“Take it down a notch, Cam, it’s not in a mean way.”
“Of course it is. People are the fucking worst—”
“Let her finish her thought, Camile,” Cici says, her voice much calmer than Cami’s. I’m pretty sure she glares at my childhood friend, but I don’t pay either woman any notice as I read the text for the fifth time.
Hi, Olivia. This probably feels strange, and we know you’re going through a lot right now, but I wanted to reach out. You applied for our Facebook group yesterday and noted you’d be interested in in-person support group meetings. I know it’s very soon, but we have our next meeting in three days, so I wanted to let you know.
There’s a group of five of us who meet once or twice a month just to talk about things.
We’ve all been left at the altar and are in different stages of our grief. It helps, talking to someone who has been there. We understand if this is too soon, but I wanted to extend the invite anyway.
Sincerely, Julie Chen.
It all comes back to me.
My drunken searches, the Facebook group.
Jilted brides.
There’s a support group for women who have been through this.
A local one.
“What is it?” Cami asks, probably noticing my lack of hysterics. “A client?”
“A tabloid?” Cici asks again. “They’ve reached out to me already, asking for my thoughts as the maid of honor, but I told them no comment.”
That makes me groan.
I didn’t even think about how everyone will be hounded just as much as I will be.
Everyone I know is going to be bombarded. The marriage of a Reed and a Kincaid was already news, but the drama of it falling apart right before I walked down the aisle is too good of a story to pass up.
“How bad are those?” I ask, temporarily distracted from the message on my phone. I’m sure at least one of the major trash papers has already started to dish on my misery.
Cami and Cici look at each other and I know instantly.
It’s bad.
It means at least one of the big ones has started to post about my big day, whether they have concrete quotes or not. Though, if I’m being honest with myself, they probably do—the people my mother insisted on inviting in order to show off are not the types to keep juicy gossip to themselves, especially when having said juicy gossip could elevate their own social worth.
Fuck.
As the granddaughter of Jefferson Kincaid, the real estate mogul, and daughter of Melanie St. George, the wife of Huxley St. George and one of the newest members of the Housewives of Los Angeles, the spotlight was on me before I even met Bradley Reed.
But when word got out I would be marrying a man who comes from a wealthy, influential family of his own, the press went rabid. Every moment of my unbearably extravagant wedding was outlined, leaked details splashed across pages of trashy magazines, and in the last few weeks, I couldn’t even go to the gym without at least one camera following me.
I hated it, but my mother loved it and begged me to lean into it to help her own standing as she climbed the social ladder as an affluent reality star.
I was assured—promised, even—that once the excitement of the wedding died down, once I went back to my normal life, I would mostly have peace.
Unfortunately, I don’t see that happening anytime soon now.
“We can worry about it tomorrow. Or the next day,” Cami says, attempting to get me to focus. “Who texted you?”
My mind goes back to my phone. I look at it then back at her. “It’s, a, uhm . . . another jilted bride?”
“What?” The single word is drenched in justified confusion.
“I mean. It seems like possibly quite a few jilted brides.”
“I don’t . . . I don’t understand,” Cici says.
“I . . . I kind of did some searching last night. I found a group of North Jersey women who were left at the altar. I was a little . . . drunk off fancy Champagne.” Cami can’t fight the smile on her lips even though her face is transforming with shock and anxiety. “And I requested to join the group. There was an option to leave your cell number if you were interested in an in-person meeting and I did.”
“You gave strangers your personal cell number?” my dad asks, his face aghast. “Liv, that’s incredibly unsafe.”
“I was drunk, Dad.”
“Cut her some slack, dimples. She’s been through a lot.” He rolls his eyes, but even from here, his smile from the nickname he pretends to hate is clear. Cam reaches over and grabs my cell from my hands. She uses a perfectly manicured finger to swipe to the top of the text chain, and she reads it slowly before handing the cell to Cici, who repeats the process.
“Are you going to reply?” my best friend asks as she hands the cell back to me, my eyes roaming the letters once more.
“Well, yeah? What else would I do?”
“Uh, ignore it?”
“That would be rude.”
“I think you’re pretty well excused from being rude right now,” Cami says. “You don’t owe these people anything.” Her eyes narrow. “You don’t owe anyone anything, Olivia.”
I know she’s saying more with her words, but I ignore that as well.
“I think . . . I think maybe it could be good for me. Worst-case scenario, I get a funny story from it.”
“Worst-case scenario, it’s a setup and you’re being sold out.” I roll my eyes at Cici.
“You’re such a pessimist.”
“I’m a realist,” she says. “There’s a difference.”
“Is there?” I ask with my first genuine smile of the morning.
Instantly, it’s clear everyone knows it, too, because they back off. It’s like one small move has them all slightly less worried and I fucking hate that. It turns a knife in my chest.
The absolute last thing I want is all of them worrying about me.
“Why do I know there’s no way to talk you out of this?” Cami asks.
Again, I smile.
Smiling feels good.
It feels normal. I could really use normal.
I once read that if you fake smile enough, it tricks your brain into being happy.
I wonder if that’s how this is working. The more I smile, the more normal I feel.
But I know it’s probably more about having good fucking people in my corner and that is making me feel all light and bubbly.
“Because I’m undoubtedly going to this.”
Cami sighs in defeat but suddenly, I feel so less defeated.
Because I think this might be the first solid step into doing things for me.
FIVE
WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 23
If you had told me six months ago, I’d be walking into some random woman’s apartment building to take part in a support group, honestly, I wouldn’t have been that surprised.
But I couldn’t have foreseen this particular support group.
A group for daughters of women who will never, ever be happy no matter what happens?
Yes.
Pathological people pleasers?
Absolutely.