4
It’s difficult to say what’s weighing my body down the most.
It could be the jet lag, the delayed and congested subway car that added four hours to my travel time, the bruises spotting my skin, or just my overall misery about my failure and bleak life options and cramping that I’m sure means my period is coming.
All those factors are kicking my ass, but the worst uppercut to the gut is the bright smile my sister has as she lets herself into the back entrance of her guest suite, where I’m moping on the couch.
My little sister, younger by five years, drops a tray of desserts on the marble, crescent-shaped coffee table.
It takes extra effort to meet her gaze as she plops down on the opposite love seat.
“You’re in desperate need of a face mask.” She tucks some of her highlighted curls away from her golden face, sculpted by the gods—and Michelle Rajan, the best aesthetician in Connecticut. “I made a thousand pastries for you to try.”
“Thanks.”
Taina looks around. “You haven’t unpacked. It looks like you’ve melted into the couch.”
“It’s been just a couple of days, Taina.”
“You never let me rot in bed more than two days in a row.”
“And I’m regretful for that at this moment.”
“I’m one hundred percent sure that’s not true.”
Perceptive little brat.
“Sadness doesn’t look too good on you,” she continues.
The insult is enough to combat my lack of desire to do anything more than lifting a finger. “Everything looks good on me.”
She stands, her blue baby-doll dress clinging to her curves as she saunters over and tosses my legs off the couch so she can sit directly beside me. It forces me to maneuver myself upright.
“Mathew is away for work, and I was bored.” She taps my leg. “So I thought I’d see what my pretty, sad sister was up to.”
“Well, I applied for more jobs and was rejected within hours. A new record, really.”
“Who rejected you? Give me a company name,” she says, smiling—her murderous one where she thinks if she looks sweet enough, nobody knows her intentions, but a threat glistens in her heavily mascaraed gaze.
The phrase if looks could kill doesn’t apply to Taina.
Taina will kill. Taina, despite my best efforts, has a criminal record.
Not for murder, but I wouldn’t put it past her.
Neither of us is exactly the best law-abiding citizen, but when I was the head of the household, I did try to be a good influence.
Not too much cursing, thinking before speaking, counting to ten before letting anger get the best of me—though it got the best of me more often than I liked.
But Taina has always had a fiery temperament that I had to constantly smother, and I, quite literally, had to bail her out of jail.
Twice. Though the men she clawed at the nightclubs did deserve it for trying to cop a feel.
Especially since Taina’s anemia was so bad when she was younger. I’m convinced the more her blood pressure rose, the more frequently her fainting spells occurred. Having a calmer reaction to stressful environments would be helpful for everyone involved.
I close my eyes, and somehow even that hurts. “No hacking into company websites.”
Her gaze narrows. “You can’t tell me what to do.” Then, her gaze softens. “Well, okay, you can. You can tell me things, and I’ll do it. And if I tell you to do things, then you can do it too.”
“Taina.” I pinch the bridge of my nose, too tired to have this argument again. “I’m not moving in with you and your husband.”
“Oh, please,” Taina says, gesturing to the space around us. “This is your own floor. A private entrance, kitchen, and bath; it’s like your own apartment.”
Of course, this was Taina’s motive for coming here with treats and a smile. Offering the comfort of her $3.4 million Connecticut mansion. Since I started the Wreck a Wedding business five months ago, she’s been hounding me to move in with her.
Granted, I have also called her numerous times complaining about a faulty sink, a leaking shower, moldy walls—so this request has been a long time coming.
But I chose my old apartment knowing it wasn’t the best. It was the lowest rate I could get in New York a short distance from my old job.
I could have gotten something better, but I wanted to save as much as I was able.
My dad always preached about how much better it was to live below your means—to always have a little extra stashed away for emergencies, like hospital bills or unexpected expenses. We saw that firsthand with Mom’s illness. Saving wasn’t just about being responsible; it was about survival.
Still, I’ve gotten better at allowing the people around me to care for me when they can.
I wouldn’t deny Taina’s help if it were about anything else.
If I needed a shoulder to lean on while whining about a date gone wrong, or help with an essay for my online university courses because I can never remember where an apostrophe is supposed to live, or company while cleaning up crap and dirt from the animal shelter.
For anything else, I have no problem taking Taina’s often-extended hand.
Money is an entirely different story. A story I’ve yet to tell Taina, and am not sure I ever will—for her sake. “I’m looking for another place,” I get out, trying to ignore the sudden pinch in my chest.
“You lived in the equivalent of a dumpster. Actually, worse than that, dumpsters have roofs. You had a collection of holes vaguely connected by twenty-seven coats of paint. And you couldn’t even afford that. How will you afford anything back in the city?”
I jerk back, then soften my posture. I know Taina doesn’t mean it maliciously. It’s just, when she has a goal, she will do anything to reach it. She’s driven like that. Her current goal? Keeping me in the safety of her home.
I completely understand because, for most of my life, my thoughts were all just fragments broken from my singular purpose: Take care of my sister.
When we were kids, and our parents gave up dinner so we could split a bowl of Avena, I would give her my share.
I worked multiple jobs and did under-the-table work at a bar to get her through college.
Stole clothes from rich neighborhoods’ trash so she would have brand names in class when the other kids would sneer at a knockoff.
At my lowest, I “borrowed” books and supplies she needed from department stores.
And now her bank account looks like a phone number, while mine looks like the receipt for a hamburger.
“I just need to get through the slow season. Or actually get a call back for an interview somewhere. I’ve started applying outside of the city.”
These past months have felt like a yearlong slow season. It’s not like I can hang around wedding venues and hand out flyers. I don’t have a large pool of clients to draw from.
“What you need is help,” Taina says, softening. “The job market sucks right now and—”
“And after I was fired, I destroyed my supervisor’s desk and had to be escorted out of the building,” I finish for her.
That day is still fresh in my mind. My condescending, aging prick of a supervisor sat me down, called me the name of the only other woman in the department, and asked me to wear looser clothes because I was distracting my peers.
If I was going to continue to dress that way, I was basically “asking for it.”
Taina was ready to sue the second I got fired—Mathew’s a lawyer, and she practically had the paperwork drafted before I’d even made it home.
But buried in the mountain of new-hire paperwork I signed on my first day was a clause that waived my right to sue the company.
I didn’t catch it. I was too busy feeling grateful—after years of juggling part-time jobs, night classes, and overdue bills, I would’ve signed a napkin if it came with health insurance and a 401(k).
“I’m sure they’ve warned every firm in the tristate about me. My resume is too impressive not even to get a callback.”
And yet, given the chance, I’d for sure say yes if they offered me my position back in the field rather than the high-risk, low-opportunity, anxiety-inducing trade of wedding wrecking.
I’ve always been happier with the ability to keep a roof over my head. And when you try to live without it, you find that money does indeed buy happiness—something achievable with a stable, salaried job like my marketing role at a New York City tech firm.
“Clearly not impressive enough,” Taina points out.
“How I wish I shipped you off to military school to learn some manners.”
“Sorry.” Taina salutes. “Clearly, it’s not impressive enough, sir.”
I reel my arm back, ready to slap her. She dodges me, sticks out her tongue, then grabs my phone from the coffee table, flips it over, and points to a Polaroid photo tucked beneath the clear case—my pit bull terrier gleefully demolishing my couch.
My heart lurches at the loss of her, still fresh even though it’s been a year. I’ve always thought photos held an impossible responsibility, carrying the weight of memory even if the people in them are gone. It keeps the moment alive, anyway.
“If you won’t officially move in with me,” Taina says, “or let me commit murder, let me help pay for your share of Save a Paw.”
Anxiety bites at me when she mentions the animal shelter.
Save a Paw is my real dream, not this wedding-wrecking mess I’m in. A haven for dogs that provides services for homeless animals, like vet care and any necessary surgeries, nurturing and caring for them, and trying to house them where they can get all the love and care they deserve.
Since I was sixteen, the owner had promised me that once he retired, he’d sell the business to me.
I was supposed to have years more time to be able to buy it from him.
But a couple months ago, Joshua told me his wife wanted him to retire earlier, spend the rest of their years traveling the world, so he’d come to me first, like he promised. Save a Paw could be mine for $30,000.