Take Your Time (Boston Love #4)(6)

“Guilty as charged.” I shrug unapologetically. The movement makes the room spin a bit. I have officially reached white-girl-wasted status. The point of no return. Which means Gemma may be right…

I’ll probably regret taking this last shot in the morning.

(Correction: I’ll definitely regret it in the morning.)

“God, I’m going to be so hungover tomorrow,” Shelby says, mirroring my thoughts. “I have to teach a sunrise yoga class at six.”

Chrissy groans. “Ugh, you want to trade? Try having two toddlers in the house. You’ll be begging for your early-morning exercise.”

“Thanks, but no,” Shelby says quickly, wincing at the thought.

“Isn’t that what husbands are for?” Phoebe asks. “Taking care of the kids when Mommy is too hungover to move? Otherwise, I’ve been entirely misled about this whole marriage thing.”

“Usually,” Chrissy confirms. “Unfortunately, Mark has a meeting tomorrow.”

“Phoebe, don’t forget you have a dress fitting at three,” Gemma reminds her sister. “Think you’ll be able to move by then?”

“Um.” Phoebe screws up her face in a grimace. “What’s their cancellation policy?”

“If you miss your fitting, your Vera Wang will look like something you got off the clearance rack at David’s Bridal.” I elbow my best friend. “Drink a Gatorade, eat a banana, take a few Advil. You’ll be just fine. All you have to do is remain upright while the seamstress pecks at you. At least you don’t have to start a new job at 8AM.”

“Like you do?” She snorts as if the idea of me working is absolutely ludicrous. “Lila, you’re the only one here without any responsibilities. Hell, you can sleep all day. If I didn’t love you so much, I’d hate you.”

Shit.

All the tequila has evidently loosened my tongue, because I almost slipped up. Almost told them the truth about what’s been going on, these past few months…

“You’re right, of course. Nothing on my agenda.” I force out the lie in a falsely cheery tone. “I’ll probably sleep till noon. Maybe have a late brunch… hit the boutiques on Newbury if I feel up to it…”

Lie, lie, lie.

Chrissy and Shelby shoot envious looks my way, but don’t seem to notice anything amiss. Phoebe is no longer listening — she’s begun singing along with the band, belting out lyrics to an old Backstreet Boys song and swaying in her seat. Only Gemma, who is painfully sober, seems to notice my twitchy discomfort.

My heart starts to race as her pretty blue eyes narrow on my face, trying to read me. I’m typically great at covering my tracks, but after this many rounds, I’m not exactly up to my usual standards of deception. Still, I’ve managed to keep my financial situation under wraps for months, even from my best friends. I’m not about to blow it now.

Better I allow them to continue thinking I’m still an unemployed party girl than admit the mortifying truth…

Turning my back on Gemma’s sudden scrutiny, I reach out and adjust the neon-pink BRIDE-TO-BE sash drooping across Phoebe’s shoulder, admiring the white Prada sheath dress she's wearing underneath. After two bars, one strip club, and several hours riding around in the party bus Gemma rented for this occasion — a fifteen-foot-long stretch Hummer, complete with a disco-ball, champagne buckets, mirrored ceilings, and a solemn driver named Evan who her fiancé Chase keeps on payroll — the sash has lost some of its luster.

Then again, we're all a little worse for wear by this point in the night. It’s nearly two in the morning; most of my makeup has long since melted off, and the only things that will hurt worse than my head in the harsh light of day are my feet from dancing in these skyscraper heels all night.

“For the record, I love you guys," Phoebe drawls, her teary hazel eyes sweeping from me to her sister to Shelby to Chrissy. "Really. You're the best."

"Yes you've told us, Phoebe." Gemma shakes her head. "In fact, that's the tenth time tonight."

"Well, I mean it. Times ten." Phoebe's smile is lopsided and her hair, typically immaculately styled, is tangled around the cheap plastic tiara resting on the crown of her head. "I can't believe I'm getting married. To Nate. I mean... have you seen him? He's hot. Hotter than hot. He makes Charlie Hunnam look like a stale piece of bread. And he’s marrying me. I just can’t wrap my head around it.”

"Me neither." I smirk. "Thought it would never happen, frankly."

My best friend hurls an ice cube at me across the table. Her aim is so poor, it’s easy to dodge despite the fact that my bloodstream is currently eighty-five percent Patrón.

"Guys…” Phoebe adopts her most solemn look. Her eyes are watery again. “Can I ask you a serious question?”

Uh oh.

"Never a good idea to ask serious questions after this much tequila," Shelby mutters.

"Have to agree," Chrissy says, hiccupping.

Phoebe continues as if she hasn't heard them. "I'm not a bridezilla, am I?”

The entire table goes silent. The din of the club seems to press in on us from all sides, the longer the silence stretches on.

“I mean…” Phoebe's bottom lip starts quivering. "I do recognize that I’ve been... picky... about things."