“Don’t.” I yank free of her grasp and she stumbles back a step, wide eyes sad and glassy.
She clasps her hands in front of her chest and drops her head. “I’m sorry.”
I ignore the apology. “What’re you still doing here?”
She lifts a shoulder. It’s cold and she’s not dressed appropriately for the weather. The shawl covering her arms does nothing to stop the wind blowing up her too-short skirt. “My parents left without me. I thought maybe I should wait for you . . . but that was probably a bad idea, huh?”
I take a deep breath. A headache knocks against my temples. “Yes, it was a bad idea, Brittany. Do you have any idea how much trouble you’ve caused tonight?”
She fidgets a little with her purse and her hair, then sighs before she says something that makes me hate Armstrong even more. “Armstrong said he could help me get a modeling contract through Moorehead Media.” She rushes on. “No one was ever supposed to find out, and no one is ever really faithful anymore, and it’s not like you were all that interested tonight what with how mopey you were. And then you just up and disappeared after dinner, so I took the opportunity. I didn’t mean to ruin the wedding.”
I can’t believe what I’m hearing. Armstrong and Brittany definitely deserve each other. I really don’t have the energy to manage this situation right now. My anger is too big, and if Brittany keeps talking I’m going to say something regrettable. “You should go home.”
I take her by the elbow and lead her to a waiting cab. I open the door and motion for her to get in. She slides over as if I’m joining her. “You have a credit card to pay for this?” I ask.
“So you’re not coming with me?”
“No, Brittany.”
“Why not?”
I rub the space between my eyes. “Do you honestly need to ask?”
She adjusts her skirt so she’s not at risk of flashing me or the cab driver. “But Armstrong said you wouldn’t care.”
I bark out a laugh. “You blew the groom at a wedding that wasn’t yours. Even if I didn’t care, what you’ve done is morally reprehensible.”
Her brow furrows. I assume it’s because I’ve used a word that has far too many syllables. She cocks her head to the side, her gaze focused on my neck. “Is that a hickey?”
“Good night, Brittany.” I slam the door and knock on the roof, then drop into the backseat of my own waiting car. This has been a miserable night, and I feel like the coming days are going to be more of the same until I’m out of the country and away from Armstrong’s drama. I wonder if it’s going to be as easy for Amalie.
Five: Anti-Honeymoon
Amie
I think I’ve cried more in the past three hours than I have in my entire life. What’s most telling is that my tears are primarily over how I’m going to manage this humiliation, not that Armstrong cheated on me. I think it might be shock. I’m sitting in Ruby and Bane’s living room nursing a glass of Perrier.
My luggage had been in the bridal suite, still waiting to be brought to our honeymoon penthouse for the night, but we’d run out of time and I’d forgotten to ask someone to take it up. Turns out that was for the best. Bane grabbed the luggage when he left the hotel and brought it back here.
Ruby felt her and Bane’s place would be a safer bet than mine, since there’s security and a doorman to prevent Armstrong from gaining access. And then there’s Bane, of course, who seems to be more than happy to act as my bodyguard.
Armstrong has been texting me incessantly. The messages have grown increasingly desperate over the past couple of hours.
The latest ones read:
Please respond, Amalie, we need to discuss how to manage this misunderstanding.
I’m certain we can find a reasonable way to handle this if you’ll just answer me.
We need to present a united front to alleviate the negative media attention.
I’m at your apartment but since you never gave me a key I can’t get in.
He’s never had a key because he never wanted to come to my apartment on account of the lack of amenities. I don’t respond, but a few minutes later I receive another series of messages:
I can see that you’re reading my messages. Are you home? Can you hear me knocking?
Where are you? Why aren’t you home yet?
We need to talk.
This wasn’t intentional.
The police are here. Did you call them? For God’s sake, Amalie, answer me!
I toss my phone on the couch and sigh. In the few hours I’ve been at Ruby’s I’ve only spoken to my mother, and very briefly. I was surprised, and relieved, when she didn’t mention forgiving Armstrong for his transgression even once during our conversation. She only wanted to know if I was safe, and to make sure I wasn’t with that “perverted liar of a husband.”
She also wanted to come to me, but I told her I’d be okay, and that I’d call her in the morning. When I asked where Dad was she mumbled something about the hotel bar. I sincerely hope this doesn’t result in another one of my father’s extended business trips or a monthlong excursion to a relaxation spa for my mother.
They’ve been off and on for as long as I can remember, but this wedding has been something that united them. They’d been so supportive of what they believed was a good choice for my future.
Any kind of stress is bad for my mother’s health and I worry that this could have some kind of ripple effect. Not that there’s anything I can reasonably do to prevent it now. It’s my own mess of a life I’m going to have to focus on.
I rest my forehead on my knee. “I can’t believe I threw myself at Lexington.”
“I’m sure you’re not the first and you won’t be the last.”
“That makes me feel so much better.” I huff a laugh, then shiver at the memory of the way I’d taken him to the ground and straddled him. At the way he’d flipped me over and tried to stop me. I’d felt him, against my palm and between my legs. He’d been hard. And big. Big and hard. He’s a big man all over. I never really considered how big until he was on top of me.
His words ping-pong around in my head. No was the very last thing I wanted to say to you. I can’t imagine he meant it. I seriously must’ve had a complete mental break to act the way I did.
“You were pretty upset.”
“I cut a fifteen-thousand-dollar dress in half.” In all fairness, I’d wanted something vintage and off the rack, but Armstrong and Gwendolyn were totally against it, so I’d ended up with an overly poofy, excessively expensive dress.
Ruby pets my hair. “It was a very Anarchy Amie thing to do, and understandable, considering.”