Take Your Time (Boston Love #4)(7)

"Picky?" Gemma's brows lift in twin arcs of incredulity. "Phoebe, picky is complaining to the caterer when they change your rehearsal dinner salad course from romaine to iceberg unexpectedly. I don't have a word for what you are."

"What have I done that's sooooo bad?" Phoebe pins each of us with a stern look, as if daring us to come up with something.

"Well, you’ve sent back your dress to the tailor four times," Shelby points out, tucking a strand of chestnut hair behind her ear. "Not to mention our bridesmaid dresses..."

"And... didn't you make the florist cry last week when she said she only had blush pink peonies instead of pure white for my maid-of-honor bouquet?" Gemma asks.

"Plus... you did drag us to look at about sixteen venues...." Chrissy blushes up to the roots of her platinum pixie cut. "But, really, compared to some of my old sorority sisters, you weren't so bad..."

"Like hell she wasn't," I grumble. "You guys were spared the experience of shopping for wedding lingerie. Phoebe, I've now seen more lace thongs on your body than I've ever witnessed on my own."

Phoebe's mouth twitches. "You guys! You're supposed to tell me I was a delightful bride!" She glares at her sister. "Admit it, you're just holding a grudge because that woman suggested you buy something from the maternity section at the dress shop—”

Gemma's face flushes.

"You can barely even tell you're pregnant," Chrissy assures Gemma.

Phoebe snorts. “Maybe when you're looking at her from the front. The profile is a whole different ballgame."

"You know, you really shouldn't insult the overly hormonal, aggressively sober woman who happens to be carrying your future niece or nephew." Gemma pins her sister with a scary look. "Especially since you left your phone at home, and without me you wouldn't be able to find your way out of a brown paper bag at the moment, let alone get yourself back onboard the party Hummer in one piece."

"I had to leave my phone behind,” Phoebe insists. “Seriously, you try living with a man like Nate. Given half a chance, he'd have already triangulated my cell signal and sent a SWAT team in to retrieve us. Especially if he knew we ended up at a strip club."

"Honey, I hate to break it to you, but I'm guessing Nate has ways of tracking you down with or without your cellphone." I tilt my head in contemplation. "He's the best private investigator in the city."

"Didn't he once put a tracking device in your necklace?" Chrissy eyes the massive rock on Phoebe's left finger. "You don't think..."

Phoebe's face blanches. Uncoordinated from the alcohol in her system, she jerks her hand up to her face so fast it bonks her straight in the nose. "Ow!" She blinks her watering eyes at the engagement ring. "No… that's pure diamond. Trust me, if there's one thing I know, it's Tiffany & Co."

Shelby laughs. "Great. Maybe you can take a look at my old ring, let me know how much it's worth."

"So..." My voice trails off. "The divorce is final, then?"

Shelby shrugs. "Not quite. Paul has been putting up a surprising amount of resistance. But hopefully within the next few weeks my lawyers will be able to work their magic…”

"Have you seen him?" Chrissy asks, studying her friend.

Shelby shakes her head, eyes darkening with unreadable thoughts. "You know what? Let's not talk about my failed marriage while we're out celebrating Phoebe's impending one. No need to tempt the universe."

We all stare at her for a beat, wanting to ask for more details but afraid to push. When it comes to Paul, Shelby has always been notoriously close-mouthed. In the year I've known her, I've only met her (soon-to-be-ex) husband once, in passing, and we traded no more than the most basic of greetings before he got called away for work.

"Right, so..." Deciding a change of subject is in order, I seize my shot glass and hoist it into the air. I’m never one for big shows of emotion, but I figure my best friend’s bachelorette party warrants an exception. "A toast!"

Chrissy, Shelby, and Phoebe raise their tequila. Gemma raises her water in solidarity.

"To Phoebe," I say solemnly. "The most loveable, psycho, wonderful, batshit crazy bridezilla who ever walked the streets of Boston. I'm so happy someone is finally making an honest woman of her because, honestly, her dog Boo really needs a solid male figure in his life—”

Phoebe tosses another ice cube at me; this time, it hits me square in the forehead before I can dodge, which makes the entire table — myself included — dissolve into drunken laughter.

"Okay, okay, in all seriousness..." I take a deep breath and gather my thoughts. “Phoebe, you've been my best friend for as long as I can remember. I don't have a childhood memory without you in it. You've been there for all the bad hair days and awful fashion phases and terribly embarrassing life decisions I'd rather not recall at this precise moment in time—”

"Like when you dated Kevin Halliwell because you had it on good authority that his older brother was the drummer in that band and you thought you could score us free tickets but it turned out he was just a roadie who hauled their stuff around—”

I grit my teeth. "Like I said, embarrassing life decisions I'd rather not recall—”