Not Quite A Bride Read Free

bought a new candle for me?!?”
    The birthday cupcake isn’t a complete surprise ... it’s more a tradition, really. Since my 21st, Brad has always “surprised” me with a cupcake. What is a surprise, though, is that the wax candle in the shape of a two that was used to celebrate the past nine birthdays (he never bothered to specify where in my twenties I was, which was always appreciated) has been replaced.
    â€œNothing but the best for you. Happy Birthday, Molly. Make a wish.”
    I blow the candle out ... we all know what I wished for.
    â€œIt’s going to come true, I promise,” he says as he kisses my head.
    I smile at him as I take the cupcake and start peeling off the paper. Whoever said, “Life’s uncertain, eat dessert first,” was definitely onto something.
    â€œYou’re so early—thank goodness I’m dressed!”
    Brad looks at his watch, “I’m not early—it’s seven on the dot.”
    â€œExactly—who’s on time? On time is today’s early.”
    He starts to laugh, and I can’t help but look at him fondly because his whole face twinkles when he laughs as the buzzer buzzes again.
    â€œHuh? Is this a birthday surprise?!? (Into the intercom) Hello?” I say, looking suspiciously at Brad.
    â€œMolly, it’s Claire. What is taking Brad so long? I’m holding a cab, you know.”
    The happiness, the joy, and the anticipation of a nice birthday celebration come to a screeching halt. Brad has brought the human equivalent of nails on a chalkboard: Claire Reilly. Now I know I said that I personally don’t find Brad attractive; however, based on the reaction he gets at every bar, club, and dental office I’ve ever seen him in, all other women do. Okay, I’m lying ... I mean, I’m not blind; even I can see how good-looking he is. I have just convinced myself that he’s not, because I never want to jeopardize our friendship. But why he has chosen Claire Reilly to be with for the past year is beyond me. She’s truly awful and evil. She doesn’t work because her grandfather invented whatever thing it is in pacemakers that makes them pace and then died (ironically) of a heart attack shortly after, leaving her with an enormous trust fund. The really annoying thing is that she genuinely doesn’t understand why everyone doesn’t live off their trust fund and often acts like Brad’s job, as a writer for an extreme-sports magazine, is a hobby. She is insanely uptight and the exact reason why Brad was ringing my doorbell at 6:59 P.M.
    â€œMolly ... are you ready? Come on, we’ve got to go.”
    Oh, and did I mention that Brad is completely pussy-whipped?
    I grab my bag and buckle the left sandal strap as I hop out the door. I finger my hair as we literally run down the stairwell and secretly curse Claire for preventing me from doing one last mirror check.
    Out on the street, she’s holding open a cab door and tapping her little Jimmy Choos on the curb while she keeps time on her Cartier watch.
    â€œSorry, baby. Molly wasn’t quite ready.”
    I open my mouth to protest, but what do I care? Let her hate me. The feeling is definitely mutual.
    â€œYou know, Molly, when people say seven, they mean seven.”
    She ushers me into the cab and I feel like an eight-year-old who is late for the school bus. Actually, worse ... I teach eight-year-olds, and I never talk to anybody like that! Claire is one of those people that you would probably be compelled to hate even if she was an angel, because she is physically flawless. She has skin that looks like porcelain, lavender-blue eyes, and pale blond hair without a single dark root or a moment of frizz. She has a great figure and a wardrobe to match. Everything is perfect. The fact that she’s evil just makes it that much easier to wish her dead.
    We get to my favorite restaurant in Little Italy where I have been coming for