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Post by The Exodus on Feb 12, 2012 23:05:01 GMT -6
Lucian Michaud
When the flowers were in place, the blankets secure, and dinner lay out, Lucian carefully tiptoed his way out of the maze he’d created. He envied Theseus, with his golden twine. He hadn’t worried about accidentally sending the whole labyrinth crashing down. Once out, Lucian was almost certain the fort wouldn’t hold forever. He looked at it. It hadn’t collapsed, but there was always that chance. He sighed and shut the door behind himself gingerly. Then, he dashed down the two flights of stairs between the suite and the main floor. Lucian pulled himself together in a hall mirror and walked into the buzzing restaurant.
It was packed. Lucian had expected so much; it was Valentine’s Day. The crowd slowed him, though, and gave him a moment to look around. Couples, couples everywhere. Old, young, even one that appeared to be on a very uncomfortable first date. But for a long moment, there was no Ashton. And then, two men, who’d been huddling around a table, moved away. Their parting revealed Ashton, who seemed utterly unaware of Lucian’s presence. Her long, blonde hair was swept up in a chignon; her black dress sparkled in the dim light of the restaurant. Lucian took momentary, voyeuristic pleasure in watching her tap the water glass and look around. She’d blink and her light lashes would kiss her cheek.
Being in love with Ashton had not—would not—get old. Lucian’s fears that one day, they wouldn’t still feel exactly as he did now—fears particularly articulated their first date night since Gregory’s birth—were gone for the moment. He smiled and walked to her table.
“I hate to keep you waiting, my love, he said, taking her hand, but not his seat. “But, this isn’t the surprise. Sorry to disappoint.”
He kissed her lips before tugging her to her feet gently.
“So, if you wouldn’t mind following me…”
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Post by Lets_Eat_Paste on Feb 19, 2012 20:19:27 GMT -6
Ashton Greene
Six water refills and four conversation topics later, Ashton was getting anxious. Where was Lucian? Was he even here? Why did he ask her to come? Did he actually forget what today was? Though it had only been fifteen minutes, Ashton was getting anxious. She was tempted to excuse herself from the company of the waiter and concierge and go home to her son, relieve her sitter, feed her father and go to bed.
But then the soothing, glottal voice of love spoke to her softly, speaking low in her ear, the breath tickling her skin, making it rise gently into bumpy goose flesh.
“I hate to keep you waiting, my love, but, this isn’t the surprise. Sorry to disappoint.”
Oh damn, Ashton thought sarcastically. I was looking forward to sitting alone in a crowded hotel restaurant. But she put on a wide smile anyway. Surely Lucian had a better, more grandiose night planned out.
He kissed her full on the mouth and gently lifted her to her feet.
“So, if you wouldn’t mind following me…”
“Mind? Lucian Michaud, I’d follow you to Mars and beyond if only you’d just tell me what you have up that sleeve of yours,” she said sneakily.
He led her into the elevator and she wrapped her arms around him. “Where are we going?” she asked breathily in his ear, her teeth grazing his lobe. “Am I going to enjoy it?”
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Post by The Exodus on Feb 19, 2012 21:43:33 GMT -6
Lucian Michaud
“Mind?” Ashton echoed. “Lucian Michaud, I’d follow you to Mars and beyond if only you’d just tell me what you have up that sleeve of yours.”
Lucian’s lips curled to a smile and he exhaled. He’d been holding his breath without realizing it. Ashton did that to him sometimes; turned him back into some nervous and giddy schoolboy. They left the restaurant for the gilded elevators. Once the doors slid shut, Ashton wrapped her arms around Lucian.
“Where are we going?” she murmured, nibbling lightly on his ear. “Am I going to enjoy it?”
Lucian could barely suppress the bubbling groan in his throat. His voice, when he did speak, came out as a low growl.
“I hope so,” he said, snaking his own arm around Ashton, a little lower than strictly necessary. “We shall see.”
The doors whooshed open and Lucian led Ashton to the only suite on the floor: theirs.
“If you want, you can close your eyes,” he said, pulling out the key and placing it in the door. Then, thinking that the fort may have fallen, “Actually, yes. Close your eyes.”
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Post by Lets_Eat_Paste on Feb 20, 2012 2:00:42 GMT -6
Ashton Greene
There were few things Ashton loved hearing more than that guttural glottal of a growl make its way out of Lucian’s mouth and oozing its way into his every word.
“I hope so. We shall see.”
Ashton smiled at him, secretly hoping he’d move his hand lower, trying to will it into existence. But the elevator began to move and Ashton was jolted slightly, falling into Lucian. It was incredible how, no matter the circumstance, their bodies fit together like two jigsaw puzzle pieces coming together to make one whole picture, a feat that could not be accomplished by one of them alone.
Ashton stayed there, nestled into him for the duration of the elevator ride, and slid away slowly once they stopped, moving with a jovial and slight bounce to her step, anxious and excited for what lie behind the door.
“If you want, you can close your eyes… Actually, yes. Close your eyes.”
Ashton slid her lids over her eyes and latched to Lucian’s hand for guidance. “Where are you taking me, love?” She had an idea of where they’d end up—in a hotel room, tangled under sheets and in each other’s arms. It was a lovely thought, but not nearly as lovely as what Lucian would present her with tonight.
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Post by The Exodus on Feb 20, 2012 2:11:08 GMT -6
Lucian Michaud
Ashton gripped his free hand in a way that told Lucian he was now her eyes. She clung to him as if even the tiniest misstep would send her catapulting stories down to the city below. Lucian smiled, in spite of his worries that what lay behind the door wasn’t still standing, because Ashton trusted him so blindly, so implicitly, that no matter what he had in store for her was always greeted with enthusiastic acceptance.
“Where are you taking me, love?”
“Someplace special,” he assured her, turning the key and pushing the door open.
To his relief, the canopy of sheets hadn’t fallen. It still sagged just a little under its own weight, but it was a cloth palace, or as good as. The picnic basket was untouched; her present, therefore, nestled safely inside. Lucian pulled Ashton gently into the room a few steps and then let go of her hand. He went around behind her to shut the door and mess with the light dimmer so that the room glowed faintly golden. The light bounced off of Ashton’s dress and refracted around the room in a million little pin-pricks of color and light. And for a moment, Lucian looked at her in awe. For Valentine’s Day, it was enough for him merely to be with her. He walked up behind her. His hands rested on her hips, fingers pressing lightly against her pelvic bone. He lowered his mouth to her ear and drank in the scent of her skin. Lucian nuzzled right behind her ear.
“Open your eyes, Ashton.”
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Post by Lets_Eat_Paste on Feb 28, 2012 22:05:18 GMT -6
Ashton Greene
Ashton could hear the muffled sound of Lucian’s footfalls and the carpeted sound of friction that replaced the rhythmic click-clack of her high heels. She could hear the key turning, gently pushing the lock tumblers into place, as if they contained some perfect code that pushed the door open. She could smell slightly scented candles and the dry, clean smell of a hotel room. “Someplace special,” Lucian assured her was their destination, and from the hints around her, she was perfectly inclined to believe him, blindly following him to a place she didn’t know, but hoped to in the coming moments.
She had heard the sounds and smelled the aromas the atmosphere around them had to offer her, drinking the clues in thirstily, but she had yet to feel.
Until Lucian sent chills down her skin as he breathed against her, her skin rising into brail, leaving behind a trail of messages inscribed in the language of lovers.
“Open your eyes, Ashton.”
Ashton’s breath caught somewhere in her chest, and in that moment, as much as she wanted to, she couldn’t open her eyes. She let out a soft moan and had to find the natural rhythm of her heartbeat before she could do so.
Finally, her green eyes rolled open, fluttering like her heart, and fell upon a beautiful blanket fort, built craftily by some linen architecture virtuoso.
“Oh, Lucian!” Ashton managed to breathe out, taking a step toward it, taking in every detail to the best of her ability. She crouched to her level and felt as small as a child exploring a massive cave, and yet, just as brave and filled with rapt wonder. “May I sit in it?”
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Post by The Exodus on Mar 4, 2012 22:31:52 GMT -6
Lucian Michaud
From behind her, Lucian could not see Ashton’s reaction. He heard it, though, in the silence of the room. Ashton’s breath caught in her throat, mid-gasp. Her heels clicked softly against the floor. And only then, did Lucian dare to look.
Ashton’s green eyes were ablaze with wonderment. She looked at his circus tent as though he’d built her a gilded, marble palace. A flush crept up her neck and made its home in her cheeks. And that smile… That classically Ashton smile…
“Oh, Lucian!” she breathed, braving another step forward. Then, crouching down, she studied the cavern. “May I sit in it?”
“Darling, I built this blanket fort especially so you could sit in it,” Lucian said, squatting beside her. Then, gesturing grandly, as if offering the space to her: “Ladies first.”
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Post by Lets_Eat_Paste on Mar 5, 2012 23:32:31 GMT -6
Ashton Greene
“Darling, I built this blanket fort especially so you could sit in it. Ladies first.”
Ashton didn’t need to be told twice as she made a bold, intrepid crawl into the cotton caverns of the crisp, cool sheets. She snuggled down, breathing in the cleanness of the white pillows, like newly washed clouds to break her fall.
Lucian followed her lead, letting the sheet fall behind him like a curtained gateway into their own little linen world, punctuated not by constellations, but geometric shapes of the comforter, instead of an atmosphere, they had an awning of translucent sheets that let just enough glow from the candles in, like a gentle, private sunrise.
“Do you remember last year when you crawled into my blanket fort?” Ashton traced along Lucian’s chest lovingly. “And we planned our future together, even though we weren’t allowed to?” She kissed him gently on the mouth, but bit playfully at his lower lip. “I’m glad we’re allowed to now.”
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Post by The Exodus on Mar 6, 2012 0:49:11 GMT -6
Lucian Michaud
The flicker of candlelight permeated the translucent sheets and gave the whole fort an odd glow. Ashton seemed highlighted against it all, shimmering like a million little stars in her sparkling gown. Lucian watched her crawl catlike until comfortable. He sat beside her, close enough to feel her body heat radiating off of her. She really was made of a million little stars, burning and blazing brightly.
“Do you remember last year when you crawled into my blanket fort?” she asked. Her fingers drew patterns against his chest. Lucian sighed at her touch. “And we planned our future together, even though we weren’t allowed to?”
He remembered. Vividly. The rain pouring down on the roof of his car as he sped through the cobbled streets of Paris to be with the woman he loved. The woman his son would pluck from him, or so they’d thought. There’d been a shadow of the taboo to everything. The thrill perhaps of the taboo. The future they plotted, laying together beneath a canopy not unlike the one Lucian handcrafted tonight, was an impossible dream then. They talked of a wedding that would not—could not—happen. And of anniversaries they were doomed to spend alone. And of children they would never conceive.
The wedding was being planned. They’d had their first anniversary. And their son slept soundly across town. Impossible dreams were beautiful things. Lucian remembered how hopeless, how brokenly he’d asked to play that game of make believe. He had come so close to crying then, thinking that in a few short months, they would have nothing but memories. Now, they were free to make a million more.
Ashton kissed Lucian’s lips. What started gently ignited a fire in him as Ashton nibbled his lower lip. Sharp teeth on soft flesh made Lucian growl.
“I’m glad we’re allowed to now.”
Lucian reached and cradled Ashton’s chin in his hand. He met her gaze. Ashton’s eyes were balls of green fire. Lucian smiled, selfishly thrilled that those were the eyes he’d get to wake up to every morning for the rest of his life.
“I was so worried that that would be our last night together,” he confessed quietly. “I thought for sure someone would follow us to that hotel and come bursting through the door or else someone would steal you away.”
He kissed her lips hungrily then. They tasted sweet and were warm to the touch. Lucian pulled away breathlessly.
“I’m just so thankful I get to keep you and you get to keep me.”
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Post by Lets_Eat_Paste on Mar 12, 2012 20:58:32 GMT -6
Ashton Greene
The kiss was fiery, dripping with passion at their lips as Ashton’s eyes rolled back with ecstasy. Lucian growled with hungry, almost obscene desire that Ashton wanted to shower in.
He pulled away, and though the kiss was broken, the spell was not as he cupped her chin in his gentle, able hand.
“I was so worried that that would be our last night together. I thought for sure someone would follow us to that hotel and come bursting through the door or else someone would steal you away.”
Ashton’s sylvan green eyes, which for a moment, had grown wide with anticipation, closed again, her lashes meeting each other like a latch closing with the softest delicacy. She remembered that day, and it played vividly in the darkness of her under-lids. Outside the blanket fort had been a worried buzz in the air, a dread that loomed in the air like heavy, suffocating smog. But beneath the tranquil umbrella of their blanket and pillow fort sat a serene safe haven where they could freely take the clay of their future and mold it, making funny shapes that only they could make sense of. Then, their blanket fort was a barricade, protecting them from what they thought was reality and ambiguity for the future. But now, it was a menagerie of snapshots of the life that had begun to build together.
Lucian kissed her again, then, and she drank him in like parched earth getting a taste of sweet, summer rain.
Again, he pulled away.
“I’m just so thankful I get to keep you and you get to keep me.”
“You and me, both.” Ashton said breathily. “I love you so much.” Ashton smiled devilishly at Lucian, her green eyes twinkling with that same lust they had the first time they made love. “And I need help getting out of this dress.”
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Post by Lets_Eat_Paste on Mar 25, 2012 13:15:23 GMT -6
Catalina Reyes
Catalina ran her hands along the delivery box as if she could feel the life of its contents breathing through her fingertips, leaving her prints along the way as she trailed the length of it, trying to suppress her morbid excitement.
She procured from her thigh high leather boots, which sparkled in the dim fluorescents of her hotel suite, her pocket knife, and, flicking the blade out, she pierced the barrier of tape that held closed the box like a clear, sticky force-field. She heard the loud pop as she punctured it and glanced around for any sign of life outside her hotel door.
Silence. Everywhere.
Eerily quiet save for the lurid voice of Sara Montiel was flowing like velvet in the wind from somewhere near the bed, a singing a ghostly song of nostalgia.
Catalina flipped open the cardboard flaps of the box. She didn’t need to peer in. She didn’t want to. But in she plunged her hands and felt for that lacy, flowery fabric she once knew so well, she once despised.
She pulled out her wedding dress and examined it with the ghost of a nostalgic smile on her face, her eyes locked as she sifted through the memories she held in her two hands.
There she was, miserable and dark, looking in the mirror as Luciana placed the veil on her hair.
There she was, being held by Lorenzo, who, in his rare moment of affection, kissed the top of her head and called her beautiful.
There she was, walking down the aisle to a man she didn’t love, a man who would soon be dead.
And there, outside the window, had been Sebastian, crying as he looked on, not allowed inside the ceremony.
And Catalina wondered, as she fingered the neckline of her gown, if Lorenzo would be dead today if Catalina had only married Sebastian then.
She stood, gingerly carrying the dress, and crossed to the full length mirror, a convenient piece of furnishing provided her by the Le Meurice staff.
She held the dress to her, and though dingy and greying from the years of sitting derelict in the attic, she wondered how well it would still fit her.
Gently, slowly, she unzipped her dress, feeling each click of the zipper sent a violent voltage of shock through her body with anticipation, with grief, with fear. She unzip her boots, and for a moment, stood in the mirror, bare, unblemished and cold; her skin rising to form little mountain ranges of gooseflesh. She took herself in before putting on the dress, slowly, one leg at a time, back open and exposing as she pressed it to her chest. There she was, beautiful and stupid; stupid and selfish. It was because of her Lorenzo was dead. She couldn’t bear the thought. Her brother? Dead at her own vicarious hand? She hated herself, she wanted to smash that beautiful face in the mirror. Angrily, she threw the mirror over, and it fell with a loud, shattering clatter, a noise that resounded and resounded again in her mind. She looked down at the shards that littered the expensively carpeted floor, and still, there she was, the murderer of her brother. Crying in self-loathing rage, she stomped angrily on that face. Her brother was never returning, and as she saw the scarlet start to pool around her, she realized her hunt for him had been in vain. Leaving a crimson trail, she trekked to the bathroom, each step sending a thrum of anguish through her, each one worse than the one before it, each one duller than the excruciation of her breaking heart.
Had her package not come, she’d be bathing by now, drinking from the bottle beside the tub. But now, it provided an inviting place to wash her feet, bleeding, raw and sore. She stepped into the now tepid water and lowered herself in steadily. Beneath her, the clear turned into red clouds, billowing out, expanding, threatening to eat her alive, to consume her. But there she sat, feeling them warm the tub as her feet throbbed to stop.
And Montiel kept singing of nostalgia, oblivious to the bloodbath.
Catalina reached, curling her black nails around the neck of the liquor beside her. Too weak from crying to drink it, she let it tip over and trickle into the tub.
She felt the sharp burn of the alcohol as it reached her feet, seeping like osmosis into the wound. Maybe she’d get drunk just by sitting here, letting the alcohol pump into her system through an entry wound.
She reached down and felt her foot, wet with inebriated water, and sticky with blood. She plucked out a large shard of glass, the blood making lacy cobweb, spindly designs on it as it dribbled down to drip back into the tub.
And there she was again, her brother’s murderer, staring back into her face, make-up running, hair tied neatly up and draped in a wedding veil. She deserved more than a few slices on her feet. She deserved a taste of Lorenzo got, she deserved a taste of death.
And, of course, her accomplice deserved punishment. She took out the letter Sebastian wrote her, the letter she stole back from Santiago as he slept, the letter she kept locked away in her necklace at all times, and she ripped it, hearing a sigh of relieve form the paper as she rent it apart, throwing it’s remains into the cerise to become flotsam.
And Montiel sang on and on.
And the glass still glinted at her impishly. She twirled it round and round in her fingers, feeling it slice, ever so subtly, along them. And still that face looked at her. She wanted to kill it, to hurt. She wanted to hurt herself.
Sliding the glittering glass, clear as solid water already drenched in her own blood, across her wrists. For a moment, she felt nothing as she watched the scarlett life flow from her and down her arms. She played with it, drew with it across her forearms and neck, her eyes dancing on a borderline of a laugh until it ran low. She did it again, and again in her other one, the glass slippery slick with blood. She dropped the glass into the bath, her work finished.
She draped the gossamer veil over her eyes, her wrists burning from the alcohol, and listened to the Zarzuela, now skipping in its player.
She sat still, crying. If she cried, Lorenzo would come save her, as always.
Her eyes felt heavy, as if to rest. But she didn’t want to sleep. If she slept, she’d miss Lorenzo, she’d stop crying.
And yet, Lorenzo was there already. She could hear him, smell him. If she could move her arms to reach, she could touch him.
Lorenzo was here , and the pain in her feet and arms went away. She wasn’t crying anymore. All was well.
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Post by Lets_Eat_Paste on May 15, 2012 6:20:20 GMT -6
OoC: Continuing on with Simone/Rafael. Let's wrap this up some how and move onto a new scene to keep the ball rolling. BiC:
Rafael Lamaroux
The bottom of Rafael's stomach dropped out. His sister ws hurting and there was nothing, absolutly nothing he could do to assuage her pain. For a moment, one one evanescent moment, afael alked a line that bordered annoyance with Simone. She ran from her problems, leaving her ex-army brother to fight for her. But the moment disappeared when a rational part reminded him that she did what any logical person would do; she ran home where it was safe. It made sense now. How could Rafael be annoyed by that?
“Nothing, really… It just wasn’t meant to be, I guess. Things sometimes just don’t work out, you know?” Simone said, with a flippant change in mood. Rafael dropped the subject.
But he knew. He knew the tune to that song. He had danced to it alone and with partners; he had hummed it and hated it. Divorce was something that haunted him his whole life, taunted him. First his parents, then Rachel, now Simone. Surely he was next in line for the divorcee throne. It was why he didn't believe in marriage-- he didn't want a reason to be next.
“No kids, though, so you don't have to worry about being an uncle just yet."
Rafael laughed humourlessly. Too late. Alexander was already a father by heart and by law, making Rafael something close to an uncle. He didn't mind. He was pushing 30 (my God! 30?) and it was pushing back at him just as hard. It was time for a role in his life. He had played in all the classics: Don Quixote, Sleeping Beauty, Faust, but it was time to assume new and exciting roles in life as well as in work.
"Well, Simone, if you ever need a place to stay, my place is always open."
It wa going to be a full house with Alexander, the twins, Jennifer and him all living there, but he didn't mind sharing. Not with people he loved.
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Post by The Exodus on Feb 14, 2013 0:51:42 GMT -6
OOC: Devi/Solange/... Tristan? BIC: Devi KumarThe Devereaux-Blakeney wedding had gone off without a hitch. Oh, sure, there’d been a few minor hiccups -- a bridal hairdo that wouldn’t stay in place and had to be changed last minute, a flower girl who had accidentally locked herself in the church bathroom – but nothing had detracted from the last eight months of hard work Devi had put in. The bride and groom had everything they could want: from the ceremony in La Madeleine Church to the reception in Le Meurice hotel. The DJ was cranking out the usual mix of wedding music – Top 40s plus sappy traditional ballads with the occasional chicken dance thrown in. The buffet table had a steady line of hungry wedding attendees; the bride and her groom were out on the floor, working it. And everything was utterly perfect. Devi had even managed to snag a “plus one” at the insistence of the bride and groom. “We want everyone to have someone tonight,” Joelle Devereaux (now Blakeney) insisted. “Isn’t there someone special in your life that you want to share the night with?” Actually, yes. Who better to share the night with than your best friend? Solange de Grace was just about the only person Devi could imagine herself having a good time with at the hell better known as “a wedding reception”. She’d enjoy the open bar as much as Devi, join in when Devi wanted to snipe about other people’s outfits, and maybe even make Devi laugh. Plus, there were bound to be single groomsmen they could snag, if so inclined. Devi looked at her friend over the rim of her cocktail glass. “I know, I promised you the hottest party in all of Paris tonight,” Devi said with a wry grin. “Sorry if I disappointed.”
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Post by blueeyeddevil on Feb 14, 2013 1:16:07 GMT -6
Solange de GraceSolange had to admit that Devi certainly knew how to throw a party. The ballroom at Le Meurice hotel looked absolutely incredible! The bride's Tiffany blue themed wedding had been carried out all through the reception from the table clothes to the chair covers, even with light blue lighting shining all around the dance floor. It was completely stunning. Devi really had outdone herself on this, though she hadn't actually seen the other weddings Devi had put together. Still she could imagine that they about at the same caliber as this one. “I know, I promised you the hottest party in all of Paris tonight,” Devi said with a sly smile. “Sorry if I disappointed.” Solange grinned back and took a sip of the mojito she had gotten from the open bar. As she recalled the conversation went something different. Her friend had called her up warning her that yes it was going to be a lame wedding reception but she would love for her to come and make it a little more bearable for Devi. Honestly it had sounded like fun and Tristan had plans that night, so they were closing the funeral home early that day. "Mmmmm....the open bar does help me drown the disappointment," she teased. "It would help if I'd known to dress more stylishly, like her." A wicked little grin spread over her lips as she nodded towards one of the bridesmaids in her terrible toga-like Tiffany blue dress as she went by. Solange shook her with a small laugh. "In all honesty, I'm really impressed," she admitted. "You really put all this together?!"
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Post by The Exodus on Feb 14, 2013 1:47:40 GMT -6
Devi Kumar
"Mmmmm....the open bar does help me drown the disappointment," Solange said sarcastically. Devi snickered. "It would help if I'd known to dress more stylishly, like her."
Devi followed Solange’s gaze to one of the bridesmaids. The dresses had been Tiffany’s blue and they looked more like bed sheets wound around the bridal party than Greco-Roman chic. But everyone had oohed and ahhed over them at the store six months ago. Never mind that bridesmaids kind of had to look frumpy compared to the bride herself.
"In all honesty, I'm really impressed," Solange said, sounding much more serious. "You really put all this together?!"
“Oh yeah,” Devi said. “And it was an utter nightmare. The bride and groom were cool enough, but their families…”
She shook her head and lowered her voice, lest she be overheard.
“I have never seen a fiercer sibling rivalry between sisters. Me and Padma included,” Devi whispered. “Joelle kicked Elaine out of the bridal party. Actually replaced her last-minute with a cousin, things got so bad. Something about little sister getting married first just didn’t sit so well…”
Devi cringed. She’d actually broken up a catfight in the bridal gown shop. Gotten a nasty bruise across her face from being whacked in the face with a purse. It was almost laughable now. Almost.
“I will never understand the drive to settle down before thirty,” Devi said, shaking her head. “Like… Who wants to be tied down forever and ever at our age? Different strokes for different folks, I guess.”
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