Page 48 of Something like Desire

“That’s the spirit,” I say, tapping my champagne glass gently against hers.

After Gia finishes her drink, I suggest some meditation to help calm her down, but she opts for more mimosas instead and now she’s three drinks deep. It’s looking like there might be a bumpy ride ahead.

“Maybe that can be your last drink before the wedding,” I whisper to her as her hairstylist, Misty, steps aside to plug in her curling iron.

“Why are you trying to stop my fun?” Gia says loudly. “It’s my party and I can drink as much as I want to,” she sings in the tune of “It’s My Party.”

“I’m pretty sure those aren’t the lyrics, and for good reason,” I say. “Because with you, drinking too much usually ends in puking. And white chiffon gowns and puking don’t exactly mix.”

Gia blows right past my warning like it’s background noise, drains another gulp of champagne, and launches into what can only be described as interpretive chair dancing. She shimmies in place, twirls an invisible lasso above her head like a rodeo queen, and throws in a few pelvic thrusts that are completely out of sync with the actual music. The bridesmaids in the kitchenette pause mid-sip, watching like they’re not sure whether to clap or call for medical assistance.

“Misty,” Gia says, pointing her champagne flute at me, “tell my sister to give me a break and just let loose.”

“Give her a break, Lexi, she’s having fun,” Misty says, fluttering her long fake lashes at me. “Have a drink too and it won’t bother you so much.”

“One of us needs to stay sober,” I mumble. Two drunk Callen women at one event would be nothing short of catastrophic.

Cara, Liv, and Arlene seem to have bounced back from their initial concern and are now fully committed to the spectacle, hooting and hollering like they’re at a bachelorette party in Vegas rather than the most important and ceremonial day of my sister’s life. All three are on their feet, pumping their fists in the air in unison. “Go, girl!” Cara shouts, grinning from ear to ear. I know it’s less about genuine encouragement and more about the fact that she won’t be the one crouched on the bathroom floor later, holding my sister’s hair back when she inevitably vomits. My personal ETA for that moment? One and a half hours. Maybe less, if she keeps up the overly energetic lasso routine.

I sigh, take a slow sip from my water bottle, and settle down on the edge of the bed, which is a disaster zone strewn with wedding chaos: Gia’s delicate veil tangled near a pair of heels still tucked in their box, scattered hairpins, lipsticks in various shades, and four boxes of tissues ready for all the sentimental moments that await us. The wedding gown, still carefully tucked away in its garment bag, hangs from the curtain rod in the bedroom.

The limo won’t be arriving for another two hours. Maybe I can provide a distraction of some kind that doesn’t involve drinking, but what that would be is beyond me. I could do an impromptu second bachelorette party and ask the strippers to handcuff Gia for their show. That way she wouldn’t be able to lift her drinks to her mouth. That could actually work. I start Googling mobile male strippers when my phone buzzes with a text. From Zach. My heart instantly flutters.

Thinking of you today. One more day of stress and then you can relax. I hope you manage to enjoy it.

I can’t ignore that my body has heated up at the sight of his name on my screen and his thoughtful words.

Thanks! I’m scared.

Hope it goes better than you think it will.

I bite my lip. If he only knew how bad it looks like it could get. “Doubtful,” I reply with theyikesemoji and thecrying-laughingemoji.

Let me know if you need that moral support.

I never did get back to Zach about his offer to come to the wedding with me. Gia will probably be too busy chatting with her other guests to notice if Zach comes for the dancing part of the reception, after the vows and dinner are over.

Wilmont Center. Maybe around 8 PM?

Sounds good.

A rush of energy pulses through my body. Holy cow, he’s actually going to come. I may just have a dance partner. A good one if his merengue skills at the studio are any indication.

When the bridal party is ready, all looking lovely in their pink dresses, I help Gia zip up her wedding gown. After the photographer has snapped at least three hundred getting-ready shots, we head downstairs and climb into the limousine. The drinking hasn’t died down. Quite the contrary. Gia’s clutching a bottle of champagne like she’s holding her water bottle at the gym, for survival. Every few minutes she takes a swig. Cara has joined her on her intoxicated journey and it’s looking more and more like the two of them will need a babysitter.

Great.

They giggle as they stumble into the limo. I catch Gia’s hand and help her into the car, piling the long train of her dress in after her.

“Who’s ready to see my separated parents make out with other people tonight?” she cries, pumping her fist in the air to the pop music in the car.

“Me!” Cara cheers, falling back against her seat.

I nudge her softly. “Gia, calm it down a bit. We don’t need to discuss that right now.”

Gia sticks her tongue out at me again. Drunk Gia’s a bit of a bitch. “Who’s ready to watch my single sister mope around and be a huge buzzkill because she dumped her boyfriend of nearly ten years a week before my wedding?”

Cara shoots me an appraising look, probably to see how mad I’ll get if she goes along with this one. “Me!” she shouts again.