My Big Fat Fake Wedding(85)

Archie and Abi’s smiling faces match mine in the mirror, and I wonder if they’re faking it too.

Archie pulls his tablet up from his side and starts clicking away. “Okay, ordered Spanx to be here tomorrow. Ordered eggs, and some good-smelling candles, to be delivered to your place so you can start tonight. Sent Ross a warning about your incoming flatulence, and last but not least, marked the wedding dress hunt as complete on the to-do list. That’ll go to Kaede, Abi, me, and the wedding planner.”

I turn to him, grabbing him in a hug. He balks at first, so not a touchy-feely person, but he relents. “Thank you so much, Arch. What would I do without you? Wait, did you say you told Ross I was going to be gassy? What the hell?”

He ignores my outburst. “Without me, you’d still be small potatoes, just a one-woman shop, running yourself ragged as you tried to do it all. At least with me, you’re free to be your creative genius self and leave the details to moi.”

“Humble brag, much?” I tease, knowing he’s one hundred percent right.

“No reason to be humble when it’s true,” he answers. “Just call me Kanye.”

I hug Abi and then Weston. “We did it, guys. This is actually happening!”





*



Wednesday—3 Days Until the Wedding





Ross . . . is a saint.

I’m sure of it. I’m on day two and a half of not eating anything but eggs, the thought of which now makes me nauseous. I know I’m snappy, and Archie’s been walking on eggshells since yesterday afternoon around three o’clock when I went full Hungry Girl Crazy. Metaphorical eggshells, not literally. I’m not that much of a mess.

Ross, though, has been there beside me the entire time. Even when the gas hit me like Arch’s research said it would. I tried to leave the room before I let loose, pink with embarrassment, but he’d followed me and laughingly told me that I ‘broke the farting barrier first’ as he let one rip too. Between the two of us, we’d made the whole room smell like sulfur and had generously sprayed some Febreze and burned down three candles to cover the stench.

It’d actually been oddly funny and even cute in a weirdly gross way, but I had drawn the line at a farting competition, even when Ross tried to egg me on. ‘Get it? Egg?’ he’d prodded as I’d groaned at the bad puns he kept coming up with.

But I have lost three pounds, so hopefully, it’ll be worth it. I did make Abi promise to make sure I don’t inhale my dinner at the wedding. I’m afraid that when presented with actual food, delicious food from one of the best Italian restaurants in the city, I’ll succumb and go into ravenous caveman mode and start shoveling it in. At first, she’d said she’d pay money to see me do that in my fancy white gown. But when I reminded her that it’d be all captured on video for posterity and forever linked to her brother, she’d relented and agreed that it would definitely not be funny, after all.

Oh, God . . . the video crew. I still can’t believe this is my life, I think as I watch the vultures following me. Ross has another crew of his own tracking his every step, but he seems to mostly take it in stride, going on with his business as if they’re not there.

But I take sweet glee in watching the gates close behind me, effectively locking the paps out and giving me a moment’s peace.

Today is our final walkthrough and stamp of approval on Mrs. Montgomery’s ballroom. I’m nervous, but not nearly as much as I was for her living room project. I feel like we have a steady grip on the style and look she’s going for now, and I’m looking forward to beginning on her formal dining room after the honeymoon. It’s got this great twelve-inch-thick crown molding that’s still the original walnut stain, and Mrs. Montgomery wants the room to be dark and dramatic. I think I’m going to paint the walls a deep forest green.

The maid shows us into the ballroom, as usual, and Archie and I examine our work one last time before Mrs. Montgomery shows up.

“Don’t stress, Vi. It’s gorgeous and Lydia’s going to love it,” Archie says quietly.

I smile and tease, “Oh! Lydia is it, now? What happened to Bitch-ella?”

He shrugs. “So maybe she’s not so bad after all. She kept coming through to check on the ballroom, and at first, I thought it was because she didn’t trust me. I mean, I know I’m not the usual guy you just invite into your house when you’re someone like her.” He motions to his combat boots, ripped jeans, anarchy logoed shirt, and his fluff of hair that is currently covered by a jaunty ball cap. “I figured she thought I was going to steal the silverware. But then she just talked and watched me work and even had the cook bring lemonade to the paint crew one day.”

My jaw drops. “You didn’t tell me that!”

He smiles wryly. “You’ve been a bit busy, Boss. It’s fine, but she’s just . . . not so bad. Lonely, maybe, and I think her resting bitch face is just a bit too much Botox.” He stretches the skin of his face back and opens his eyes wide, and I laugh.

But I stop myself before I get too loud or jostle my belly too much. The last thing I need to do is fart in Mrs. Montgomery’s ballroom moments before she walks in.

Luckily, we get our faces back to their professional blandness as she walks in. “Mrs. Montgomery, thank you for taking time to meet with us today.”