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Standing in front of a room full of everyone I know and blowing up my entire life sounded like the perfect revenge for a woman scorned twelve weeks ago when I first came up with my master plan.

It took a while to convince myself that I wasn’t overreacting, even longer to commit to the idea of stepping out of line and doing something, anything to get my own back, never mind something so… public.

But now, my wedding day is finally here. Freedom is within my grasp. My palms are sweaty, my legs are trembling, and there’s a whooshing sound in my ears making it hard to focus on anything other than the thundering heart thrashing in my rib cage.

From the way everyone’s gaze has settled on me, I’ve missed the officiant’s cue to speak. I’m too busy picking at the nonexistent skin around my thumb’s perfectly manicured cuticle to speak. Because even the pretense of a wedding meant I had to get all glammed up. 

I’d already bought the dress, so it needed to have its—albeit brief—moment in the sun. My tits look fucking incredible, and if I’m going to strike a match and scorch my life in front of an audience, I’m going to look like an ethereal goddess while I do so.

Our celebrant’s expectant stare burns my skin, making my cheeks heat even more.

My stomach is a heavy stone, pressing on my too-full bladder from the flute—or three—of Dutch courage I had right before the ceremony, and the unexpected urge to burst into hysterical giggles makes me press my lips together.

“Rhiannon?” George—my adulterous prick of a soon to be ex-fiancé—raises his brows at me with a Bambi-esque look in his big, brown faux-innocent-looking eyes.

Asshole probably thinks I’m nervous about saying “I do.”

I’m not at all uneasy because I’m not fucking saying it.

Bastard.

I decided three months ago that I wouldn’t say those words in this moment. I wouldn’t give either of the traitors a chance to redeem themselves. But torching everything to the ground in a very public airing of dirty laundry suddenly feels very… exposed and ill-planned.

What the fuck was I thinking? I guess anger and embarrassment can make us do crazy things in the moment. But it’s been three months. Twelve weeks of stewing, stressing, and silently plotting a way to make them both pay.

I’m a fucking cliché, the fiancé and the best friend. I almost snort. She hasn’t been my best friend in a long time, but somehow, she’s standing on the makeshift altar beside me, while Bláthnaid, the woman who should be standing up with my sisters, tilts her head, a delicate wrinkle appearing between her perfectly arched brows.

I’m standing in a boutique wedding dress, in Ballygally Castle—a popular venue in Northern Ireland to get married—and I’m about to burn it all down.

Metaphorically speaking, of course.

Life as I know it is about to go “poof.”

“Take your time,” George whispers, squeezing my hand in an act of misplaced support, his clammy palm cupping mine. If he knew what I was about to do, I bet he would think twice about giving me that not-at-all reassuring squeeze.

I look at him, really taking in his appearance. Before, I’d have found him charming and handsome, but now, all I can focus on is his smarmy smile, his dishwater-brown eyes, and his slicked back dark hair. His suit trousers are just a fraction too short, leaving his bony ankles on display because he insists on wearing trainer socks with dress shoes.

What kind of sociopath invites blisters like that?

A heavy sigh presses on my chest. How did I ever find him attractive? I guess love alters perception, and betrayal redefines it.

If I could yank my hand out from under his, I would. But I don’t trust myself not to punch him in his smug-fucking-face and end up in a custody suite in Larne Police Station.

The celebrant gives me a warm, supportive smile and a nod of encouragement. Poor woman has no idea the home truths I’m about to drop.

It’s about to go down like an episode of a shitty talk show.

I can’t bring myself to look over at Mum and Dad. Choosing to smear the Morrigan family name with scandal and gossip won’t go down well, with Dad especially. I’m hoping once his anger wears off, he’ll be proud of me for taking control of my life like this.

Fuck. What if he doesn’t?

I swallow, hard, but I refuse to let a moment of paralyzing uncertainty upend the last three months of careful planning to seize this moment of righteous comeuppance.

These two arseholes deserve their day in the sun.

I look deep into the eyes of the man I gave my heart to as a teenager. I’m a soon-to-be thirty-year-old women’s rugby player by day, Pilates instructor by night, who has only ever slept with one man.

How pathetic.

One cheating, bland, useless fuck of a man at that. My simmering blood catches fire into a rolling boil.

Ugh. It feels every bit as pathetic no matter how many times I repeat the sentence in my head.

Bile sloshes in my stomach as I reach my bouquet out to my traitorous maid of honor, my childhood best friend, and the woman I can’t make eye contact with right now.

She only got the title so our Clíodhna and Aoife didn’t fight over it. In hindsight, we should have rotated the label between the three of us, but sure wasn’t Isla only too happy to help me “not take sides”?

A tiny voice in the back of my head screams that I should have asked Bláthnaid to step in and do the job. But with two sisters and a very present, persistently pleading, and highly convincing friend since childhood… I kind of took pity on her and let her do the job.

Mistakes were made.

I make eye contact with Blá, who is sitting front and center in the first row, next to my parents. She gives me a wide smile and a double thumbs up, but her eyes give her wariness away. She can tell something’s off, but she’s not sure what it is. She’s going to rip me a new one when she hears what’s been going on.

I couldn’t have told her, or Matty, or either of my sisters because I’d be visiting them in prison for murdering my soon-to-be ex. And they’re far too pretty—and sassy—for prison.

The urge to turn to the women standing on the altar with me is overwhelming.

But I know if I make eye contact with the traitor, I’ll rip her face off with my perfectly manicured nails.

And you can bet I’m too fucking pretty for prison.

I allow a slow, controlled breath to pass through my nose.

I’m too pretty for prison. I’m too pretty for prison. I’m too pretty for prison.

This dress was also way too expensive to cover in blood splatter, even if it would be the blood of my now-enemies.

I slowly open a folded piece of paper with hands I force to stop trembling. I want everyone in this room, especially George and Isla, to know I am not afraid. I have no regrets, and I speak these words with my whole fucking chest.

“I thought you memorized your vows.” George searches my face for something, and all I offer is a wicked grin in return. Ever critical. For a man who can’t remember how to operate the washing machine or cook a frozen pizza without setting off the smoke alarm, he sure is mouthy about my ability to remember.

I remember plenty, you bastard. “Six months ago. Saturday, 1:14AM.” I hold his stare, clear my throat, and begin to read the exchange aloud:

George: I hate sneaking around.

Georgie Boy’s brows shoot up, and he swallows, hard.

Isla: We could tell her. 

There’s a sharp gasp from the crowd as someone has already caught on to the punchline of the utterly tragic joke that I’m about to bring one hundred plus people in on. The gasp could have come from Isla herself. She’s always been quick on the uptake. One of my few regrets about this moment is that I won’t be able to see her face until I watch back the footage from our videographer.

George: No. Not yet. I’m not ready to lose her.

Isla: You can’t have both of us forever.

George: Why not? 

Pretty sure it’s Dad who mutters, “What the fuck is going on?” but I can barely hear him over the satisfied roar in my chest as every single ounce of color drains from George’s face.

There’s not a sound to be heard around the room. Every single person’s attention is held hostage by the piece of paper clutched in my steady hands.

George’s eyes turn pleading. “Rhiannon, please. Don’t do this. Be reasonable.”

I smirk. Be reasonable indeed. Be reasonable, Rhiannon. Fall in line, Rhiannon. Toe the family line, Rhiannon. Be the bigger sister. Keep the peace. Yes, sir. No, sir. Three bags fucking full, sir.

If only Georgie Boy knew how reasonable this moment actually is.

My breath is flowing easier, my heart not racing as quickly, and now that I’ve started, I’m not going to let them off that easy. I came to put on a show, and that’s precisely what I’m going to do, even if my father’s face is telling me to shut the fuck up and be a good little Morrigan girl.

“But darling, we’re getting to the good bit.” I don’t know who else hears what I whisper, but the groomsmen all see when I wink at him.

They don’t seem to have figured out what’s happening yet. Do they know that George has been fucking my best friend behind my back?

“Three months ago.” I turn to the crowd like I’m an actor in a play, breaking the fourth wall. “After I asked why they were texting so much. I thought it was because they were planning my surprise birthday party.” It’s true, I did. My birthday isn’t for a few weeks, but things like that take time, and scheming.

Looking back, I feel so fucking gullible, naïve, stupid.

George: She’s getting paranoid.

Isla: She’s always been insecure.

George: I think she’s just stressed about the wedding.

Isla: Or maybe she knows something.

George: She doesn’t. She trusts us too much.

A sweat-sticky hand closes around my elbow. “Rhiannon, stop. We should talk about this.” Isla’s shaky voice fuels my surge of courage and strengthens my resolve to continue.

It takes every ounce of strength in my body not to shake her off and throw the elbow she’s holding into her fucking throat. But I keep my shoulders square, my eyes on George, and what hopefully looks like an unhinged and wild glint in my eye as I pull out the big guns.

Someone on the altar behind me sneers, “You fucking bitch,” and the hand on my elbow drops as Bláthnaid springs to her feet in the front row. My brother, Taranis, slips his hand around her wrist. I almost snicker. Like that’s going to stop Blá from doing anything.

But our Taranis is a gentleman, and knows she’d throw her elbow into his nose if he dared slip an arm around her waist.

If I’d to place a bet about the scene behind me, I’d say our Aoife, Eef to those closest to her, grabbed Isla by the hair—she’s a scrapper. Clíodhna, the middle sister, probably has Eef by the back of her dress so it doesn’t dissolve into a full WWE match in front of the videographer and photographer’s cameras—let alone everyone else’s mobiles.

“Last night. 11:56 PM.”

A number of people gasp around the room. Someone says, “Oh fuck,” perhaps louder than they intended to. The groomsmen look like they’re about to vomit. I’d guess, behind me, my sisters look murderous. And George, the piece of shit he is, can’t look me in the eye anymore.

Instead, he’s looking over my shoulder, then to someone to my right, probably beseeching my parents with his eyes.

“Someone stop her.” His stale-coffee, brown eyes that lied to me without blinking silently plead. He at least has the decency to look embarrassed and red faced, if not ashamed, and a sheen of sweat has broken out close to his hairline.

George: I wish it was you standing at the end of that aisle tomorrow. 

I think it’s his ma who’s sniffling. She’s loved me from when we were children. I’ve always been the daughter she never had. It may be a little bit petty of me to enjoy, especially as I’m ruining my own wedding, but she’s always fucking hated Isla as well.

Isla: Me too.

George: One more night… and then we’ll figure it out.

Isla: I love you.

George: I love you, too. 

I turn my attention to the congregation, trying to ignore the sharp stab in my chest to find Dad’s seat next to Mum empty. Shit. Shit. Shit.

The rest of the crowd’s faces are a myriad of expressions from mortification to horror and disgust, to rip-them-limb-from-limb rage. Those people are generally my people, ironically including George’s still-crying mother. Is she mad at me for announcing it like this? Or is she upset at him for fucking my maid of honor repeatedly? Maybe both.

Another glance at Dad’s empty seat makes the pang in my chest grow. Maybe he got an important phone call, a sponsorship opportunity came up right at the same moment that I laid my dirty washing bare for everyone to see.

Somehow, I find my voice. “It seems that the wrong woman is wearing the fancy, white dress today, folks, and we’ve all been invited to the wrong wedding. Or at least I have.” I turn back to George. “I’m heading out, but, by all means, you and Isla stay. After more than two decades of friendship, we share the same friendship circle anyway. Yous can have my wedding, I’ll send you the bill, and you don’t have to worry about me finding out—because now…” I sweep my hand out to the congregation. “Everyone important to all of us, already knows.”

I bend over, gather my skirts, and take measured, purposeful strides to the door under the green emergency exit beckoning me toward my freedom.

As the door swings closed behind me, the whole room erupts into chaos, and my usually calm, big brother’s voice can be heard above the din. “You piece of shit!”

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Until next time,

Dare You to Make Me Stay by Nichole Rose

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I always get what I want…and what I want is Serena in my bed, wearing my ring.

About Bucking Time by Marika Ray & Sylvie Stewart

No woman wants a pity proposal. Just because I’m turning forty, dealing with perimenopause, and recently dumped another loser doesn’t mean I need rescuing—especially not by my best friend.

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