is nearly as terrifying as going back to LA right now.”
“I think you’re right. Going back to LA is basically serving yourself up on a gold platter to the snarling, hungry wolves also known as the entertainment press. Why don’t you come down to the vineyard, hide out for a bit?”