002: Fashion Disaster

MEEKA'S POV::

My voice comes out raw, loud, and pointless, like I'm shouting at the universe for allowing something so small and precious to be destroyed while bigger, uglier things continue to thrive.

My eyes sting, but I blink hard until the room comes into focus.

I carefully gather the pieces in my palms one by one. The lid, the cylinder, the shattered mirror panel, the carved base—everything. I hold them tightly against my chest.

I know it sounds ridiculous for me to be so dramatic. It’s just a box, an object after all.

But it has always felt more than just an object to me. It was the sound that filled the quiet moments of my life and reminded me of so much. It grounds me, puts in a better mood when I'm doing the one thing that actually makes sense in my life.

It’s one of the best gifts I've ever received.

I sigh and pull myself off the floor with the broken pieces, placing them gently on the table.

"What could have made it fall like that? I really hope I can get it fixed."

Shaking my head, I put my hand on my forehead and stumble into the bathroom, grabbing my toothbrush as if it were a weapon. My head is still pounding loudly; I can almost hear its drum solo.

There are three things I hate most in this world.

Okay. "Hate" is too strong a word. Let’s say “something I struggle to tolerate.”

Number one: waking up with a hangover.

Number two: losing my favorite things.

And number three... oh God, my brother Jeremy Clemson.

I shuffle down the hallway, rubbing my eyes because honestly, it feels like I fought in a war last night instead of getting any sleep. And judging by the noise coming from the kitchen, pots clattering and something sizzling aggressively, it seems that battle followed me home.

Oh no. Please don’t tell me Jeremy is cooking again. I've had enough drama this morning already.

I pause at the doorway and peek inside, only to find Jeremy at the stove.

Let me emphasize that slowly in case you didn't catch it: Jeremy. Is. Cooking.

Good heavens! What on earth is he making this time?

I lean against the doorframe and cross my arms. “Should I call the fire department preemptively or are you actually trying to cook something edible today?”

Jeremy glances over his shoulder with that cocky grin I've loathed since childhood.

“Good morning to you too, Blink-Blink.” 

Ugh! Not that name again.

Someone needs to tell this guy to stop calling me Blink-Blink.

Is it any wonder he's on my list of pet peeves? He knows I can't stand that name, yet he'll stick with it until the end.

“I'll have you know, I'm making pancakes,” he says.

“Pancakes?” I raise an eyebrow. “You mean those charcoal circles of doom, right? Because the last time you cooked, I had to renovate my kitchen. Remember?”

Jeremy flips the spatula with flair. “That was just one time. And technically, the toaster caught fire, not me.”

I chuckle as I slide into a chair at the counter. “The toaster caught fire because you were trying to toast the cord instead of the bread.”

“Details, details,” he mutters, though he's smiling. He looks genuinely proud of himself, as if he's auditioning for Top Chef: Arson Edition.

Just as I'm about to continue teasing him, my phone buzzes on the counter. I look at the screen and see it's Nathaniel.

Of course.

My heart does that little teenage skip it’s been doing since I was sixteen and hopelessly in love with him. It's been years, but every time I see his name pop up on my phone, I feel like that girl again. Desperate, breathless, and willing to do anything just for his affection.

Honestly, when my family announced that I was marrying Nathaniel DeWitt, the very man I've loved in secret for as long as I can remember, I was overjoyed.

In all those novels I've devoured (yes, I'm a complete addict), heroines typically throw a tantrum when told they're marrying some wealthy heir. They kick and scream, vowing they'll never go through with it.

But my story? It’s different. For me, this feels like a dream come true, even though deep down I know Nathaniel doesn’t truly... well, love me. Maybe "love" is too strong a word to use here.

Still, I can't help but hope. Hope that one day he’ll really see me.

And you know what they say: sometimes love develops after marriage.

So yeah. I've got this gut feeling that once I'm his wife, Nathaniel will finally love me back.

I swipe open the message and read through it.

* Nathaniel: I'll pick you up in an hour. We’re going to see my parents.*

My stomach tightens at the mention of his parents.

I haven't seen them in years, and even then, it wasn't exactly warm. I don't know his mother very well; I can only remember a little about her. As for his father, he's the kind of man who makes silence feel like judgment.

And did I mention that today is my engagement party? Because apparently, my hangover isn’t punishment enough for one morning.

“Is your fiancé texting you?” Jeremy asks in a sing-song voice, leaning against the counter. “What’s he saying, Mrs. DeWitt?”

I groan. “Don’t call me that.”

“Why not? It’s true.” He smirks. “You’d better start practicing your signature now: M. DeWitt. Or maybe just Meeka DeWitt. Sounds pretty impressive, right?”

I toss a napkin at him. “Stop making me dislike you more.”

“I love you even more,” he replies with a chuckle.

I shake my head, smiling despite feeling a bit annoyed. But deep down, there's a flutter in my chest, the same one that's been there my whole life, whispering that this is what I'm meant to be: Nathaniel's.

Jeremy flips another pancake, and the smoke alarm remains quiet, definitely a sign from above. But my mind is racing with countless thoughts, especially the nagging voice reminding me that no matter how perfect everything seems, something’s missing.

Before I can spiral too far into those thoughts, the doorbell rings and shatters the silence.

Jeremy raises an eyebrow. “Are you expecting someone?”

“No.” I push away from the counter and make my way to the living room, half-expecting a package.

But it’s not.

As soon as I open the door, Nora, my wild and insufferable best friend, storms in with her glossy ponytail swinging and eyes already critiquing me.

Her arms are piled high with shopping bags that leave me wide-eyed and slightly agape in shock.

What’s with all the bags?

“Meeks!” she exclaims, immediately narrowing her gaze at my messy hair and bare face. “Good Lord, Meeka! You’re not ready? Do you want me to have a heart attack before noon?”

I blink at her, still hungover and barefoot. “Uh, good morning to you too?”

She ignores me completely and strides straight into the living room.

“We don’t have time! You’re trying on dresses right now.”

Ah! She acts just like my mom.

“Nora...”

“No excuses! Just be quiet.” She grabs my hand and drags me toward my room as if I’m a stubborn child refusing to listen to their mom’s instructions.

The moment we step into my room, she starts pulling gowns from the bags as if she’s a magician unveiling doves.

“Option one is stunning and classic, very much ‘future Mrs. DeWitt.’ Option two is flirty and romantic, it just screams ‘America's sweetheart.’ You’re welcome.”

Ever since Nora found out I’m marrying Nathaniel, I haven't had a moment to myself. She has practically appointed herself as my maid of honor. Not that I have anyone else for that role anyway.

“Nora—”

“Shut up, Meeks!” Nora interrupts me again, and I'm tempted to stick her mouth with a glue to shut her the hell up. “Some of us are trying to save you from being a fashion disaster on the biggest night of your life.”

It’s not even my wedding night!

I groan and drag a hand down my face. “You know, I was kind of hoping for a peaceful mental breakdown before all this, but sure, let’s play dress-up.”

“Exactly.” Nora claps her hands dramatically, embracing her inner drama queen. “Now march to your bathroom. Shower first, then we’ll do your hair and makeup.”

I scoff, roll my eyes, and head into the bathroom as she instructed.

But I barely make it inside when her question stops me dead in my tracks, as if my feet are glued to the tiles.

“By the way,” Nora calls out casually, as if she’s not about to complete the ruining of my entire morning. “Why did you disappear on us last night after going to the restroom? Where did you go afterward?”

Oh, crap! 

Not last night again.