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Especially her.
I adjust my silver tie, positioning it strategically beneath the vest, part of the suit I wear. Regatta blue is the color, according to Bianca.
The boys inside the living room are cheering away to shots of Sambuca. The stuff is putrid. I don’t care for anise-flavored alcohol, but they fucking love it. This is the final hurrah before the big moment. The fucking ‘I do’ in front of hundreds of people.
There’s a loud thump on my bedroom door until it opens wide, and the laughter spills into the room.
“C’mon, Olly, we gotta toast the groom,” Greg slurs, raising his glass with a red face.
I shake my head with a smile. “No drinks for me, but I’m open to making fun of your hair?”
The boys roar in hysterics—it’s a bittersweet moment.
Tate is marrying Bianca.
My Bianca.
Past fucking tense.
When I came back to Sydney, Bianca asked to meet up. I assumed it was to get back together, and at that point, I would have gladly banged anything in sight to forget Gabriella existed. Turns out my arrogant persona got the better of me. She showed me her ring, given by my former best mate, Tate. I was crushed, but not in the way I had expected, more being a bruised ego at best.
“Best man, eh?” Greg snickers. “Better not run off with the bride. Oh, that’s right, she chose Tate.”
Greg is a dick, a small-minded one at that.
At the bachelor party, he drank himself into oblivion, whipped out his tiny dick in public, then proceeded to a pick a fight with some random guys outside a strip joint. The guy has no fucking boundaries.
It called for a comeback, a dirty one to shut him up.
But Tate is behind me, nervously playing with his cufflinks.
I put down my bottle of water and move toward him. Pulling his arm to me, I help him fix the cufflinks into position, relief washing over him as his shoulders relax, and he exhales the nervous breath he’d been holding in.
“Can’t run off with someone who belongs to your best mate,” I say, patting him on the shoulder. “You can do this, okay? Don’t know why, but Bianca loves you.”
Tate pulls me into a man hug, holding onto me for what seems like bloody forever. “Thanks, mate. Let’s get this show on the road.”
Here’s the thing about weddings—I loathe them.
If you’re single, you are bound to be set up or placed at a singles’ table, which is usually hit or miss. More miss. Thankfully, I’m on the main table as Tate’s best man. It doesn’t stop Bianca from single-handily introducing her three bridesmaids to me, all of them single.
Out of the three ditzy women, Krystal is the standout of the bunch—sexy, lean legs and a body you could smash and blow in zero-point-five seconds. But in the few short hours I’ve spent with her, it’s become increasingly obvious she’s a stage-five clinger.
The worst kind.
We’ve done all the wedding rituals—cake, dancing, my best-man speech—and thankfully, the end came around quicker than you could say, ‘Are we done yet?’ Look, they deserve the special day and all, but being around all this romantic bullshit is simply too much. Without any alcohol to forget she fucking exists, I find myself in a mental state I desperately avoid.
The night dragged on with endless dancing, being pulled to the dance floor by Krystal, who had the breath of a dog’s arse after vomiting her champagne in the bathroom. Excusing myself, I walk outside the venue, taking in the cool night air and open parklands.
Removing my phone from my pocket, there’s a red notification on the screen.
Seb
Hey mate, landed in OZ for an impromptu meeting with a sponsor. You free to catch up this week?
The second I see his name, my mind races to her. I’ve never once asked him or Lana what happened to her. I choose not to succumb to the pitfalls of social media. My gut warned me what I would find wouldn’t be pretty, therefore I shielded myself from the heartache. I was done grieving over a woman who chose someone else.
I wonder if Sebastian came alone, and I have no doubt he will raise the topic during our catch-up.
