Chapter 4

"Kevin! We finally get to meet the elusive bastard," Jonathan, my coworker, exclaims as he bumps into us during cocktail hour. He whistles as he examines Nick from head to toe. I may not have much social acumen, but I can tell that Jonathan is admiring more than just my fake husband's suit. "I can see why she kept you a secret until she got a ring on you. Wanna trade workout tips?"

"Jonathan!" I hiss, but he keeps going. I can tell he's bad at holding his liquor because his cheeks are flushed like Santa Claus. He's pretending to toast us with his glass of what looks to be champagne. Wow, he is more of a lightweight than I ever imagined. "This is Dr. Jonathan Meyer," I remark absently to Nick, who has raised an eyebrow in confusion. "He specializes in general surgery, but he is working with our lab on a side project."

"Lyvia is as clever as they come," Jonathan gloats and pats me sloppily on the shoulder. "Do you remember that time you whipped together an aerosolized version of gentamicin for our bronchiectasis patient who couldn't tolerate it any other way? That was genius. "

"Okay, you've had too much to drink," I apologize and wave Jonathan away. I don't think I want to start off my relationship with Nick by bragging to him about all the ways I've helped Jonathan use a medicine in an off-label way, even if it was to save a kid's life.

Natasha Line shows up before Jonathan can speak further.

"Lyvia, your mother and stepfather are looking for you. They're saying you need to finalize the wedding certificate?"

Although I appreciate Natasha's attempts to silence Jonathan by changing the conversation topic back to the wedding, I suddenly remember that I need to face my parents. My throat is suddenly dry as the Gobi desert, but I know it's time to come clean to my parents, who had seen Kevin before. My would-be husband stood me up. There's no finalizing the wedding certificate. I untangle my hands from around Nick's arm.

"Thank you," I mouth to Nick. My voice is shaking, and it's barely audible above the chattering guests. "But your job here is done. You can go now."

"You sure?" Nick asks me, as though he is just starting to make himself comfortable. "You don't want me here for the after-party?"

"No, no, I'm fine. I'll take it from here."

"What kind of a husband escapes right after taking his vows?"

One who is head and shoulders above a husband who doesn't show up to his wedding day?

I laugh politely, but this entire pretend married gag is getting old. My mom and Jim (my stepfather) must have figured it out by now that Nick is most definitely not Kevin Monroe, not even remotely related to any of the Monroes, and most absolutely not going to inherit a stake in Big Joe's Pizza.

I'm still just a girl with several hundred thousands in medical school debt, with no husband and no way of paying back my school loans with my lousy biochemistry job.

"So," Jonathan says to Nick. "Do you have a last name? The ceremony was short, and Lyvie here wouldn't give us any juicy details."

Marigold, my other friend from work, is also here now. She's admiring my hunky husband with saucer-like eyes. I forgot I invited her. Maybe I didn't invite her. I think I just announced to my lab last week that anyone who wanted to come, could show up. I said that out of desperation because Kevin told me around that time that not a single person from his side was coming. "What do you do for a living?"

"I work in finance," Nick replies effortlessly. I have to admire his smoothness. He's ordering a glass of scotch from a nearby waiter without missing a beat. "Goldman and Sachs, I don't want to bore you with the details."

The crowd he is addressing laughs reflexively. One can't help but laugh on cue when a man as hot as Nick Madigan tells a joke. I walk away even though I want to linger one more second by Nick's side to hear the rest of that story.

Does he work in finance? Didn't he tell me earlier that he was one of Kevin's coworkers? I had assumed he was a lawyer, but then again, I had second thoughts about that assumption from the moment I first laid eyes on him.

Cool it, Lyvia!

He could be a finance bro and still be one of Kevin's coworkers, can't he? Maybe Kevin's firm also provided legal service to an investment bank? Could they? Wouldn't Goldman and Sachs hire a fancy pants lawyer instead of someone from the same law firm as my Kevin, who wears cardigans with holes on his elbows?

I shake my head. No, focus! Who cares who exactly Nick Madigan is? I'll never see the bastard again once he walks out the back door.

I go into the back room where my mother and stepfather are waiting. They are joined by the wedding planner and priest who officiated our wedding. My new stepsister, Emily, is there too and I don't know why she was invited to this meeting considering we barely spoke before today.

"Where the heck is Kevin?" My mother demands the second I walk inside the room. Jim immediately closes the door behind me so that none of our guests overhear. Yes, even now, in the face of this disaster, my mother was trying to maintain the illusion that nothing was amiss.

She never even told any of our friends that she was marrying me off to the son of Big Joe's Pizzeria.

My mom never liked Kevin; she was ashamed of him. But, I am twenty-eight years old, a graduate school dropout, saddled with debt, and getting less attractive by the year. So, this entire match was a good, logical compromise for everyone involved.

Everyone except, apparently, for Kevin.

"Kevin never showed up," I say, my eyes finally giving up their pretense of normalcy and filling with tears. I don't want to cry, but the emotions burst out like a flood. It's not enough that I dealt with my father's death with a strong, brave face. Now I'm being left at the alter by the only guy I ever seriously dated.

"Who was that, that man out there?" My mom asks. "The tall, handsome one in the suit? Is that an ex-boyfriend?" There's a hopeful edge to her voice now, as though she is waiting for me to confess that I had a long, tumultuous love affair with Nick Madigan. Yes, he's a dirty little secret that I kept from my family for whatever reason. As luck would have it, my poor devoted ex-boyfriend showed up to marry me on my wedding day because he had been waiting all these years for Kevin to step aside. Nick just wanted a chance to prove he was a worthy partner, and now he's here to save the day.

What a lovely fairy tale that would have been!

Yeah right!

Who does my mom think I am?

Scarlett Johansson?

A man like Nick Madigan wouldn't so much as swipe left on a girl like me on Tinder. No, he'll sigh and delete the whole app because, with a flicker of his finger, fifteen supermodels had already arrived outside his front door.

I immediately feel awful about laughing internally at my mother's ludicrous question. There's a glimmer of interest in her eyes, as though she is silently praying that I would blurt out that not only is Nick here to ask for my hand in marriage, but he's also rich.

"I-I don't know," I stammer out, trying my best to cushion the truth with some more pitiful tears. "I barely know his name."

"He must really be into you," Emily chips in. "Oh, the way he kissed you. I think every single girl in that room was swooning. Are you sure you guys aren't an item?"

"Go back out there and bring him in here," Jim demands. "He seems like a nice enough chap. Tell the chap to sign this thing, and we'll sort everything out by the reception."

Wow, Jim, really? I can't believe my ears. My stepfather wants a man I barely know to come in here and sign a legal document vowing to love me for the rest of my natural life? I wonder what my dad would say if he could see this now. I bet he would serve up a five-finger sandwich across Jim's smug, hopeful face.

"Go on, Lyvie, bring that hunk in here," my mom agrees, nodding her head in her second husband's direction like his words were gospel.

I don't know what to say. My own mother is throwing me to the wolves! Who is Nick Madigan? He could be a serial killer or a child molester, or worse yet — what if he chews with his mouth open?

I don't know what to do now that they were all united against me. Even the priest is tapping the pen impatiently on the wedding certificate. I spin around and leave the room, dragging my annoyingly long dress with me.

~*~

"Wow, Kevin is a smoke show," Patty, my frenemy from high school, yells in my direction right before she disappears into the women's restroom. Another girl whose name I don't remember follows her to the restroom and adds —"Good job, Looney Livy. Wait till we show everyone these pictures! Keep winning, queen!"

I don't know why I invited these people. Then again, Patty's the only high school friend who ever bothered to friend me on Facebook. I see she brought one of her girlfriends as a date. I grimace a smile in their direction before heading back to the cocktail lounge.

I had more pressing things to worry about than high school mean girls.

What if my fake husband had already called a cab and left the building?

If that's so, then I'll grab a vodka martini and call an Uber out of here myself. Nick Madigan owes me absolutely nothing. Nick Madigan definitely should not have to face my family's interrogating. Even so — I found myself praying that he didn't leave.

Please, Nick, whoever you are. Please, still be here.

I glance wildly around the cocktail room as I step into the lounge. Waiters are cleaning up abandoned champagne glasses, and some random guests are milling about around a half-eaten cheese platter.

No, Nick isn't here.

He left.

Like I told him to.

I don't know if this dress is too tight, but my knees go weak. I'm going to faint. I need to get out of this building before everyone realizes this entire wedding had been a sham.

"Looking for the groom?" My Uncle Jasper hollers in my direction. "He went in there!"

The dressing room.

Yes, where else would the groom be if he needed a break before the reception?

I smack myself in the forehead like that was obvious. Can Nick be in the dressing room? Or did Uncle Jasper assume so because that's where the groom would be if he didn't want to hang out with the guests in the cocktail room?

I hurry to the dressing room, where I desperately searched for Kevin that morning. As I open the door, I hear people talking. No, not, people. The television is on.

"A grisly scene unfolded today at a pizzeria in Westchester, New York, where a family-run business became the scene of a shoot-out. It is believed that Joe Monroe, his wife, and two employees were on-site at the time when a lone gunman broke open the back door and opened fire into the kitchen. This incident is believed to be connected to the death of a computer programmer in Costa Mesa, California, earlier this morning. This just in. Joe Monroe's son, Kevin, has been reported missing."

I glance down at my phone. I had turned my phone on silent for the ceremony. Now I see that I have a string of calls from an unknown number. As I stand there wondering who could be calling me, my phone vibrates again. I answer.

"Hello? Is this Lyvia Burns? This is Detective Stevens from the NYPD. Are you in a safe location?"

"Y-yeah," I say, unable to believe I'm having this conversation on my wedding day. Or that Kevin's entire family is dead.

"Have you seen Kevin today?"

"No."

"Have you noticed anything or anyone suspicious?"

I swallow hard. Anything suspicious? Other than a mysterious man who had shown up at my wedding with a duffle bag of what looked to be firearms?

"I-I think I might . . ."

"Hang up the phone, Lyvie." Nick appears between me and the television. Uncle Jasper was right. The groom had indeed retired to his dressing room. And he had fetched his gun. Nick is armed with a pistol. There is a sad and resigned look on his face. He slowly raises the gun and points it at my forehead. "Now."