Page 2 of The Hitman

That’s an easier answer to pin down. I can’t name all the things I feel, but I’m thinking of gathering my big ass train in my hands, running through the lobby of the hotel I spent a fortune reserving two years in advance, and jumping into the limo we rented to take us to the airport after the reception. I want to drive across town to Ryan’s hotel like I’m in some late 90’s Julia Roberts movie and punch Ryan in the perfectly-formed jaw his agent paid a fortune to craft early in his career.

Okay, now that I think that all the way through, it feels right. It taps into that part of me that loves a bullet-pointed to-do list. And even though I’ve just decided that all that’s a scam, I think I have one more well-executed to-do list left in me.

Normally, I like to think and rethink all of life’s important decisions — and if you’d asked me two days ago, I’d have told you that all decisions are important — but I don’t have the benefit of time to give this scheme more than hasty consideration. Besides, why should I put more effort and thought into this than Ryan put into preparing for our wedding day? Why should I be more caring or careful than my best friend? And why the fuck should I be the only one feeling like this right now?

I shouldn’t, I realize, so I rip my veil from my head, barely feeling the sting of the strands of hair I pull out with it. I bunch the overlarge skirt in my arms — as much of it as I can gather, at least — and head straight for the door.

“Zahra, what are you doing?” my cousin Shae calls after me, but I don’t stop because I don’t want to fuck up my momentum. I’ve started, and I need to keep going, or I might break into tears and collapse in a heap of lace, chiffon, and Swarovski crystals instead of getting justice. Also, hearing Shae’s voice reminds me that Zoe isn’t in this suite, and Zoe, of all people, would have led the way to Ryan’s hotel for vengeance. That makes me feel comforted and miserable. Yay, two more emotions to add to the mix.

Why didn’t I choose Zoe as my maid of honor? Because she never trusted Trisha, and she flat-out hated Ryan from the moment I brought him home for Thanksgiving six months into our relationship. She took one look at him, Google-investigated him, and then told our entire family over the sweet potato pie, “This white boy is trifling. Zahra can do better,” and she’d never changed her mind.

I’d made excuses for him; stupid ones, now that I think about it. I told myself that she was jealous of me, that she hated me, that she was crass. When I announced that Ryan and I were engaged in our family group chat, her response — the one that arrived before anyone else’s congratulations — was a simple and devastating, “Why?” I’d been steaming mad and complained to Ryan and Trisha, but I also buried the question in my subconscious, too afraid to tell her, let alone myself, that I actually didn’t have a great answer to that oh-so-simple question.

And now everyone knows that Zoe was right — Shae, our parents, my Aunt Caroline. Everyone.

A small part of me is thankful that I don’t have to face Zoe right now, though. I don’t have to see the “I told your fool ass so,” in her eyes or the pity on my parents’ faces. Even though I know I need my family right now more than anything, I’m pretty sure that minimizing the sadness I feel is crucial to keeping the embers of my rage burning. Besides, I have family. I have Shae, and she’s hot on my heels as I stomp out of my bridal suite.

When I get to the elevator, I press the call button a dozen times. It doesn’t make the elevator arrive faster, but I need to dosomethingso my mind stays focused on the task at hand and doesn’t have the bandwidth to consider the very real question:What am I going to do now?

Shae rushes to stand next to me, and I look at her out of the corner of my eye. She looks pissed, which is so unlike her. Of all the cousins, Shae’s the nicest. Too nice if you ask me, but her sunny disposition is part of her charm. Seeing her angry makes me feel less emotionally frazzled for half a second, at least.

Shae’s fingers brush the back of my hand and wrap around my wrist. She squeezes me briefly, and I feel tears building at the back of my eyes. I hate it. I don’t want to cry. Not now. Not yet.

But when I turn my head, I see the small camera crew that’s been following me around for months, and the tears dry up. If I’d had my way, the only cameras here would be our personal videographers, but as soon as we got engaged, Ryan’s management pitched a reality television special to him, and he’d said yes. I heard about it only when the contracts arrived. I should have called off the wedding then, or at least put my foot down, but I didn’t. I listened to Ryan’s sob story about how great the series could be for him during awards season, and I caved. I knew it was bullshit — Academy voters hate reality tv — but he’d wanted it badly, and I loved him. And look at what that got me.

I’ve compromised a lot of myself in all the years I’ve been with Ryan but crying on camera isn’t an option. I refuse to let Ryan or his PR machine have that last tiny shred of my dignity.

I wrench my hand from Shae’s grasp and cover my face as best I can. I go back to pressing the call button again, this time like my life depends on it. I’m thinking about taking the stairs when the elevator doors finally slide open. I practically throw myself inside, which isn’t easy with my big ass dress. I have to whip around to pull the train fully inside, and Shae helps, bending low to gather it delicately. But I don’t want to be delicate with this dress Ryan paid a fortune for, so I snatch it from her hands and pull it inside.

I press the button for the lobby. One of the cameramen tries to rush inside, and I take a deep, terrified breath at the thought of riding down to the lobby with a camera trained on my face. I don’t know if I’ll start cursing Ryan out or break down in tears, but I’m certain that either of those responses will elicit yet another wave of online abuse from his batshit fans. I’ve had years of that. I don’t want more.

The fear makes me freeze, and Shae unexpectedly takes charge. She covers the lens with her entire hand and pushes the cameraman back with a dainty yelp. And then she glares at Anna and the crew, silently daring them to step a single foot on the elevator car until the doors slide closed.

I finally exhale.

“Shae?” I breathe, unable to say more. Not even sure what I would say if I could keep speaking.

My cousin turns to me with fierce eyes and a small grin, as if she can’t believe what she just did either. “So, we going to fuck him up?”

I’m still worried that I might fall to the ground in tears, but I smile and then burst into surprised laughter. Shae doesn’t join me, but she does put her hand on my shoulder. She squeezes and mercifully doesn’t say anything more.

2Zahra

I’m tryingto channel Zoe. The car ride to Ryan’s hotel is short. Honestly, it might have been faster to walk, even with the twenty pounds of crystals I’m lugging around. In transit, I ask myself one question over and over again: What would Zoe do in a situation like this?

When we were kids, I used to ask myself this question when it seemed beneficial to be as unlike myself as possible. When the cool kids at school bullied me for my Coke-bottle glasses with the headband. When my teachers took off half a point on a math quiz because I didn’t follow the formula they were trying to teach, but I got the right answer anyway. “What would Zoe do?” was my shorthand for, “How would someone with more bravado and a louder mouth right this wrong?”

Unfortunately, I had the same problem as a kid as I do right now, namely that I’m nothing like Zoe. I don’t have bravado, I have strategies. I’m not brave, I’m organized. I’m not brazen, I’m competent. I’m nothing like Zoe.

Also, no matter how hard I try, I can’t imagine my older sister ever letting anyone — especially a man — treat her the way I’ve let Ryan treat me. I’ve made a lot of compromises to make him happy. Zoe doesn’t believe in compromises. She also doesn’t believe in monogamous relationships, but I digress. My point, though, isn’t that no man would ever dare cheat on Zoe — people cheat, that’s not up for debate — but that Zoe wouldn’t let a man get close enough to actually hurt her. So I can’t fathom what Zoe would do in this situation, because Zoe has never been in a relationship long enough to get too attached.

I’m attached, and I’m angry as hell about it.

I loved Ryan against my better judgment — my better judgment being Zoe’s judgment — and I sacrificed so much of my relationship with her to be with him. That’s another problem, Zoe would never choose any of her romantic partners over me.It’s just the three of us,Zoe always said,you, Shae, and me. Forever.

I feel sick.

I think about calling Zoe. I think about it so hard that I’m forced to realize I have no idea where my cell phone is. I think I left it back in the not-quite bridal suite. My eyes drift to Shae. She’s holding her own cell phone in a death grip against her stomach. I’m just on the verge of asking her to let me borrow it when the limo pulls along the curb in front of Ryan’s hotel.