The Bet by Max Monroe

Saturday, February 24th

Sophie

Jude leads me to the dance floor, his arm cocked back to keep my clammy hand locked in the palm of his. Seeing him decked out in a suit is like a whole different attack on my nervous system, and it’s all I can do to force myself to swallow my saliva every few seconds rather than choking on it.

A slow beat pounds from the oversized speakers next to the DJ’s booth on the other side of the club, and every vibration hits me square between the legs. I’m swollen and sensitive—just as I’d be after actual sex, and nobody’s even touched me.

I swear, tomorrow, I’m going to have to see if anyone else remembers anything from tonight or if this is all just a freaking weird dream.

Jude spins without unlocking our hands when he finds a small hole in the crowd on the dance floor and pulls my body toward him with a jerk. I hit him on a hard stop, all his muscles feeling like the smooth surface of a large boulder beneath my hands. For as much as we’ve already been through together tonight, this is the first time I’ve touched his body with my palms.

My mind races to figure out if it’s wrong to be doing this—given that I’m not really the bride-to-be but am just pretending to be—but we’re swaying to the beat with his thigh between my own before I even come close to landing on a conclusion.

There’s no time to question, no time to wonder. It’s all I can do to keep up with the normal bodily functions required for survival.

“What do you think, Belle? Is this more like what you had in mind?”

For my bachelorette party? No. I’d say not. Ha.

I watch as his pulse thrums peacefully at the side of his tanned neck, and—

“Sophiieee! Helloooo?”

With muddy recognition of my name, I snap my head up on a jolt, and the bouquet in my hands jostles accordingly. Strobing lights I once saw with the vividity of reality fade away, and my sister’s sternly bridal face takes their place. I would have sworn on the dang Bible two seconds ago that I was still back in Club Craze, dancing with a freaking exotic dancer I had no business dancing with, given that he thought I was Belle and engaged to be married.

But no.

Strange as it seems, I’m apparently at my sister’s wedding, having a possible psychotic episode.

I gulp down a huge batch of air, trying to catch my thoughts and shove them back into the deep recesses of my brain so that there’s room for reality. Belle is getting married. Right now. Today. We’re moments away from the actual wedding, and I haven’t seen Jude, the Magic Dancer in a week. It’s time to get a grip.

Sheesh. I can’t wait to fill Dr. Winters in on this one.

“Geez, Soph. I’ve been calling your name for at least a minute. Are you having a stroke or something?”

I shake my head to clear it and then smile like the dutiful maid of honor I am. “I don’t think so.” Not that I know what one feels like. It’s entirely possible I am, I suppose. I’m definitely acting crazy enough.

“Good,” Belle huffs. “I mean, this is my day after all.”

I roll my eyes at my twin’s uncharacteristic dramatics. Lack of sympathy for a potential stroke victim is pretty callous, I’ll admit, but in my line of work, I’ve seen many a bride go temporarily insane on the big day. Why should it be any different for my twin just because we share DNA?

“Of course. I’ll delay my medical emergencies accordingly.”

Belle glares, and I bite my lip to silence a chuckle. The truth is, after the amount of time and physical labor my event planning company put into this wedding, I’d sweep my own body to the side and declare that the show must go on from the afterlife if I needed to.

“Girls, please. Can we not even have a wedding without the two of you sniping at each other?” our mother Katerina asks from her spot at the ironing board in the corner of the room. Our dad Anthony’s pants are in her hands, and she’s working on them furiously. That, of course, begs the question of where exactly my father is without his pants, but I really don’t want to know, so I don’t ask.

“How long do we have? I’m starting to sweat through my deodorant,” Belle remarks, making me laugh.

She’s a pain in my ass, but I love her more than anyone else in the world. There’s a special kind of bond that comes with being a twin sister—half devotion, half loathing, and another completely unexpected fifty percent dedicated to an understanding so deep no one else will ever comprehend. Our mother refers to it as “sniping,” but in reality, it’s all just a special part of our dynamic. Normally, she ignores it, but since our parents moved back to Miami, we don’t see them as much as we used to. As a result, I think Katerina feels an extra need to mother us when she’s around.

I glance down at the slim gold watch on my wrist that Belle gifted all her bridesmaids and calculate the time. It’s her big day and she’s anxious, so I’ll do my best to be understanding. “Just about ten minutes to go. Last time I checked in with Julie, she said the groomsmen were getting themselves together to head into the atrium.”

“Pretty sure you mean popping mints to cover the smell of all the alcohol they’ve been drinking,” our elder sister Katelynn says from her spot on the couch. She’s been married for five years already, and apparently, she gets it.

I laugh. She’s pretty spot-on, to be honest. “That, among other things. You wouldn’t believe how many grooms I’ve had to make switch pants with one of their groomsmen at the last minute because of a stain.”

“Oh yes, I would,” Belle interjects. “John is an actual attractant for sauces. I swear. Somehow, you can see stains on even his black stuff. I told him he’s going to have to take all his shit to the dry cleaners if he wants our marriage to last.”

She may be cracking jokes, but her hands are shaking, and I know my sister better than anyone. She’s nervous as hell, and all this talk is just her way of trying to cover it up.

I step closer, handing off my bouquet to Tonya, who stops fluffing her boobs to take it, and pull Belle gently into my embrace. “You’re getting married, sis,” I whisper with a smile. “I’m so happy for you.”

Her eyes are wide and innocent as she breathes, “I love him so much, but I’m terrified, Soph. What if…what if it doesn’t work out or we start to hate each other or—”

“Belle,” I interrupt calmly, cupping her cheek with my hand. “John loves you. You’re going to fight and quibble and disagree sometimes, but I know you’re going to work out.”

“Really?” she asks hopefully.

I smile. “Really. And if not, I have a feeling I’m going to look damn good in an orange jumpsuit.”