Everything looked perfect at my best friend Aisha’s wedding until I saw the groom’s strange habit.
Jason kept rubbing his wrist, wincing like it hurt.
It was a gesture that I’d seen before: my brother did the same thing after he got a fresh tattoo.
As Aisha reached the altar, Jason’s sleeve slipped just enough for me to see the truth — a red, irritated patch of skin and fresh black ink spelling out a name.
Not hers. Cleo. Cleo, our mutual friend. The one Aisha had left off the bridesmaid list because of “complicated history” with Jason.
And there she was, sitting in the second row in a red dress, smiling.
I couldn’t let it go.
I stopped the ceremony, pulled up Jason’s sleeve, and revealed the tattoo.
The crowd gasped. Cleo walked forward, lifted her wrist, and showed a matching one: Jason .
Later she told everyone Jason had spent the night with her, called Aisha “sweet but boring,” and admitted he was only after her family’s money.
