Page 84 of How to Ruin a Wedding

Valerie nods. “True, it would be easier. But I wanted to get out of the house a bit. Get my steps in.”

“Just a couple more months to the wedding,” I say, and hearing it aloud makes my nerves avalanche. Though I’ve been asking calculated questions, pointed out very obvious differences between her and John, played up her desire for fun and expression, the progress isn’t where it should be—even with this tight deadline. “Will people have time to buy everything?”

“They better.” Valerie scans some machine I can’t recognize, but mimics a tiny washing machine. A high-speed microwave? I have no clue. “I need this.”

The quick addition of desperation at the end of the sentence captures my interest. “You need what? Gifts?” When she stiffens, I know this is a good thread to pull. “Valerie, respectfully, you’re rich. I didn’t think you’d even have a registry.” I pause a moment, then add, “You didn’t, did you? This is a last-minute idea.”

“Don’t be nosy, Lucy, it’s gross.” I know she’s nervous because she scans a red blender instead of the stainless steel one beside it.

I match her quickened pace. “Is something wrong?” Why would Valerie, a proud nepo baby, be frantic to add a bunch of gifts to a last-minute registry? Wouldn’t she be able to just buy anything and everything she wants? Didn’t she offhandedly mention to me once that she had a family credit card with no limit?

She snorts. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“You’re being evasive.”

“You’re being aggravating.”

I give her a moment to crack, scan a few more items, before we reach the end of the store. We return our scanners to the front desk, and the employee helps Valerie review her list of items on the monitor to ensure she got everything. (She deletes the red blender.)

We leave the store, and I point to a couple of benches on the sidewalk overlooking Queen Street, the long road filled with endless shops, restaurants, bars, and activities. The most active part of Charleston. Before she can disagree, I loop my arm through hers and drag her to sit.

After a few minutes of watching cars and people go by, the silence eats at us like I knew it would.

She snaps, “Are you going to make a big deal out of nothing?”

“Hm.” I hum. “Depends on what it is, but, Valerie, you can trust me,” I say, and my throat feels itchy as the words come out because she can, in the sense that I’m doing what’s best for her, but she can’t, in that whatever she says I’ll have to use to separate her from John. “That’s whyyou asked me to be a bridesmaid. I know I’m not the closest person to you, and I know you’re worried I’ll talk to Anders about whatever you say, but I can be a good friend to you if you let me.”

She looks at me through unusually thin lashes—she forgot that step she has always remembered every other time I’ve seen her. She removes her arm from mine, then places her hands on her thighs below her pale miniskirt. A couple of her manicured gel nails are missing.

“You swear you won’t tell Anders?”

I hold out my pinkie so it feels less like a lie when I nod. She wraps her pinkie around mine, tightening her grip.

“I mean it,” Valerie says. “Anders cannot find out about this.”

I reach for her hand, keep it pressed between both of mine. “Valerie, I’m here for you.” The words slip out easily, because I mean them. Every syllable.

“Okay.” She takes a breath. “I got scammed out of a million dollars.”

I blink. “Excuse me?”

“Calm down,” she says quickly. “And I know, my father is loaded, my brother even more. But as much as I can get away with spending thousands on my card without raising any flags, me taking over a million from our accounts is not going to go over well.”

“A million?” My eyes nearly bug out of my skull.

Valerie slaps a hand over my mouth and glances around like one of her relatives might spring out from behind a bush. “Calm down, you’re not the one down the money.”

“How in the world did this happen?” I ask. “What is going on?”

She rubs a hand over her face. “Ugh, it’s a mess. I should have paid more attention. Should’ve asked John to show me the paperwork.”

“Okay. Slow down. Explain it to me.”

“John found this house,” she starts. “This cute, boring thing overlooking a creek. Not my style at all, but it was his dream home, so I agreed. I figured I could decorate it, make it mine. That was the compromise. Even if it meant gutting the place—because I swear, the ’70sdied in there. It had orange shag carpet and lemon-yellow tile in the shower. Who does that?”

“Valerie,” I say. “Focus.”

“Right, right.” She nods. “So John’s credit score isn’t great, and we used my name for everything. But instead of going with the family’s tried-and-true realtor, he insisted on using his friend’s friend’s friend. Total stranger. No reputation. Said it would be quicker and cheaper.”