Chapter Text
Tucked away in the bridal suite, minutes away from her call time, Makoto stood in front of the mirror repeating self-affirmations in her head—things like I’m beautiful and I’m worthy no matter what—to not give in to the self-deprecating thoughts that plagued her ever since she found out Haru got engaged, let alone that Haru wanted her to be her Maid of Honor.
Thoughts such as Maid of Honor; emphasis on ‘Maid,’ meaning ‘single woman.’ Or, I’m not going to find anyone at this rate. I’m going to wind up alone.
She shook her head. No. Stop it. You promised yourself.
As if she just heard the battle within her head, Haru regarded her with a small frown. Makoto suddenly felt her insides tense. It was Haru’s wedding day, her best friend’s day. This was not the time to think about her insecurities and play the comparison game that major life events tended to evoke.
Haru deserved this happy day with her soon-to-be husband Hokuto. After almost being married off to an abusive scumbag, losing her father and dealing with the trauma of his death broadcasted on national television, and the arduous legal battles surrounding her inheritance—she deserved to be showered with happiness and love, especially on this important day.
“I’m sorry, Haru. I’m just really happy for you,” Makoto breathed.
Haru stepped close to her, radiant as ever in her Givenchy ballroom-style gown and cathedral veil, and clasped Makoto’s hands in her own. A sign of the support and compassion they’ve always had for each other.
But Haru’s expression fell for the first and only time that day; her downcast eyes did not belong on the face of such a deserving, beautiful bride. “I wish my dad were here to walk me down the aisle,” she said in a shaky voice.
Makoto inwardly flinched at Haru’s words. She would probably feel the same way if she ever got married.
“Haru,” she began.
Haru’s watery eyes suddenly lit up. “But, you have no idea how happy I am you’re here with me. How you’ve been with me throughout this whole process. I am so excited you’ll be standing up there with me.”
Makoto felt her eyes glisten and her chest grow warm. She released a breath, relieved.
“Me too, Haru,” she squeezed back.
“Okay, let’s talk about something else before I cry and ruin these false lashes,” Haru said, fanning her eyes.
Makoto sniffled, mirroring her friend’s motions. “Okay. How about how absolutely gorgeous you look right now.”
A playful, haughty grin crept up the bride’s face. “Keep talking.”
The wedding ceremony was flawless. Everything went according to plan: the weather behaved, the hidden microphone on the groom’s lapel perfectly projected their vows, and the Best Man Takeru successfully produced the rings on cue, not a second late.
And there were no wardrobe malfunctions; Makoto surprisingly didn’t stumble one bit in the four-inch Louboutin heels Haru benevolently mandated for her to wear, along with the light pink chiffon gown a little too fitted at her waist and hips to Makoto’s liking. My Maid of Honor has to look just as stunning as me, Haru grinned.
Haru and her now-husband, despite their high-class upbringings, were humble in demeanor. However, they did not hold back when it came to bathing their three-hundred wedding guests in western-style luxury. They held the reception in a solarium-turned ballroom at one of the top, five-star hotels in Tokyo. It was unreal for Makoto, standing amongst the lush, decadent flora that majestically adorned the entire room, to believe that she was in Tokyo and not in the realm where the spirits dwell. To say that the view of the sunset was otherworldly from the eightieth floor was putting it mildly.
Feeling out of place amongst Tokyo’s business elite, the ex-Phantom Thieves found their ways to each other during cocktail hour; Ryuji, Yusuke, and Futaba had strategically stationed themselves near the kitchen entrance. It was an overdue reunion; Makoto hadn’t seen some of her former teammates in years. Most of them were there, engaging in small-talk like every other guest as they waited for their remaining members to join.
The murmur of waiters quietly sharing hors d’oeuvres and high heels clacking against the marble floor soon grew into a racket of laughter and chatter as more guests shuffled in, calling out to one another in loud voices to take selfies. Makoto politely excused herself to a dismayed Ann to help the wedding coordinator, who signaled her to assist in stowing away the mountain of presents and envelopes the guests had brought before the ceremony. Fine, but you owe me a huge update, Ann had threatened with her breathtaking smile.
Among the noisy crowd, Makoto heard the voices of her friends grow louder.
“Sumire-chan!”
“Hi, everyone! It is so good to see you all!”
“Are those fresh oysters? Halt! Do not let them escape!”
“Outta my way, Inari!”
“Well, look who it is! Ren-Ren’s here!”
Makoto flinched. Her breath caught at her throat.
“We’re all here, even Mako-chan!” she heard Haru sing out.
“Where’d she go?” Sumire asked.
“Maybe she’s with Takeru,” she heard Hokuto say teasingly.
“I just saw her,” Ann said. “I’ll go get her.”
Suddenly the hanging chandeliers were too bright, and the room had grown hot with too many people. Makoto silently cursed at herself for agreeing to wear such a form-fitting dress despite the compliments that boosted her self-esteem (except the one from Futaba, where she unashamedly leaned side to side to behold her backside in awe). She stuffed the remaining pristine envelopes in the gift box, afraid she’d stained them with her sweaty fingertips.
In a rush of—whatever she was feeling—she made a beeline to the immediate place in her line of vision that was as far away as possible from her friends: the bar. The top-shelf, view of metropolitan Tokyo, open bar.
Perhaps she was making a mistake, not living in accordance with her values, or how others viewed her.
Because the way she was acting right now was not congruent with the image she projected when she walked down that aisle carrying Haru’s wedding dress train: the poised and dignified Maid of Honor, Niijima Makoto.
Instead, she was the single “bridesmaid but never a bride” woman slumped over at the open bar, the woman whose time to find a suitable husband, according to society, was running out. She was drunk, having lost count of how many glasses of whiskey, served neat, she consumed.
Her head spun, and parts of her face felt numb, but she didn’t care anymore. She couldn’t care anymore. It felt nice. She felt lighter, even if all of this was a false, fleeting moment of relief away from boy problems and work stress.
Besides, according to Haru and Ann, it was reasonable to feel this way, to want to feel wanted and long for someone. This was all part of the dating game, they assured her.
So when Takahashi Takeru, the tall, ridiculously handsome Best Man, casually took a seat next to her and coolly asked for her permission to get her a drink, she surprisingly welcomed his presence. Instead of the usual anti-social, nonverbal cues she gave towards any man who gave her unwanted attention, she let him inch towards her.
And before she knew it, she found herself lost in conversation with him, about what ideals inspired him to start his booming company (even if she didn’t quite agree with his ideologies, to which he seemed perfectly fine) to his experiences growing up as a half-British, half-Japanese person in Tokyo. There was an immediate intimacy in how they exchanged thoughts as she found herself laughing at his witty remarks.
It felt oddly natural when he held out his hand and she placed hers in his as he led her to the dance floor; her heart fluttering from the novelty of a different, new touch. She embarrassingly wondered how he would be like in bed as she felt the pressure of his hand on the small of her back, swaying as he was with her to one of the slower songs.
Makoto was sure their friends, from a distance, were whispering and squealing at the same time, tapping each other’s shoulders, gawking at her in shock, or quietly cheering that they won the bet as she dared to place her hands on Takeru’s firm chest and breathe in his jasmine scent. This was so unlike her, let alone drinking this much. But maybe this is what she needed to do to not be a failure at love, she told herself.
She saw his gray-blue eyes widen as she boldly pulled his body closer.
“I’m sure you know they all placed bets on us,” he said with a playful smile.
She let out a small laugh. “Not a fan of all the attention?”
“Depends on who’s paying attention.”
Makoto gave a nervous giggle, a sorry attempt to hide the heat that rose in her face.
The smirk on his face suddenly fell into a neutral expression. She was no doubt drunk, but she could sense the shift in the air.
“You’re not trying to avoid anyone here, are you?” he suddenly asked. A black lock of his hair fell over his eyes as he leaned down closer.
Her back straightened despite herself. “Huh? What makes you think that?”
“I just get the feeling I’m making a lot of men jealous right now,” he said with a charming smile.
“Oh,” she blurted.
Takeru cleared his throat. “Look, we all know how this night can possibly end. I’m here to have a good time, and...I want to spend that time with you.”
The pounding in her head grew. Her mouth ran dry as she struggled to think of a response.
Did he just smoothly imply that he wanted a one-night stand? With her? Well, Makoto reasoned, he is a guy. A single, successful, gorgeous guy who was the type who dated models.
But Makoto didn’t do one-night stands. She had never done this before, openly flirted with a stranger with the looming prospect of sleeping with him that same night.
But she was also feeling particularly lonely, and it didn’t help being surrounded by loving couples and all the romance in the air.
She blamed her confusion on the whiskey.
“U-um, sorry, I have to go to the bathroom. I’ll be back.”
“Okay,” said Takeru as he gently released her.
She saw him take a long sip from his glass of merlot, feeling his eyes on her as she exited the room.
Ren called out to Makoto twice before she finally heard him. Finally turned to look at him, after all these months of not making contact with one another; it had been about a year that he had last seen her in person.
He found it odd that he hadn’t caught up with her individually by now. It’s true they’d grown apart after all these years; their group bond was never the same as in the heyday of their Phantom Thievery. Communication had dwindled down to solely birthday and holiday greetings on their ex-Phantom Thief group chat. Despite the lapses in time, he still considered the ex-Phantom Thieves his close friends, including Makoto.
He figured she’d be busy with Maid of Honor duties, but by the time the cake had been cut and the party had devolved into shot-pouring, and tasteless dancing to guilty-pleasure karaoke songs, every one of their friends mentioned they had already spoken with her. Even Sumire.
Perhaps Makoto felt the same shyness he felt all of a sudden, the embarrassment and anticipation that came with seeing someone you used to be familiar with. The fear that someone once privy to your personal matters wouldn’t see you the same way anymore, or not approve of the way you’ve changed over the years.
Or, maybe she was just so engrossed in this Best Man guy that Haru and Ann kept gushing over. She did look awfully comfortable with him.
He stared at Makoto.
She stared right back, her stance relaxed and wavering. He had a couple of drinks himself, but it seems not as much as she did, for the few loose strands in her updo and her flushed skin gave that away. Despite all that, she looked lovely as always in that gown she wore.
He reached a hand to his neck to adjust his bow tie. He wanted to ask how work was going for her, where she was living now in Tokyo, how she and Sae-san were doing, but all that came out was:
“Hey, you.”
He gave a small wave before shoving his hands into his pockets. Pathetic.
“Oh! Hi, Ren!”
He cleared his throat at the sound of his name on her lips, his heart rate increasing from the alcohol, surely not her voice. He briefly glanced around, but save for a few passersby here and there, it was just the two of them. Awkwardly reuniting in front of the bathrooms.
He coughed. “That was a very touching speech you gave,” he said.
“Oh, um, thank you!” she said with a small nod and hands clasped together. Prim and proper as always, perhaps a little too prim and proper for a drunk person. He was surprised at how subdued she seemed; in the past, after a couple of drinks in her, she’d grow loud and boisterous rivaling sober Ryuji’s level.
“Are you okay?” he croaked.
“Ye—” A hiccup escaped her mouth. She immediately covered her mouth, eyes wide, as if she had said something uncouth.
An amused smile crept upon his face, but disappeared as the words he wanted to say wouldn’t come out.
They stood in tense silence. Ren shifted the weight of his feet, inwardly cursing that his charm failed and abandoned him.
Makoto gave a small cough. “Um, sorry, I have to go to the bathroom. If you’ll excuse me.”
She gave another polite nod, turning only to stumble forward a step. She had one hand cupped over her mouth, attempting (but failing) to stifle a burp while her other hand leaned on the wall for support.
Ren stepped forward, hands jumping to her waist to steady her hunched and weaving form. “Wait, Makoto—”
She only shook her head in a flurry and hurried her pace, disappearing into the Ladies’ Room.
Of course, just as Makoto was about to applaud herself on a job well done avoiding Ren the entire night, he shows up. Calls after her, even. Looking as dashing and sensual as ever. And she’s about to throw up.
Had he sought her out? Why? Did that even matter?
And of course, she’d be that girl in the bathroom stall, finally giving in to the thoughts she promised herself she wouldn’t think. Her head spun as such thoughts befitting for an older single woman at her best friend’s wedding slammed into and all over her, and she was at battle with herself all over again.
Despite my best efforts, I’m still single. I’m going to wind up alone.
Don’t cry, Makoto, her kinder self said. You’ll ruin these false eyelashes.
Her stomach lurched.
Makoto didn’t cry. To her relief, her stomach felt less in agony. Some ten minutes later, she strode out of the bathroom with the newfound dignity of having a fresh layer of lipstick on, only to find herself meeting Ren’s eyes.
He was waiting for her.
And a meter or so away, stood Takeru, adjusting his Rolex Submariner.
He was also waiting for her.
This scene was straight from a shoujo manga, Makoto inwardly winced. Or from one of those visual novel games Futaba had gotten her into once.
Makoto plastered on the most polite smile she could and stepped close to face them both.
She gestured towards Ren. “Takeru, this is Amamiya Ren. We went to high school together with Haru. I assume you’ve already met.”
“We have,” Takeru said in a casual tone. He acknowledged her high school friend with a nod. Ren shrugged.
His gaze suddenly snapped to someone approaching from the bathroom behind her.
“Hi, Ren. Oh! Hi, Makoto!” a high-pitched, soft voice said. It was Sumire.
Makoto felt her gut drop.
Time stood still as the long-haired girl sashayed to Ren’s side, clad in a long wine-red gown that complemented his crisply tailored burgundy tuxedo. Beauty emanated from her doe-like eyes as she took the three of them in.
As Sumire and Takeru exchanged pleasantries in the background, an uninvited, long-repressed thought reared its ugly presence in Makoto’s mind:
Ren and Sumire look absolutely, nauseatingly, perfect for one another.
Makoto suddenly felt very small. Ugly.
Worthless.
She didn’t realize she was standing there gawking until she felt a hand gently take a hold of hers.
“Well, Amamiya-san, Yoshizawa-san, it was a pleasure. Excuse us,” Takeru politely bowed.
Makoto, unexpectedly in her flustered state, managed to say some niceties of her own.
She couldn’t look at him in the eye—look them in the eye—without feeling like she was going to fall apart.
All the raw emotions she had thought she got out of her system along with the liquor came back with full force. Her eyes and cheeks felt hot, and her ribs again threatened to squeeze the air out of her.
How stupid it was of her to even consider that he was waiting for her.
And what a monster of a hangover awaited her the next morning.
Not everyone made it to the optional post-wedding brunch the next morning on time; save for Ann, Yusuke, and of course, the bride and groom. Takeru had joined their table at Haru and Hokuto’s insistence, taking his seat next to Hokuto and two seats away from Makoto.
“Ah, you’re here. You look well,” Yusuke said, working on what looked like his second plate.
“Yes, as does yourself,” Makoto said with a sheepish smile, brushing a barely-dried lock of hair behind her ear. (Try as she might to deny it, her body did not handle hangovers as it did in her early twenties. She simply didn’t have hangovers in her early twenties).
“Glad you made it,” Hokuto said with a greeting. Makoto thanked a server who politely pulled a chair out. She took her seat next to Haru and across from Ann, who simply beamed at her.
Their table was rather quiet for a next-morning meal, save for the background noises of silverware clinking against plates and wait staff pouring water into their glasses. Ann and Haru were oddly not talking, occasionally giving her placating smiles. Meanwhile, Takeru shared details on how Hokuto got surprise-attacked by a monkey during their bachelor party trip to Bali. She could feel his gaze on her once in a while when the conversation lulled.
Something was off. Was she overdressed? Or underdressed? The invite said smart casual. Or, was there something she didn’t know but should know? Or worse, considering how severe her headache was, was there something she did last night that she didn’t know she did? That can’t be. She lost count of how many drinks she had, but she didn’t blackout. She remembered everything, mostly.
By the time she made it back to the table with a full plate in hand, Makoto had noticed the rest of the stragglers had shuffled in. Sumire and Ann were admiring Haru’s Harry Winston four-carat emerald-cut engagement ring and its matching wedding band. Next to Ann sat Ren and Futaba, who ate her plate quietly, shooting annoyed glances now and then to Yusuke.
“You look like you slept well,” Yusuke observed, oblivious to the cold vibes shot his way.
“I did,” Ren said calmly.
Ryuji groaned, holding his head in his hands. “It’s not fair. You were at the afterparty for as long as I was. How are you not hungover?”
“Maybe because he actually stopped drinking when his dear friends told him to.” Ann chided. Ryuji merely gave a whiny shrug.
“What about you, Makoto? I didn’t see you at the afterparty,” Sumire asked.
“Yes, what’d you end up doing, Mako-chan?” Haru asked innocently, bringing her rose tea to her lips. Makoto caught the suggestive lift of her brow.
She felt everyone’s eyes turn to her.
Makoto schooled her features but cursed her face for growing hot.
“I—”
“Or more like, who’d you end up doing?” Ryuji playfully elbowed Makoto, only for Ann to smack him behind his head. Haru’s lips pressed together in disapproval at Hokuto, who was struggling to contain his laughter. Takeru looked away.
These people were not her friends, but rather vultures waiting for the kill, which in this case was a juicy piece of gossip at her expense. An easy kill for them, because they knew her lackluster love life was the one thing in their arsenal that could instantly embarrass their frequently uptight friend. She considered this her penance for her foolish behavior last night.
“Gross, TMI!” Futaba’s face twisted in disgust. “She was helping me drag a passed-out Inari back to his room since the rest of you were useless,” Futaba said, pointing an accusing finger.
“Inari is his nickname,” Haru explained out of earshot to a puzzled Hokuto and Takeru.
Ann and Ryuji moved to open their mouths but went silent as if realizing that yes, at that moment when Futaba was shouting at them for something, they were engaged in a heated semi-final battle of a pin-pon-pan tournament with some fired-up middle management folks. Yusuke had been the first casualty.
“We’re sorry Futaba-chan. Hey, you did great! He’s much better now!” Ann said through a forced smile, arms outstretched to present a recovered Yusuke.
“You have my gratitude,” Yusuke bowed his head to both Futaba and Makoto, a hand over his heart.
As the conversation defaulted to making fun of Ryuji, with Futaba threatening to upload various incriminating videos, Makoto shot a furtive glance at Ren. It was the first time they made eye contact during the entire brunch. His lips were upturned into a subtle smile, and the twinkle in his eyes told her they shared the same thought.
Safe.