Homewrecker

64 - 𝓺𝓾𝓮𝓮𝓷

"Peachy beige or a flushed pink."

I learned after the inner debate between a warm toned eyeshadow palette and one with deeper, smokier shades, then again soon after with a brow pencil and a pomade, that Andi wasn't actually asking me which one I preferred instead of just talking to herself out loud as she surveyed her options cluttered together in her Kaboodle, which I didn't know they still made.

Her makeup was already finished, and she already applied the limited amount of makeup Natalie was allowed to wear, and the other bridesmaids were doing their own makeup in one of the second story rooms in the lodge on the venue property, everything constructed of wood with expansive windows, reminding me of the outside of the Denvers' home.

Andi had also already finished my hair, pinning it up with braids she teased and letting a couple of curled pieces frame my face, then bobby-pinned stems of artificial baby's breath into the strands. She told me, with pins in between her teeth, that they were fake to keep the bees at bay, remarking that's something no one ever mentions about outdoor weddings—the swarm of perfume attracted bees.

I sat there, waiting as she held up a compact of each shade of blush against my complexation before deciding on the peachy beige color, swirling her brush around over the powder before tapping the excess off on the edge of the plastic. "When does Indie get here?"

"Probably when the other guests do," I told her, looking down at my new phone to see if she had texted, which she hadn't. "I'm not used to how big this is."

"But the camera quality is so much better than your old phone."

"Like I take pictures of anything."

"You could take pictures tonight at the reception," she said, lifting the brush to my cheeks and delicately grazing the bristles against my skin. "Or you could let me take pictures of you at the reception, having fun, dancing—"

"Yeah, but what even is a silent disco party?" I asked.

"—with someone," she continued over my interruption, almost suggestively as she closed the compact and placed it down on the vanity beside her.

I tilted my head. "Andi, do you want to dance with me?" I asked, skeptically.

She made a face. "No. But I might be able to think of someone who does." When I just frowned up at her, confused, she let out an exasperated sign and aggressively grabbed a tube of liquid lipstick from her Kaboodle. "Ethan. Ethan wants to dance with you. How can you figure out who killed your mom but not that?"

I pulled back from her as she held out the pointed tip wand to my lips. "Are you out of your mind?"

"What? This is a nice, tanned rose shade. It'll look good with your skin tone."

"You know what I meant," I snapped, which she apparently seemed to ignore and motioned for me to hold still as she applied the liquid lipstick. When she was done, I continued, "We don't dance. We're not a dancing thing. We're not a thing at all, actually, unless that thing is friendship."

"Well, as someone who's known Ethan for a really long time," she told me, grabbing the setting spray from her Kaboodle and misting it across my face before fanning me with one of the spare programs, "that's not how he treats his friends."

I hesitated. "We might be mortal enemies then," I retorted, but my voice was softer, not as convinced as I wanted it to sound. But before I had a chance to think about it too much, my phone started to ring in my hand, and I recognized the number as Officer Porterfield's. "The police are calling me back."

"Go, take it."

I left the rest of the bridal party in the room and headed into one of the main rooms on the second floor of the lodge, where a mini fridge had been stocked with various kinds of flavored waters and there were a couple of baskets of single serving snacks on the table, couches arranged around a fireplace that hadn't been turned on.