My Ex-Boyfriend's Wedding (14 page)

"Honestly, Mom, I don't think Stacy and Dalton ever split up, even while he was dating me. I don't know what kind of dysfunctional relationship they have, but it isn't normal. Or healthy."

"Well," she said, patting her daughter's hand, "I don't think you need to blame yourself for any of this." She snorted before Jemma could reply. "Other than taking the damn job to begin with." She waved her hand through the humid morning air. "Good riddance to bad rubbish. Just put this whole mess behind you."

Her eyes welled with tears again. "I can't put what Tony and I had behind me, Mom. I think I love him. He needs to know the truth about all of the bullshit Dalton fed him."

She scooped her daughter into her embrace again. "Honey, just give him time to calm down. Let the dust settle a bit."

Jemma muttered, "After Hurricane Dalton, it's more like debris, and that's going to take a while."

Jemma slapped her phone facedown on the counter and stomped away. That was the second time in the past month she'd tried to call Tony. Both times she got his mailbox. His sexy voice had greeted her, saying he'd get back in touch as soon as possible.

Liar
. Either that or the man desperately needed a secretary.

Her phone rang, sending tingles of anticipation through her body. She picked it up and answered without checking or paying attention to the ringtone, positive it was him.

She was wrong.

"Hello, honey," her mom cooed. "We're cooking out tonight. Please come over."

"I've already eaten," she fibbed.
Lunch counted, right?

"You can't keep yourself cooped up forever. How are you supposed to meet Mr. Right and get past all of this when all you ever do is work and hibernate?"

"First off, I highly doubt any eligible bachelors will be strolling down your street today. Secondly, it's summer, Mother. I'm not hibernating; I'm just being antisocial. There's a huge difference." Jemma caught herself pushing her bangs from her face several times and shoved her free hand in her shorts' pocket. "Besides, I've already met Mr. Right, and his name is Tony Giovanni. Unfortunately, true to form, I screwed that up."

Her mother breathed a sigh directly into the phone. "You have to stop beating yourself up, and either face him or move on."

"Just like that?"

"Yes. I raised you to take charge of your own life. All of this sulking is very unlike you. Face him. Do I need to call in the big guns?"

It was Jemma's turn to sigh. "Please don't call Nana. There's no need to upset her since she had those heart episodes."

Laughter erupted on the other end of the phone. "Honey, that woman will probably outlive us both."

Her father's voice roared in the background, "Do I need to call my buddies and go have a chat with this young man?"

Jemma wandered to the beanbag chair and collapsed. "Not just no, but hell no. Please, Mom, don't let him out of your sight."

Her giggle held an evil tinge. "I'll hold him off for the weekend. If you haven't already taken care of things, you're on your own after that."

Jemma groaned. "Gee, thanks."

"It's for your own good." Her voice softened. "And, because I love you so very much."

"Yeah, right." Jemma hung up in anger, instantly regretting that she didn't tell her mother she loved her, too. Not wanting to call her back and ride the guilt trip express, she typed the sentiment in a text and sent it.

Jemma stared at her phone, contemplating her mother's words. As much as she hated to admit it, her mom was right. She had hoped the anger, hurt, and feeling of loss would magically go away with time.

It hadn't. At least not in the few weeks that'd passed and probably wouldn't for some time since love was stirred into the messy mix.

A text from her brother appeared. "Mom told me 2 call u & 'encourage you to face Tony.' This works, right? I gotta admit tho. Tony was pretty POd last time I saw him."

Jemma typed back, "Gee, how encouraging. Consider your debt to humankind paid in full. *eye-roll*"

She slipped her phone onto the coffee table and grabbed the television remote, turning it on mostly for the noise.

And to avoid thinking about what she'd been tasked to do.

She idly switched through channel after channel, not really paying attention to what was on. Finally, she stopped on a music station. Stretching out across her beanbag chair, staring at the ceiling, she wandered in thought. Should she? Shouldn't she? Would her father really?

Yes.

The familiar sound of Tony's ringtone
blended in with the song on television, pulling her to a stark upright position.

She stared between the music video and her phone, not believing what she heard. When she finally grabbed her phone and answered, no one was there. Pulling it from her ear, she double-checked the number, confirming it really was Tony's. A tiny flicker of hope bloomed in her heart, as she swiped to redial his number. It rang several times, finally ending where her other calls had: his mailbox. Tears of disappointment welled in her eyes, and she pondered whether he'd misdialed, or if he'd wanted to hear her voice again.

She stood, sucking in a cleansing breath of air, her mother's challenge to face him ringing in her head. It was Saturday morning. Tony was probably doing his usual rounds at the club. She slipped her feet into her flip-flops, tucked her T-shirt into her shorts, and grabbed her car keys.

Conflicting emotions battled in her gut. She paused several times in the stairwell, contemplating her actions, doubting herself. Swallowing hard, she forced her way down to the car. Images of her father showing up to fight her battle nudged her behind the wheel.

The streets, all but deserted at eight in the morning on a weekend, made for a quick commute. She pulled into a parking spot outside the front doors of Tony's club and inhaled another shaky, cleansing breath.

Still not working for me, Mom.

It took all of her inner strength to move from the car and walk to the doors. Yanking on the handle, she found it locked. Jemma leaned against the glass, using her hand to shield the sun from her eyes, so she could see inside. Two people milled around the bar area. Intermittently waving one hand wildly and rapping on the glass with the other, she finally caught one man's attention.

A portly man sauntered toward the door. He mouthed the words 'we're closed' and turned to leave.

Jemma tapped on the door again.

The man dropped his head back, slack-jawed, but returned to the door, unlocked it, opening it a crack. "Can I help you, ma'am?"

"I need to speak with Anthony Giovanni. Is he in this morning?"

"I'm sorry, and you are…?" His lopsided brow arched toward his receding hairline.

"I…" Jemma paused, contemplating the truth briefly, but decided on grey area. "I'd like to discuss his Saturday beer delivery." Which she would definitely work into their conversation now.

"What happened to Julio?" He cocked his head to the side. "Hmm?"

She looked behind him, toward the bar and away from his accusatory glare. "I didn't say I was delivering it. I just want to talk to him about it." She looked back toward him, shoulders slumping. "My name is Jemma. I just need a few minutes of his time."

"See, that wasn't so hard." He opened the door wide enough for her to enter then locked it behind her. "Have a seat." He gestured toward a bar stool and disappeared up the stairs.

Jemma released a deep breath, but the tough part was yet to come. What exactly was she going to say to him? As much as she wanted to, she couldn't exactly start the conversation with, 'Dalton is a lying pig!'

Too nervous to sit, she hovered around the corner close to the door, checking out the ambiance. The huge bar had been redone since she'd last visited. A DJ's booth was added to the far end of the dance floor, and new, heightened bar tables and stools had been brought in. Neon wound around the posts on the main bar, and a giant television screen adorned the top, resembling the huge one in Times Square, complete with a ticker underneath that ran the daily drink specials.

It wasn't long before the man returned. "I'm sorry, ma'am, he's leaving for the day."

Blinking back tears, she murmured, "Leaving? As in, he won't see me?" Jemma's heart sank to her knees.

"I'm just the messenger." His forehead wrinkled, and his lips formed a lopsided pity pucker.

"I understand. Thank you for your time."

He unlocked the door for her and she darted out, her face burning with embarrassment. The feelings didn't last long, though. The closer she got to her vehicle, the number she became. Her footfalls echoed on the ground, but she couldn't feel her feet. Her car door slammed when she shut it, but she felt nothing. The man's words ricocheted in her mind, but no tears, no pain, no anything.

Just emptiness.

She drove back to her apartment on autopilot, walked the flights of steps like a robot, and unlocked her door without even looking down at the handle. She slammed it behind her with no regard for her neighbors. Somehow, she managed to get to her bed before falling face-first onto it, winding herself within the blankets. Nothing else could penetrate her empty, hollow mind if she slept.

Mercifully, sleep came quickly.

Jemma stared down at the red X she'd just scribbled across the last wedding she had scheduled. For the past two weeks, Jemma had cancelled everything, only leaving her apartment for her hours at the bank. After the fiasco of Dalton's wedding and the pain she felt for Kate, she didn't feel she could do any couple justice on their big day. Having Tony reject her at the club was the final straw. Her goal of a successful wedding photography studio faded along with her dreams of a relationship with Tony. Maybe there was a future in kid's photos?

Wandering back to her bedroom, she shed her monogrammed bank shirt and khakis from her Saturday morning shift, and exchanged them for sweats and a holey T-shirt. She'd just settled onto her couch to lose herself in a movie, when her phone rang. It was Mikey, and she was in no mood to talk. As she pushed the ignore button, someone beat on her door.

"Jemma? Your car is here and the television is on, so I know you're here." It was Mikey.

She looked at her phone and back to the door, confusion pinching her brow.

He growled, "Yes, that was me on the phone. Open up."

"Go away," Jemma barked as she turned up the volume. "I don't have the energy to deal with anyone today."

Mikey yelled over the noise, "I don't care. Open up or I'm calling Dad and his buddies to break it down!"

Accepting that he would not leave without a fight, she turned the TV off and walked to the door. "Please, just go away," she whispered through the crack.

"No. You won't answer anyone's phone calls. Besides, I'm here to take you to a picnic," he said, his voice hinting of sarcasm.

"
You
are taking me on a picnic?" Without giving him a chance to answer, she interjected, "Doesn't matter. No."

"That's not going to fly with me. I'm serious; I will go get Dad. He and Mom are the ones who sent me here and set this all up." He jiggled the handle.

Jemma released a sigh of defeat and flung the door open. Mikey greeted her with a scowl, which was normal. What was so far from normal that it landed on a whole different hemisphere was what he wore: khaki shorts and a bright blue polo, not to mention slip on sandals, instead of his usual eighties concert T-shirt, sport shorts, and tennis shoes. She looked him up and down, shaking her head. "Who are you, and what have you done with my brother?"

"Ha-ha, very funny." He gave her the same up and down scan before his hand shot out, pointing toward her closet. "Get changed." He crossed his arms over his chest.

Jemma's eyes rounded at his demanding tone.

When she failed to cooperate, he bellowed, "Now."

Jemma raised an eyebrow, as she pondered her brother's newfound big-boy pants. Something had gotten into him. She only hoped it wasn't drug induced. In his defense, that would be more likely if he'd gone from this extreme to the other. Batting her lashes rapidly, she asked, "Shall I dress as Barbie to match your Ken?"

"We've got thirty minutes to get to Sequiota Park. I can do without the cynicism." With his serious façade and stance, he looked like a preppy bouncer.

Throwing her head back, releasing a loud groan in protest, she went against her better judgment and stomped to her closet. She grabbed a light blue cotton tank dress and slip-on sandals and changed in her bathroom. She thanked God the whole time that she'd shaved her legs in the shower before work. Being nearly a month since she'd bothered, it hadn't been pretty. Her only wish at that point was that she'd done laundry, too. All that was left in her underwear drawer was a thong.

Who knows, maybe it'll make me feel sexy for the first time in…forever.

She grabbed a brush and smoothed out her hair, twisting it up and cinching it in a clip. The temperature had soared into the nineties the past few days with humidity off the charts, so the last thing she wanted was a mop of hair clinging to her neck and shoulders.

Jemma pranced into the living room, her arms curled in front of her like a begging dog. "Okay, are you happy?"

"Eh, that will work, I guess." Mikey fought back a grin, but his stern façade quickly returned. "This is for your own good. You know?"

"Is this some kind of family intervention to get me out of my apartment?"

He nodded. "Something like that."

Jemma followed her brother outside but stopped to protest when he grabbed her arm, yanking her toward his truck. "I can drive myself."

"Nope, Dad gave me strict orders to drive you. We all know you'll go missing about two minutes after you get there, if you drive your own car."

She pulled her arm free. Jabbing her hands onto her hips, she muttered, "That's not true." She'd stay for ten minutes, at least. There was, after all, a promise of free food.

He reached for her again, but she swayed from his grasp. "Mikey, what is up with you?"