Page 41 of When Forever Falls Apart

“You’re hurting,” I finally state, observing her closely, but trying to control my own runaway thoughts.

“Yes, I’m hurting,” she snaps, her finger jabbing toward me, and when I look into her eyes, I see they shimmer with emotion. “Myles was a great fiancé, and I fled like a coward because it wasn’t enough. What even is enough? And now I have to attend this ridiculous wedding. All alone like some loser ex.”

“It’s just one night, right?” I remind her.

Madelina traces her fingers around the rim of her glass, lost in thought. Suddenly, her eyes widen, and a smile flickers across her face. Something warns me that the sudden change in expression spells trouble.

“I have an idea! You’ll be my date for the wedding.” Her suggestion leaves her lips like a playful dare, causing me to choke on a peanut I’d grabbed from the bowl only seconds ago. “You know, only sixty percent of people wash their hands after using the restroom. So, that means that forty percent of men touch their penis to urinate, then shove their hands in the bowl of peanuts you’ve so delightfully put in your mouth.”

I cough, struggling to catch my breath. “Excuse me?”

“I read it somewhere.”

My voice comes out raspy, so I clear it one more time. “I meant, about the date.”

“Yes, my date,” she repeats, but this time it’s becoming more obvious she’s not joking. “We’ll pretend to be a couple. It’ll make it less awkward.”

“Maybe for you,” I counter, knowing this is theworst idea ever. “I can’t be your date, since you introduced me as yourman friend. The jig is up. I refuse to partake in your web of lies.”

Madelina snorts. “Web of lies? It’s just one teeny, tiny lie. If you’re pretending to be my boyfriend, Lisa—”

“Lara,” I correct.

“Whatever.” She waves her hand dismissively as the margaritas, plural, appear to have taken over. “If you play the part, she won’t act like she’s stolen my man. Did you see how possessive she was?”

“Absolutely not,” I tell her firmly. “You’re drunk.”

“And?” she shoots back, undeterred. “You’re saying that like it’s a problem. You’re acting like being at this wedding alone would be better. Plus, you’re hot. So that’s already scoring us points as a fake couple.”

I tilt my head in confusion. “Did you just call me hot? Now I know you’re drunk.”

“Whatever! You know it’s true,” she drags, then sighs heavily. “Every single woman who walks into Donuts Ever After gawks at you like you’re eye candy. And anyways, I’m not drunk, just tipsy.”

“Sure, keep telling yourself that.”

“But I’m serious, I can’t show up alone if Myles is bringing a date.”

Chances are, Madelina will forget this entire conversation come morning, nursing a hangover that feels more like a freight train than a passing storm. So I don’t pursue it further and stupidly encourage another pitcher.

As the night wears on, she sulks in her chair as the margarita seems to work in reverse. A few moments later, karaoke ignites the room, and Madelina joins a duo onstage for a spirited rendition of “Islands in the Stream.” Her sudden changed mood is much more pleasing than a sad, drunk girl.To my surprise, her voice resonates through the crowd, met with cheers and applause. Several times, she attempts to pull me onto the stage, but I manage to convince her I’m better off watching from the table.

Even in her drunken moment, Madeline’s face lights up, and I can’t help but laugh at her antics. Finally, she manages to pull me onto the dance floor, wrapping her arms around me.

“See, we can be a couple.”

“So can you and the bald guy sitting at the bar who asked me for your number,” I retort.

Madelina shifts her gaze to the bar, then turns back to me with a bemused smile. “C’mon, he’s not my type,” she slurs, wrapping her hands tight around my neck. “He’s not going to shoo away the cobwebs.”

“The cobwebs?”

She opens her mouth to respond, but her newfound lady group pulls her back onto the stage.

The manager of the bar glares at me, the kind of glare that threatens ejection if I don’t rein her in. I move toward the stage, reaching out to steady her after she delivers an enthusiastic version of “Dancing Queen” with some Filipino ladies who were karaoke champions. I only know that because they took to the microphone earlier and gave us their whole life story.

“I should take you home,” I state while she sways, carefree.

“I’m having the time of my life,” she exclaims, nearly toppling off the stage, her laughter echoing in the air. I catch her arm and hold her steady. “Who needs an ex when I have a beautiful man waiting to take me home?” Madelina reaches out to squeeze my cheek, and I somehow have to get her out of here and away from the bar where she’s eager to continue drinking her troubles away.