5. Slinging Mud
EVA
I’m naked in this swanky mud bath, and I’m wincing at the squish between my toes—and everywhere else. Paige, conversely, is lounging like a mud-smeared queen.
“Isn’t this divine?” she coos, stretching her arms out as if she’s about to take flight from her dirt cocoon.
“Sure.” I try to scoop mud from my unmentionables. The things you do for family—especially when your younger-by-two-minutes sister is the bride-to-be and it’s your job to make sure her TV wedding is picture perfect.
She wiggles her toes above the surface like she’s conducting an orchestra. “Relax. You may find this liberating.”
“Liberating.” I pluck a glob out of my armpit and flick it back into the pool. Here we are, twins but polar opposites, soaking in earth because of tradition—or Paige’s version of it. “Whatever bakes your cake, Paige.”
“Oh, that reminds me.” The surrounding glop muffles her voice. “The pupcakes.”
“Huh?” I’m guessing this has to do with the two bridesmaids and one groomsman who are dogs. They’re her and Zach’s precious babies, who’re getting the red-carpet treatment.
“The photoshoot this afternoon.” She flicks her perfectly manicured finger. “Go right after this and make sure the pupcakes look as amazing as advertised. Remember, Eves, the photos have to be flawless because we’re hoping to make the cover of Pet Gala. The bridesmaid gowns have to fit like a second coat.”
“Right. Perfect pupcakes and more perfect doggie gowns,” I mutter, mentally adding canine couture to my ever-expanding to-do list.
“Make sure they capture Coco Chanel’s good side. She’s been really self-conscious since the squirrel incident.”
“Both sides of Coco Chanel’s face are beautiful,” I say, but I know it’s futile. In the world according to Paige, this stuff matters.
“And don’t forget to confirm the gluten-free, sugar-free, vegan cake tasting for Friday’s pre-rehearsal shooting,” she adds, like she’s discussing matters of national security.
“On it, boss,” I say, earning a splash from Paige.
“Hey, watch it!” I cover my eyes. “I need my vision for this weekend.”
“Chill.” She grins, her teeth startlingly white against the dark mud. “But seriously, Evie, you’re the best maid of honor, like ever.” Paige stretches out, nearly knocking over her glass of cucumber water.
“Flattery will get you everywhere. But I charge extra for any doggie drama.”
“Come on, you have Skye’s help there.”
“True.”
“Enough about that. Let’s talk about the deliciousness otherwise known as Foster.” Paige changes topics like outfits, which for her, is constantly.
I close my eyes, mud dripping from my lashes. Really? We’re doing this now?
“He’s a walking Ralph Lauren advertisement,” she says. “And he’s been so nice to me every time I’ve run into him at the country club. If I weren’t about to marry the human equivalent of a golden retriever, I’d be all over that.”
“Hmm.” Maybe I’m into human golden retrievers too! But I psych myself up, visualizing his chiseled jawline and the way his suit hugs his broad shoulders on his FaceSnap profile picture.
“Seriously, Eva, he’s hot. And loaded,” she says. “A magic combo.”
“Okay, your idea of a magic combo and mine are very different.”
“Oh, stop it. Of course I love big dicks and skilled tongues. Hello, Zach.”
“Eww, stop!” Sinking lower into the mud, I can’t help but envy Paige. It’s like she’s coated in cosmic Teflon; nothing sticks, and everything slides her way—the perfect job, the made-for-TV fiancé, the better hair, and Dad’s unconditional approval. Not to mention she doesn’t have asthma, which struck me after Mom died. “How do you do it? Your life is a succession of green lights, and here I am stuck at every red, gripping onto my sanity.”
She tosses her hair, sending droplets of mud flying perilously close to my eyes again. “Oh, come on, Eves. Things happen for me because I believe they will. You don’t have that belief in yourself, and you overthink everything, which puts negativity out into the universe. You just need to worry less.”
Easy for Paige to say. She took off gallivanting around Europe during college. Someone had to stay nearby and take care of Dad, the house, the chores, everything.
She sighs. “I mean, you’re way more talented than I am.”
I scrape mud from my elbow, my heart warming. “Wow. Thanks. I didn’t know you thought that.”
“Of course I do. It’s true. Anyway,” Paige’s voice shifts into that tone—the one for declaring decrees. “Foster is perfect for you. Dad already loves him, and he’s more than qualified to become a partner in the firm. He’s a powerhouse.”
“Powerhouse?” I echo, the word tasting like mud in my mouth. Although, it could actually be mud in my mouth. “Is that code for controlling workaholic?” I sink lower into the goo until it threatens to swallow me whole.
“Power is sexy.” Paige wags a mud-caked finger at me. “And let’s be real. You aren’t ready to take over the firm yourself, and you thrive on order.”
“What does that mean?” My voice bounces in the wooden room which smells like eucalyptus and earth.
“It means you’re like a Swiss watch—precise, reliable, always ticking on schedule.” Her head somehow rests comfortably against the edge of the bath.
“So romantic,” I scoff, rolling my eyes.
“There’s nothing wrong with being organized.” She’s unfazed by my sarcasm. “Foster is a bossman, and you love being told what to do.”
“Do not!” I snap, though a traitorous part of me wonders if there isn’t a pinch of truth to that. And if there is, Paige doesn’t understand—there’s no way she could. When our mother died, my father was drowning in grief, and Paige didn’t talk for six months. I was only eight myself, but I knew my family was falling apart. Now, Paige and I are obviously not eight anymore, but the fear stays within me.
I work hard to control the chaos by having my lists, keeping things in order, and continuously checking in on my family.
“Look, all I’m saying is Foster’s got his shit together.” Paige is relentless as a telemarketer. “And isn’t that part of the dream? To have someone who raises your profile?”
“Yes?” I say as a question because is it? Is this what it’s come to? Am I destined for a love story scheduled by Google Calendar and written by legal briefs?
“I just want what’s best for you.” She sighs, knowing she’s hit a nerve.
“I know you do.” With the thought of having to try and woo Foster, I groan, saying, “Are you sure you can’t just take over Dad’s firm?”
“No way! I love my job as an assistant DA—I thrive on justice, you know that.”
“I do.” The first day of law school, she knew she wanted to work in the District Attorney’s office. She graduated at the top of her class and had an offer waiting for her, smooth and easy.
“You’re the rock of the family, Eves. You’ve been holding everyone together since Mom...” Her voice trails off, and I know she’s right. It’s always been me, the glue, the fixer, the one who crawled into bed with Paige at night so she could sleep. The one who became the same kind of lawyer Dad is to make him proud.
“Thanks, sis.” My heart pitter-patters at her vulnerability, reminding me of when she was little. The only thing I could do to slowly bring her back to herself was smother her with love.
She acts breezy now, but it’s something she had to adopt to survive. I know the truth—under it all is a soft soul who’s fragile and, when push comes to shove, needs me. I swallow back the tickle in my throat from the nostalgia and say, “Enough already. Between you and Dad, I’m feeling the squeeze, but I said I’d talk to Foster, and I will.”
“Yay!” she claps, and mud flies.
“Here’s to the best wedding week ever.” I raise my cucumber water glass and clink it against hers before sinking back into the warm, murky abyss.