SPARROW

Three years later

“IS IT POSSIBLE TO feel your heart breaking, even if you’ve never fallen in love?” I stared back at the woman in the mirror, chewing on my lower lip until the tender flesh cracked. I looked like a stranger.

Sorrow slammed into me like thunder. Sorrow for the man I would never meet, for the first love I would never experience, for the romance I would never have. For the butterflies that would never take flight in the pit of my stomach. For hope, happiness and anticipation, things I would never feel again.

“I didn’t spend three hours doing your makeup so you can munch on your lipstick like it’s a bag of chips, sweetheart.” Sherry, the makeup artist, fussed around me.

Just then, the hair stylist, a gay man in his late twenties, marched into the room, carrying a bottle of hairspray, and sprayed my hairline again without warning, spritzing the cold liquid all over my eyes. I blinked, fighting the burning sensation both on my face and from the inside.

“You done harassing me yet?” I hissed, stepping away from the mirror and walking to the other side of the luxurious presidential suite.

My first stay in a five-star hotel. And it made me feel like a glorified hooker.

I retrieved a champagne glass I was pretty certain wasn’t even mine and downed the whole thing in one gulp, slamming the glass against the fancy silver tray, fighting the urge to wipe my mouth with the back of my hand so that Sherry wouldn’t kill me. The glass broke into two pieces, and I grimaced, looking back at the crew Troy Brennan has appointed to make me look like the perfect little bride.

“I’m sure Mr. Brennan will have no problem footing the bill for this...too.” Sherry waved her hand, her overdone platinum hair stiff as a rock on her head.

She had a cleavage so deep you could almost see her belly button. She looked like a showgirl from one of the joints Pops used to work at, not exactly the kind of person I’d take fashion and makeup tips from. Then again, I had no say in anything about this wedding.

“As long as you didn’t hurt yourself,” said Joe, the stylist, wiggling his index finger at me. He pried the broken stem from between my fingers with his free hand. “Don’t want you bleeding all over the dress. It’s a vintage Valentino, mind you.”

I didn’t even pretend to look like I knew what a vintage Valentino was. Why would a girl from my tough South Boston neighborhood know anything about couture? Ask me about coupons and how to sneak into the subway for free, and I’d tell you all about it. High fashion, though? Yeah, not for me.

I rolled my eyes and walked into the bathroom to wash my hands. If I had nicked my finger, I wouldn’t want to infuriate Brennan by staining the costly rental dress. The counter was littered with hair products and makeup, as well as creams, spa essentials and my cell phone. I jumped when the phone bleeped with a text.

Eying the group in the other room, I eased the door mostly shut.

Lucy: Still not gonna make it to class today? Boris is teaching us how to make stock. x

Me: Sorry. Caught a bug or something. Been throwing up all night. Text me the recipe when class is over.

Lucy: You got it, babe. Hope you feel better.

Me: Have a feeling the worst is yet to come. x

I put the phone down and prayed, for the millionth time that day that Lucy would be too busy to read the society page tomorrow. Troy Brennan was the kind of guy to show up in the local news for all the wrong reasons. He was trouble—hot trouble, flash-fire-on-the-stove hot trouble—and I knew that his wedding would likely be spread all over the local news like salmonella from a dubious food truck the minute he said, I do.

And me? I’d never attracted too much attention. My social life was as active as a dead turtle. I didn’t have many friends. Those I had I’d kept oblivious to my shotgun wedding. I was pretty frightened of the groom, embarrassed with myself for agreeing to do this in the first place and too confused to deal with their potential (and understandable) questions.

Sadness pierced my heart when I turned on the faucet. My fingers brushed my engagement ring under the stream of running water. It had a diamond the size of my fist at the center, and two, smaller ones on each side. The band itself was plain, a thin platinum shackle, but the weight of the bling—literally, figuratively, freaking mentally—screamed nouveau riche to the sky and back. It also yelled money, power, and look-at-me pretense.

But there was one thing it didn’t even whisper—my name.