“You’ll be waiting a long time.” Max pauses and stares intently. His scrutinizing gaze unnerves me, and I have an inkling of what he’s thinking. “So, how are you holding on, coz?”
Pretending I don’t know what he’s talking about, I frown, signaling with a wave of my hand for him to fill my glass again. “What do you mean?”
“Don’t play dumb with me. I know you better than you know yourself.”
I scowl at Max before I bring the refilled glass of prosecco to my lips. I’m glad the alcohol is already helping me relax. Today is going to be murder, just as expected.
“Listen, he doesn’t deserve you,” he continues.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I turn my back to Max, pretending to watch the wedding preparations. Irritation simmers just below my skin. Why does he have to be such a busybody?
“You don’t need to pretend with me, Chibi. I’m not blind. Pietro had all the chances in the world, and he chose Paola over you. He’s not your guy. He has never been your guy. You’re amazing, and he’s second-rate.”
Max’s words make something clench in my chest, and tears prickle my eyes. I want to believe his words, but today it’s almost impossible. If I’m all that, then how come Pietro is marrying Paola?
Fuck. What’s up with Max and this sensitive bullshit conversation?
“I know I’m amazing, okay?” I reply feebly.
I’m so full of shit. My only consolation in this whole mess is that Max is the only one in my family who paid enough attention to see my true feelings toward Pietro. Everyone else, including Paola, seems oblivious.
“I’ve told you before, I’d tap you if you weren’t my cousin.”
Whipping my face in his direction, I glare at him. “Ew. Why do you have to be so gross?”
“Chiara? Is that you?”
“Cazzo! It’s Mother.” I scramble to finish my drink before going to her.
It’s best if she doesn’t interact with Max. He loves to antagonize her, and then I’m the one who has to deal with the woman.
My face is probably flushed when I stop in front of Ofelia Moretti, a former Miss Italia who still retains her pageant-days poise and beauty. Her perfectly arched eyebrows would furrow if her forehead wasn’t frozen by Botox. But the pinch of her lips and the displeasure in her gaze are enough hints that I’m about to receive some negative comment.
With a tsking sound, she grabs a strand of my hair. “You look ghastly. Instead of drinking with Max, you should have done something about your appearance.”
I take a step back to get out of her reach. “What’s wrong with my appearance?”
“The question is what’s not wrong with it? The hairdresser has finished with your cousin. Maybe he can do something about your hair. As for your attire….” Her gaze drops to take in the length of my body. “Well, there’s nothing that can be done about it.”
I want to tell my mother to go fuck herself. The insult obviously dies in my throat. She wouldn’t hesitate to slap me across the face in front of all these people. She’s done it before. There’s nothing wrong with my fifties-inspired strapless dress. Sure, the tight bodice emphasizes my girls more than she deems appropriate, but there’s nothing I can do about it. Does she want me to bind my breasts so I look like flat-chested Paola? Probably. I could tell her I’m wearing vintage Christian Dior, one of her favorite designers, but what good would it do? She’d probably say I make everything look trashy.
Mom makes a grab for my arm, but I sidestep her. “I have to use the restroom. I’ll meet you inside.”
I run back into the house as fast as my high-heeled shoes allow, veering toward the stairs. Once I reach the landing, I hear animated female voices coming from the master suite. I skid to a halt. The prosecco I just downed burns in my belly while hurtful memories assault me. Among other awful things, my cousin is a bully. Together with her friends, she tormented me through school. She’s a couple of years older than me, but instead of bringing me into the fold when I joined their snobbish private school, she took pleasure in making my life a living hell. If Max hadn’t been there, I don’t know if I would have survived. Things only changed when I grew older and boys started to take notice of me. Suddenly, Paola wanted to be my best friend, and I was naïve enough to believe her bullshit.
Pietro, her fiancé, was my first friend there and the object of my affection. He was an awkward teen during high school, super tall and gawky, a little nerdy too. He didn’t turn hot until he was in college. That’s when Paola made her move and my crush died a sudden and painful death.
Maybe Max is right. I should have told Pietro how I felt sooner, but I was terrified of losing his friendship then and never confessed. Besides, he never would have really taken me seriously. Fat good that did me. I lost his friendship anyway when he started dating my cousin. In fact, this is the first time I’ll have seen him in six months. But the good old saying “out of sight, out of mind” doesn’t apply to me if the constant pain in my chest is any indication.
Forcing my feet to move, I veer in the opposite direction of Paola and her phony friends, locking myself in the restroom down the corridor. I stare at my reflection in the mirror, holding a strand of my blonde hair between my fingers. I’m not ugly, but compared to Paola—who’s tall, thin as a model, and gorgeous—I’m plain, and there’s no way to hide my curves. No wonder Pietro picked her over me, but damn it, Paola isn’t even nice unless she’s faking it for him. I should have been braver and confessed I liked him before Paola was ever in the picture.
Get a grip on yourself, Chiara. Despite all her flaws, Pietro still picked her over you. It’s time to move on.
I apply a fresh coat of lipstick and try to redo my curls using my fingers. No way in hell I’m going to let Paola’s stylist touch my hair. Running a hand down the length of my dress, I attempt to smooth out the barely visible wrinkles, thinking about my mother’s comment. The dress is perfect and completely appropriate for a summer wedding. I don’t know why I’m surprised she disliked it. She has criticized everything I’ve worn since I was old enough to pick my own clothes.
My shoulders sag forward as I let out a heavy sigh. It’s just one day, Chiara. You can do this. I straighten my back and raise my chin, ready to face the music, when the door bursts open.
I let out a yelp as Pietro stares at me wide-eyed. “Oh, so sorry, Chiara. I didn’t know you were in here.”
My heart takes off in a mad race. Why does the man have to look ten thousand times more appealing in his wedding tuxedo? His curls have been tamed with some gel, and his eternal five-o’clock shadow is nowhere in sight.
“That’s okay. I was just freshening up my makeup. I’m all done.”
He gives me an elevator glance, his gaze dropping to my shoes before slowly traveling back up the length of my body. “You look stunning, Chiara.”
My heart does a backflip at his compliment. Traitorous muscle.
“So do you.”
“Did you bring a date?”
“No. I’m not seeing anyone at the moment.”
Why did I tell him that?
“It’s really hard to believe a gorgeous girl like you is single. I would have snatched you up in a heartbeat if I had the chance.”
Uh, what?
