How To Ruin Your Ex's Wedding: A Romantic Comedy Page 4

  We get everything packed away and Ryan helps me stow it in my rental car.

  “You going to call her?” he asks me once we are at my car and out of earshot.

  “Probably not,” I tell him.

  “Why not, dude?”

  “Well, partly because if you sleep with a girl too often, she tends to get the wrong idea. And I can’t afford to piss off any top models in this industry. Plus, I have an early flight out tomorrow to Seattle. I’m heading home, going to take a few weeks off to regroup.”

  “Can I have her number?” He snickers.

  “Sure, if you ask her for it and she gives it to you.”

  He rolls his eyes at me.

  “Hey, good luck at college in the fall,” I say.

  “Thanks, man. I learned a lot today, hope to work with you again.”

  I nod in response, then get in my car and take off. I’m looking forward to room service, scotch, and a big bed all to myself.

  Once at the hotel, I carefully remove my disguise. The mustache wreaks havoc on my upper lip. Then I take a long, hot shower, throw on a clean pair of sweat pants, grab a scotch from the mini-bar and pour it over ice, and switch on the news while I wait for my dinner to be delivered.

  “And for our top story in entertainment news, actress Tabatha Seton has announced her engagement to millionaire tech genius, Hunter Simpcox. Seton was married for a short time to award-winning photographer, Pax Baldwin, before splitting for good ten years ago. Let’s hope she can make this one last a bit longer, am I right? No word yet on when the nuptials will take place or where. And in other news . . .”

  I stop my glass halfway to my mouth. They’ve got a picture of Tabs with the tech genius up on the screen. My Tabs. Rather, my ex-wife, Tabs. The guy looks exactly like one of those nouveau riche douchebags who just got a bunch of money and wants to make sure everyone knows it. My heart sinks.

  Tabatha’s getting married. To a tech genius douchebag.

  Well, good for her.

  I guess.

  I tell myself it doesn’t bother me, except it might. I also tell myself I’m over her, but that’s probably not entirely true either. She was my first big love. But we were too young, too stupid, and way too stubborn.

  I finish my first drink and pour another. Then call down to room service and ask them to bring a big bottle with my dinner.

  I’m going to need it.

  My flight to Seattle lands on time, and thanks to being in first class, I’m one of the first out the door. I moved back to Seattle after Tabatha and I divorced and eventually bought a place on Puget Sound. It’s still home to me over anywhere else, especially Los Angeles.

  I take my phone off airplane mode and head through the jetway to the gate, my camera and laptop bags banging against my back and butt as I go. My cell starts beeping almost immediately with voicemail alerts.

  I punch the button to hear the first message as I jog down the escalator to the subway/tram that will take me to baggage claim and the taxi stations. Sea-Tac is about an hour from my place in Port Orchard, which is just outside Seattle. Depending on the ferry schedule, I might not make it home for two hours.

  My first message is from my business manager. She heard about Tabatha’s engagement and wants to make sure I’m okay.

  Short of a massive hangover, I’m fine. More power to her and her douchey fiancé.

  Second message is from my best friend, Gregor. Same sentiment.

  What the fuck? Why do they think I’m going to have an issue with this? It’s been ten years since we were together. It’s not like I haven’t seen other people. I’ve had plenty of sex, plenty of dates, plenty of action. It’s possible that none of them measured up.

  It’s not for lack of trying on my part. I am very active in my attempts to get over my ex.

  I call Gregor back first. “Dude,” he answers. “Where you at?”

  “I just landed at Sea-Tac. I’m heading home.”

  “I’m twenty minutes from there, heading north. Want a ride and we can go grab a beer?”

  Gregor’s twenty minutes ends up being thirty. But it gives me a chance to text my manager and tell her not to worry, and then to check email.

  I’m about halfway through all my email, deleting nonsense messages and answering legit ones, when Gregor pulls up, some kind of 70s playlist blaring from the speakers in his Expedition. He’s a very large man, offensive tackle for the Seabirds. Six feet five inches, three hundred pounds of solid muscle, big hair, long red beard and mustache. He could easily pass for a Viking—the seafaring kind, not the Minnesota kind. We’ve known each other since we were kids. In my early days as a photographer he tried to help me get into sports photography, but it didn’t pan out.

  He gets out of the car, singing and dancing to the music. Lou Rawls. Snapping his fingers, one step forward, two steps back, and a little side-to-side sway while singing about how I’ll never find another love like his, and in general making a spectacle of himself.

  Which he enjoys doing.

  A lot.

  For such a large guy, he has an amazing amount of finesse when he moves. He’s also a fantastic dancer and singer, which he often puts to good use in one of the pubs he owns in Seattle. They all feature karaoke and dance floors.

  He hits the chorus as I’m loading my things into the back of his SUV. Knees bent, hips thrusting, index finger pointing outward and sweeping across the crowd that has started to gather, singing about how we’re all going to miss his lovin’. A few people recognize him, beginning to sing and dance along. Most take video, and the airport police blow the whistle telling him to hurry along. He blows a kiss to the crowd and gets back in behind the wheel.

  “My man, how goes it?” he asks.

  “It’s good. I’m tired, happy to be home.”

  “All those bikini models wearing you out?”

  “Yeah man, that’s it.” I laugh.

  “Did you tell Emmanuelle to call me?” he asks.

  “I did. She said something about you being a big lug who wasn’t worth her time of day.”

  He puts his hand over his heart and looks at me. “Words wound, man.”

  “Sorry, bro.”

  “Speaking of wounds,” he says. “You okay with this whole ‘Tabatha getting married’ thing.”

  “Of course. It was bound to happen sooner or later, right?” I ask.

  “Not if you ask me.”

  Gregor doesn’t like Tabby. At all. His exact words for her are cold-hearted shrew with the personality of a bull shark.

  He continues talking. “I gotta admit, I’m amazed she found a second sucker. I thought for sure you’d be the only one.”

  He’s not exactly without warrant in his assessment of her. Tabatha was a bit of a diva when we first met her. Not that you could blame her. She went from private tutors, personal assistants, and movie premieres to public school, tract housing, and prom. Even if it was her choice to do so, it was still a hell of a culture shock. And the girls at our school did not welcome her with open arms.

  Except for her friend, Crystal. But the snubs turned Tabs hard(er). To say the least. Which is what Gregor is referring to. That, and he thinks she stole me from him. And maybe she did, who knows. Not that I’m a commodity to be had. Problem was, both were reaching new heights in their lives at the same time and relied on me, as their special person, to help them pave the way. Gregor, who was up for a Heisman trophy, which he won, and being first draft pick in the NFL. And Tabatha, with her return to acting after attempting normal teenage life.

  “You hungry?” Gregor asks.

  “I could eat.”

  “New bistro I want to try over in Ballard.”

  “Sounds good.”

  Anything to get my mind off Tabatha. Not because I’m still hung up on her. But it never feels good when your ex moves on before you do.

  3

  Tabatha

  Hunter pulls up to valet parking and waits for the attendant to open his door. I start to open mine, an
d the poor guy halts in front of the car, unsure as to which direction to go. I wave him toward Hunter’s side and continue getting out. Another attendant appears and assists me. Which, I have to admit, is always nice when in a car that is low to the ground while wearing heels and a pencil skirt.

  Hunter straightens his jacket and then offers his arm to me as we enter the restaurant. He holds his head high, his handsome face stoic. He reminds me of a young George Reeves, the original Superman actor, with his slicked back hair and thick glasses. He wants to get married in two months, which seems fast, but for whatever reason, that timetable is important to him. Who am I to argue? Hunter has his quirks, but overall, he’s a great guy—solid character, hardworking, good lover, charming personality.

  “Table for two by the window, please,” he tells the hostess and she leads us to exactly that. Hunter pulls out my chair for me, one that leaves my back to the restaurant. I don’t mind. Hunter likes to face people, and I’m used to having my back toward the crowd from my acting days, when I was out but didn’t want to be seen. As it turns out, there is a mirror behind his seat that allows me a view of the room anyway.

  The server brings us water and Hunter orders a bottle of champagne to accompany our lunch.

  “Are we celebrating?” I ask, smiling.

  “Every day with you is a celebration, my queen.”

  My smile starts to falter, but I work to keep it bright on my face. I’ve got to tell him my feelings on the “my queen” nickname.

  “I thought we would celebrate choosing a wedding coordinator and a date for the wedding,” he says.

  Both of which he selected.

  “That sounds lovely,” I tell him. His chest puffs out at the praise. I already know I won’t have more than a glass, if that. First, alcohol is extra unnecessary calories that go straight to my mid-section. Second, I don’t like losing control or my inhibitions. Ever.

  “A toast,” Hunter says, after we’ve each been poured a glass of the Billecart-Salmon. “To us, and a seamless wedding planning process.”

  I raise my glass and say, “Cheers.” The bubbles tickle my nose slightly as I sip, but it tastes amazing. If I was going to drink a lot, I’d choose this as my beverage of choice for sure.

  Our salads arrive—mine with way too much dressing. I try to eat around it, but it’s across everything. I’m tempted to wipe the leaves of lettuce off with a napkin. I should have asked for dressing on the side.

  “You should wear your hair like that more often.” Hunter chomps away at his salad, oblivious to the amount of dressing that is drowning it. “It’s very regal.”

  I put a hand to my hair. It’s in a quick chignon today, which, when I do it right, hides that I have any curls in my hair at all. Hunter is not a huge fan of my curls, says they are too unruly.

  “Thank you.”

  “Did I tell you that CompyCat wants to interview me about my next project?” he asks, excited. CompyCat is a very well-known tech blog.

  “No, that’s great news.”

  “I’m going to tell them about . . .”

  I tune him out, while maintaining eye contact, a skill I learned at a very young age. It’s self-preservation. Do you have any idea how many people think they can spout their inane ideas for this, that, and the other when you are a celebrity? It’s worse when you’re a kid because they just assume you don’t have anything better to do than listen to them.

  It’s not that I’m not interested in Hunter’s work, I am. But I don’t need to hear about the behind the scenes stuff that goes into it. When it’s all finished and pretty, go ahead and tell me what it does. If I like it, I’ll use it.

  Movement in the mirror behind Hunter’s head catches my eye and I glance up.

  Gregor Stravinsky.

  Pax’s best friend.

  Otherwise known to me as Igor BigJerksy.

  Ugh.

  My heart skips a beat in fear that Pax may be with him. But I don’t see him anywhere. I see Gregor out and about every so often. It’s hard to miss him. He’s a giant. A loud, rude, boorish giant. I avoid his pubs intentionally, or places I think he might frequent. To say that we don’t like one another is an understatement. It goes back to my high school days, when I first started seeing Pax, and therefore met Gregor.

  Mostly because I took Pax’s attention away from Igor BigJerksy and he didn’t like that. Gregor was focused on three things during high school and at the University of Washington: football, his friends, and his studies. That’s it. He didn’t date much, so when I took Pax from him—his word, not mine—he lost one third of his interests. Which was too much for the big lug to handle.

  File that under “not my problem.”

  Except, he made it my problem. And Pax’s problem. And anyone else within a twenty-mile radius who cared to listen.

  I responded in kind.

  We became steadfast enemies.

  Nothing has changed in the last ten years.

  Igor BigJerksy is laughing at something the hostess said as she lays a hand on his big tree-trunk-like forearm, flirting.

  I roll my eyes.

  “What’s the matter with that?” Hunter asks.

  “With what? Nothing, why?”

  “You rolled your eyes when I said we could make it to market in three months.”

  Shit.

  “Oh, um, I’m sorry, darling. I wasn’t rolling my eyes at that.”

  “What were you rolling them at?” He narrows his own eyes at me.

  “Uh, I was trying to get a piece of lint off my eyelash without have to touch my eyes.”

  He nods and continues talking.

  The server brings our meals at the same time the hostess shows Gregor to his table, a four-top that is three tables away from ours.

  He’s eating alone. Huh.

  His hulking form takes up most of the space around him and over half the table.

  No wonder he has to eat alone. No one else could fit at the table with him.

  I turn my attention to my entree— a chicken breast with steamed vegetables.

  “It’s nice to see you eating healthy,” Hunter says, gesturing to my plate. “Helps keep you lean.”

  I give him a small smile in response. He’s right, it does keep me lean. Not everyone can have the metabolism of a teenage boy, like Hunter seems to.

  He ordered pasta, which he cuts with a knife and fork before bringing it to his mouth. Before him, I’d never seen anyone eat pasta that way. I find it odd and fascinating at the same time.

  My chicken is rubbery. Often the result of asking for a baked breast plain, no oils, no seasonings. And my vegetables are soggy. It’s just depressing when a restaurant can’t steam vegetables properly. How hard can it be to bake a breast and steam some broccoli?

  Sigh.

  I set my fork down and dab at my mouth, then reach for my water to take a sip.

  Which is when I see him.

  My ex.

  Pax.

  Pax-mother-effing-Baldwin joins Igor BigJerksy at his table and the two laugh about something. Neither have seen me, thank god. And they won’t if I have anything to do with it.

  I drink Pax in. I can’t help it. It’s been years since I’ve seen him in person.

  He looks good.

  Pax is wearing his typical attire of a vintage t-shirt with low-slung jeans that show off his ass, biker boots, and a leather jacket with his tousled brown hair falling over his forehead. He has the beginnings of a beard and mustache, which are a tad salt and pepper in color and make him look dangerous.

  The air whooshes from my lungs.

  I try to mentally steady my heart rate.

  It’s not fair that he still has an impact on me. We haven’t been together in forever. I’ve moved on. I’m engaged to the man across the table, we are drinking champagne, and he and I are happy. Beyond happy, even. I grab my glass and drink half of the champagne down in one gulp.

  Hunter’s eyes widen as he looks at me. “Thirsty?” He chuckles.

 
“It’s just so good,” I enthuse. “Have we had this one before?”

  He refills my glass. “We’ve had it a couple times, and we have a case or so at home. If you like it, maybe this should be the one we consider for the wedding. What do you think?”

  I take another large gulp, then burp lightly into my napkin. “I love that idea.”

  “Remember not to drink too much, my queen. We aren’t day drinkers.”

  I nod in response.

  Hunter continues talking about his next project and the team he plans to assemble to assist him. I look just beyond his head to the mirror behind him and watch Igor BigJerksy and his pal Pax spread their testosterone around the room like fairy dust, collecting admiring glances from men and women alike.

  Luckily, Hunter hasn’t seen them yet. He knows a little bit about my history with Pax, but not all of it. And I’m not even sure if he would recognize Pax if he saw him. It’s just that he’s a huge fan of Gregor’s. Really all Seattle Seabirds, past and present. He has season tickets, hats, jerseys, scarfs, beanies, blankets, seat cushions, flags, fingers, a cooler, and lawn chairs. The man cave in our house has one wall painted in the appropriate green and blue. The only thing he won’t do is put a bumper sticker on his precious Tesla. But he does have one lying just inside the back window so it’s still visible without being permanent.

  He would want an autograph. And probably a selfie. Which he would then print and have framed to put on the wall of said man cave. Lucky for me, he has friends who go to the Seabirds games with him. It’s an all-day event. They tailgate in a nearby lot—Seabirds Field does not allow it on premises—starting at nine o’clock in the morning, and not ending until an hour or so after the game is through.

  I love Sundays for that reason. And sometimes Mondays and Thursdays. Don’t get me wrong, I adore spending time with Hunter, but I value my time alone even more.

  I notice when a woman approaches Gregor and Pax’s table and asks for an autograph.