STELLA​

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     “To Duncan and Stella!” 

     Our families and the wedding party all raise their glasses. “To Duncan and Stella!” 

     Cheers fade in and out as people take sips of their drinks and resume their conversations. I lower my champagne flute before turning to my soon-to-be-husband, my whole body filled with love and excitement. I’d love to steal a kiss after the beautiful toast my brother Simon just gave at our rehearsal dinner. 

     But there’s no return look from my fiancé, let alone a loving glance. There’s no kiss. If I wasn’t holding his hand I doubt he’d even know I’m standing next to him. Hell, he still might not. 

     No, the only thing Duncan is looking at with hearts in his eyes is the bottom of his glass of scotch. 

     Get you a man who looks at you like Duncan Hughes looks at a glass of Macallan 18. 

     I shouldn’t think things like that, especially the night before our wedding. I’m just being dramatic. I have a tendency to do that—or so I’ve been told. Tonight is a happy night, and tomorrow is a day I’m going to remember forever. 

     Tomorrow I’m becoming Mrs. Duncan Hughes. 

     So I’m not going to hyperfocus on the fact that Duncan is half a bottle of scotch in. He’s celebrating. The man loves scotch. So much so he has an entire room dedicated to it at our condo. He calls it his office, but that requires a desk. I don’t say anything about his hobby, though. I know if I say one word about the booze room then he’s going to object to the number of shoes I own and the two closets I need to store them. 

     And no one—and I mean no one—touches my babies and lives to tell the tale. 

     But that’s marriage, right? Compromise. Learning to blend your lives together. He has Jameson, and I have Louboutins. He has his poker nights, and I have my Thursday night dates with my best friend, Andi. Instead of buying a house in the suburbs, he wanted us to continue living in the condo I moved into with him last year. I didn’t want that. Then again, he didn’t want the big wedding I had dreamed about since I was a little girl, and even more so since the day we met. 

     So he’s getting married in front of four hundred people and I’m staying in a space that doesn’t have enough closets. 

     See? Compromise. 

     We’re already killing this marriage thing. 

     “Stella?” 

     I feel a tap on my shoulder and turn to see our wedding planner, Whitley, standing next to me with a worried look on her face. It’s the opposite of what you want to see from the woman who has been taking care of every facet of your wedding weekend since you realized four months ago it was too big to handle yourself. 

     “Everything okay?” 

     She doesn’t say anything, instead just tilting her head as she signals me to follow her. I nod and give Duncan’s hand a squeeze. “I’ll be right back.” 

     He barely acknowledges me as I follow Whitley through the private dining room at the Italian steakhouse we rented for the rehearsal dinner and into a hallway. It’s not private, but it’s about as out of the way as you can make it. My stomach drops with every step we take. If this were good news, we wouldn’t be back away from everyone. And considering we’re about to go through the fire exit, this has to be bad. 

     “Okay, you’re scaring me,” I admit. 

     “I’m sorry,” she begins, though I don’t know if she’s apologizing to me for what she’s about to say or what’s about to happen. Maybe both. “Something is up that you need to know about.” 

     Those are the last words a bride wants to hear the night before the wedding. “Just tell me Whitley. Rip the Band-Aid off.” 

     Whitley bites her bottom lip, clearly nervous to say what she’s about to say. 

     “The florist called me because she said she hadn’t received final payment.” 

     I feel the color drain from my face. “What? That can’t be right. Duncan was supposed to call in the payment this week. Did he not?” 

     Whitley shakes her head. “Doesn’t sound like it. The problem is, she’s not the only vendor who’s called to tell me this.” 

     I feel my head starting to spin. “Excuse me?” 

     “The DJ called me right after the florist. He said the card you had on file is declining. Which means he doesn’t have final payment either.” 

     “Declined?” That can’t be right. There’s plenty of money in that account. It’s the wedding fund that Duncan and I have both been contributing to. “Did you try the credit card you have on file for backup? That’s not tied to the bank account?” 

     “I did. Also declined.” 

     This can’t be happening. That card, which is in both of our names, has a high, high five-figure credit line.              “Something has to be up. Maybe our identity was stolen and our account was drained? And they hacked our credit card too.” 

     “Maybe?” Whitley might say the word, but it doesn’t sound like she believes it. Honestly, neither do I. “I know this is the worst time to tell you all of this, but if they don’t get paid now, there won’t be flowers or a DJ at your wedding.” 

     I shake my head. “No. Thank you for telling me. I’ll go get Duncan. Maybe he knows what’s going on.” 

     She nods. “Okay. Let me know if I can help you in any way. I’ll call in the final payments once you get it sorted out.” 

     “Thank you,” I say, my mind now racing about how in the world not just one, but two, errors like this could have occurred. 

     It has to be a fraud thing. That’s the only thing that makes sense. There should be thousands of dollars in that account. And plenty on the credit card. Not only should it have been plenty to cover the flowers and the DJ, but we’re also using the leftover money and credit card for our honeymoon next week. 

     I can’t believe this is happening. Especially since these were the only two big expenses Duncan and I were taking care of for the wedding. When we told my parents we were engaged, they gave us plenty to cover everything we could want. Duncan’s eyes looked like a cartoon character when he saw the figure, but something didn’t feel right with me about not contributing at all. Plus, Duncan and I have money. I do well for myself as the head office administrator for the law firm Carter, Banks and Fairchild. It’s also the law firm where Duncan is an associate. So, I politely told my parents that we were going to pay for a few things. Those things were the DJ and the flowers, bridal party gifts, and all the other odds and ends that keep seeming to pop up when you’re planning a wedding of this size. 

     Here I was, trying to be an adult—and responsible and not a spoiled little rich girl—and this is what happens. 

     Being an adult sucks. 

     I walk back into the dining room, quickly adjusting my tight, white, strapless dress to make myself feel a bit more put together on the outside. I give my hair a shake and push back my shoulders, giving every impression that nothing is the matter. 

     Fake it till you make it, right? 

     I say hi to a few guests as I try not to look like I’m hurrying back to my table. I quickly take my phone out of my purse and log into the bank app. 

     Except I can’t. 

     I try again, completely convinced I have the password correct because it’s the same for everything I use, but nothing. 

     What the hell? 

     I swallow a groan as I go through the pain in the ass process of changing my password. Reluctantly, I use the password they suggest because I just need this to go quickly. Alarm bells are sounding off in my head as I finally am able to log in to the account to see my worst nightmare. 

     There, on the homescreen, is nothing but zeros. 

     Well, not all zeros. The savings account has a negative balance. A negative balance of more than six thousand dollars. 

     What the hell? How did I not get an alert on this? This doesn’t make sense. 

     I quickly toggle to the transactions in the checking account and one large wire transaction that took the checking to zero. Over on the savings, it’s three large amounts, and one that took it to heavily overdrawn. 

     What the hell? I need answers. 

     I stand up and search around the room for Duncan, who is leaning against the bar with his best man and a few of the groomsmen. He’s laughing and having the time of his life. 

     At least one of us is. 

     “Duncan? Can I talk to you for a minute?” 

     “Not now, babe,” he says, barely making eye contact with me before turning fully to the bar where a round of shots was just placed in front of him and his groomsmen. 

     If this were any other night, and any other problem, I’d probably move on. I don’t like to stir the pot with Duncan. I know sometimes I can be a bit crazy and don’t think things through, so most of the time I ask myself if it’s a problem I’m willing to die for. Most of the time that answer is no. 

     Tonight the answer is a resounding yes. 

     Duncan and his boys hoot and holler after they slam their glasses back down, giving each other a round of high-fives like they just won a game. I don’t say anything, instead continuing to shoot a death glare at my soon-to-be husband, hands on my hips and foot tapping.  

     I’ll wait here all night if need be. I’m as stubborn as I am Southern. 

     And I am very Southern. I have the monogrammed towels, bag, and water bottle to prove it.  

     Duncan finally turns to face me, letting out an audible sigh as I signal with my eyes that I need to talk to him. After a few more seconds of a silent stare-down, he starts walking back to where Whitley and I just came from.  

     “Fine. Here I am. What is so important that you had to drag me away and cause a scene?” 

     I swallow the laugh that bubbled to the surface at the thought that my request was a scene. Since we’ve gotten together, I’ve calmed my dramatic ways. I’m an adult, after all, in an adult relationship, with an adult job, and adult money. I’m too old to be causing scenes. 

     Now college and early twenties Stella? She’s a whole other story…

     “I just talked to Whitley,” I begin. And it’s at this moment I decided to play a little dumb. I don’t know why my brain is telling me that’s the move, but I’m going with my gut. “She informed me that none of the vendors that we were responsible for have been paid, which means they aren’t showing up tomorrow.” 

     I might not be a lawyer, but I work with enough to know that a face can give anything away. The slightest movement. A tick in their jaw. Irregular breathing. Removing eye contact. 

     But Duncan’s face doesn’t move. Not even a millimeter. He does hesitate to answer, but that’s not uncommon for him. The man is always careful with his words. He is a lawyer, after all. 

     “Stella…babe…Whitley has her facts mixed up. I paid this week, like you asked me to. Clearly she’s trying to pull one over on us. Maybe she thinks she’ll get paid more if she saves the day?”

     And there’s lie number one.  

     “Really, Duncan? That’s your theory?” 

     “I don’t know, Stella. Why is this my problem?” 

     Maybe because you’re lying to me? Maybe because it’s our fucking wedding? 

     “Duncan, you have one chance and one chance right now to tell me what’s going on. And the truth. None of your lawyer bullshit. Because if you thought that was a scene, you have no idea what’s in store for you.” 

     My parents always called me tiny but mighty. Which made sense. I was always short—even now with my stilettos I might hit five-foot-five—but the mighty part was their polite way of saying to not fuck with me. Or those I care about. I’ve never cared if I was a foot shorter than someone; I wasn’t going to be bullied. Someone messing with you? Excuse me while I take off my earrings so I can properly swing. I might love my shoes, but I’ll throw one like a ninja star if the situation calls for it.

     Though I don’t know if Duncan has ever seen that side of me. I’ve tried to tame the crazy since we got together three-and-a-half years ago. I learned that you can still defend those you love without having to make a spectacle. 

     Though I have a feeling a spectacle is exactly what’s about to happen if he doesn’t fess up. 

     Duncan looks around before taking my hand and pulling me even farther into the hallway. He tilts his head back, pinching the bridge of his nose. When he looks back down at me, an overwhelming look of sadness is written across his face. “I fucked up.” 

     I do my best to stay calm. At least he’s telling the truth now. “What happened?” 

     He lets out a defeated sigh as he reaches for both of my hands, giving them a simultaneous squeeze. “I got caught up in a few deals.” 

     “What kind of deals?” My voice is shaky. How could it not be? I feel like the world is falling out from under me. 

     “That’s not important. I just…I thought…they seemed like sure things.” 

     They never are—that’s one thing my dad taught me years ago—but I know my commentary isn’t what’s needed right now. “I’m guessing they weren’t?” 

     His face is remorseful, maybe the most sorry he’s ever looked in our time together, and that’s including the time he forgot to pick me up from the airport. “I’m so sorry Stella. I know I should’ve told you, and I know this is all my fault. And I’m sorry, but I turned off your alert notifications because I didn’t want to stress you out about this. I wanted to fix this. I owed money, and I needed it quickly, so I had no choice but to take it from our account.”

He changed my settings? Did he change my password too? I’m adding that the list of questions for later. 

     “And the credit cards?” 

     His face flashes signs of guilt. I hadn’t brought up the credit card on purpose. And I bet if I hadn’t, he would’ve just played off the fact that he maxed out a card. Or just emptied the bank account. 

     And as for saying cards, as in plural? That was on purpose. Let’s see what he has to say about that. 

     “I’m so sorry. I should’ve told you.” I give him credit—his face and body are all showing signs of guilt and being in the wrong. “Things just got away from me. Before I knew it, I had all my credit cards maxed, so I took ours and used that too. I’m going to get out of this, I promise.”  

     He trails off, either not knowing what else to apologize for, or what else to say. 

     “You’re right. You should have told me. And you shouldn’t have used our money. Our wedding money. Or our joint credit card.”  

     He nods. “I know. But I thought I could get it back before you found out.”

     How’s that going for ya?

     That’s what I want to say. It’s on the tip of my tongue. But I don’t. A smartass comment isn’t going to fix the situation. It’s just going to cause a bigger fight. 

     Ugh! Why does adult Stella need to be mature? I want to scream and slap him and throw a drink in his face and call him every name in the book for fucking up like this. I mean, what else did he do? Invest in an MLM and now we have to invite his downline to the wedding? Send money to a Nigerian prince? 

     That’s what I want to say, and in my mind when I’m saying all of this to him, it’s poetic and perfect and I don’t stumble over a word. He gets the tongue lashing he deserves, and I feel better in the process. 

     Still broke. But a little better. 

     But I don’t. Because I’m not that girl anymore. I’m not the one who starts shit at bars. Or speaks before she thinks. Plus, Duncan hates when I let the sarcasm slip out. And by the look on his face, he’s beating himself up enough right now. 

     So I do what I’m sure I’m going to have to do many times over the next how-ever-many years of marriage: I lie to save a fight.

     Welcome to wedded bliss… 

     “It’s okay.” 

     His face turns from regretful to shocked and hopeful. “It is?”

     No. It’s not. But in this moment, I don’t have a choice for it to be anything else but okay. I have guests that are probably wondering where we’re at. We have four hundred people coming to a wedding tomorrow that I’ve been planning for a year. Is this the best way to start a marriage? Absolutely not. But it’s just money. We can figure it out. 

     After the honeymoon. That is if there’s even any money for it…

     “It has to be,” I say, doing my best to sound comforting and reassuring. “I have my emergency credit card, so I can finish the payments with the vendors. And I’m sure we’ll get plenty of gift money so we can at least enjoy our honeymoon.” 

     “Oh, babe,” Duncan says in relief as he kisses my cheek. “I knew everything would be okay. What would I do without you?” 

     Oh, the comments smartass Stella could make…

     “We’ll be okay.” I try to be hopeful, though I don’t know if that’s coming through. “Though I really didn’t think we’d be putting into effect the wedding vows of ‘being there for each other through tough times and bad’ so early.” 

     “For richer, for poorer.” 

     I narrow my eyes. “Too soon.” 

     He smiles and dammit, my worries somehow melt a little. 

     He’s been able to do this since we got together. His smile has always been my kryptonite. It’s how he went from just the guy I worked with to the guy I saw a future with. It’s the smile I hope our kids have. 

It’s the smile I want to see for the rest of my life. 

     Right? 

     Yes. 

     Maybe. 

     Huh? 

     I’m so damn confused. 

     Because that smile that’s trying to comfort me is also coming from the man who just stole money from me. And wouldn’t have told me about it had the vendors been paid earlier. Or if Whitley hadn’t told me. Or that I chose to unsuspiciously call him out on the hunch about multiple credit cards. 

     How is this happening right now? 

     The rest of the night goes by in a haze. People come up to us and shake our hands and wish us well for tomorrow. We smile and take pictures and everything on the outside is business as usual. 

     On the inside, though? I’m having feelings I never thought I’d have twelve hours before I’m supposed to get married. 

     Do I really want to get married to Duncan Hughes?