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“Priscilla’s weddin’ dress, of course.”
“Where’s the rest of it?” I look over the so-called wedding gown that could use another ten inches of length.
“Well, it’s been modernized, I guess.”
“So Nick gets to be the famous rock star and Priscilla’s reduced to a sexy bride? And God forbid she wear glasses to see all those Elvis wannabes objectify her. And me.” For a woman on her pretend period, it certainly seems like I have PMS.
“Oh, don’t get your panties all in a twist,” she says. “I swear you millennials don’t know how to relax and have some harmless fun.”
“Yeah, Olivia. You’ll make a beautiful bride with that wig,” Nick chimes in with a laugh. Beautiful bride my ass. I’ve never even been invited to be a bridesmaid. It’s like brides don’t make passes at friends that wear glasses.
We take our respective costumes into the changing area, following her instructions to avoid getting any makeup stains on the white garments. After a good five minutes, Nick’s privacy curtain whooshes open. I stare at the makeshift bride in the mirror. I hate this. But if I want the money, I’ll brave the stage.
“What do you think?” Nick says with a snarled lip and an Elvis baritone. “Am I just a hunk, a hunk of burnin’ love?” Nick does a few pelvis thrusts, and I’m reminded of the moves he used on me last night.
“I am so embarrassed for you.”
He points to the center of his partially exposed chest. “Me? Look at you!”
I scoff. “Whatever.”
“Why are you being so weird today? Is this about last night? Because I thought it was great.”
“Oh, really? It was great?”
“Yeah.” Nick knows he’s missing something. How has he not figured it out by now?
“Well, I faked it. Fake, fake, fake!” I confess, hoping the admission will hurt as much as his lie hurt his wife and me.
Ripping off his gold shades, he says, “You faked it?”
“Oh, don’t act all innocent. I’m not the only one here who’s faking it.”
“What are you even talking about?” He thinks he’s got the wool over my eyes but he’s got another think coming.
“What am I talking about? This!” I gesture to my getup—veil and all. “Does this remind you of anything?”
“Only a really bad night in Vegas.”
That’s it! Not even a can of Aqua Net can hold me down. “You’re unbelievable. Do you have any respect for the sanctity of marriage?”
“Hey, I get that you’re cruising through PMS City right now but you’re kinda being a bitch.”
He did not just say that to me. “I’m not a bitch. You’re an asshole.”
“What is your problem?” he yells back.
“My problem is that you used me. You lied to me.”
“Lie? What lie?” Man, he’s good. It’s almost like he’s convinced himself of his own bullshit.
“I know you’re married, Nick! I found your wedding band in your bag this morning.”
“Wha... you went through my stuff?” Who knew a man wearing polyester bell-bottoms could look so angry? But I’m sure my wig isn’t doing me any favors either.
“I wasn’t going through your stuff. I was looking for dental floss. And don’t try to turn this around on me. You’re the one who’s shamelessly cheating on your wife. What kind of husband are you?” And more important, what kind of man is he?
“I’m not anyone’s husband, Olivia!” His voice booms throughout the dressing room. “I’m divorced.”
Wait, what?
“Divorced?”
“Yeah... for eleven months.” Nick’s tone drops, still trembling with anger. “The next time you go snooping through my shit, make sure you have the facts before you go making accusations.”
Oh, no. How did I read this whole thing so wrong?
Without another word, he storms out. Patent leather shoes stomping. Bedazzled cape flapping behind him.
Nick Leto has left the building.
