7
Taina frowns at me from the edge of the mattress as I hold up a yellow sundress that I’m not sure will fit after the ten pounds I unintentionally lost courtesy of all my stress.
It’s only been a day since I met with Anders, and I’m not leaving for his hometown until the end of the week, but I couldn’t wait to pack.
And I wanted Mathew to see my suitcases and ease up on the stick he willingly has perpetually shoved up his ass.
I can add a belt, so I fold it and drop it into the oversized suitcase open on the pale wooden floors. Taina organized all my clothing while I was away, so I rifle through the drawers of the white dresser to find some shorts for the humid South Carolina spring.
With each item I pick and pack, Taina’s gaze burns hotter and hotter on my skin.
At first, I ignore her because the more I sort through my stuff, the more I realize Taina managed to salvage nearly everything I would have wanted.
The clothes, the charger cords, the books with my dad’s notes scribbled in the margins, the ratty throw blanket I used to fall asleep under that my mom hand sewed for me—she got it. Most of it. More than anyone else would have.
And yeah, some things didn’t make it. The little items. The ones I never pointed out, never shared the weight of.
Like the sticky notes my dad used to leave all over my room, each one marked with a tiny smiley face—slips I eventually gathered up and tucked together beneath my jewelry box.
Or that mug with the chipped rim that only mattered because I spent all day worrying my mom would ground me for it, only for her to laugh at the way it made the clay look like it was bitten.
Taina couldn’t have known, and I didn’t give her a reason to ask.
She saved what she could.
When my cheeks start to burn, I sigh and face her. “What do you want to say?”
“Oh, can I speak now?”
I look around at an invisible audience. “At what point did I say you couldn’t?”
“Every time I talk, you shut me down.”
“If that’s the case, pick a different topic of conversation.”
Taina groans and stomps her feet like she did whenever I told her she had to stop eating twenty Flintstones-vitamin gummies in one sitting. The memory fills me with a nostalgic warmth—something I assume mothers feel when they look at their children.
“I don’t see why you’re so against me going with you,” Taina starts for the fifth time. “I love South Carolina. I want to go to the beach to tan, eat melting sorbets, and read till I fall asleep with sand in my hair.”
“I’m going for work,” I tell her. Again. “And you’re going because you’re unnecessarily worried about me. I told you. I. Am. Fine.”
“The more you say it, the more I don’t believe it,” she says.
“The more you don’t believe it, the more I wish I had sent you off to a distant aunt.”
“You don’t even know this guy.”
I go back to picking out clothes. “I don’t know any of the people I work with.” Though strangely, it feels like I do know Anders. At least, I know him a lot more than any other client, since he’s the first person to request me after spending time together.
“Yeah, but you’re staying with him. Shouldn’t he put you up in a hotel?”
“I looked up his place.” I gather three pairs of jean shorts and shove them in the suitcase. “There is plenty of space, and it’s by the beach. It’ll be nice.” I give her a look. “And you’ve already vetted him.”
“Anders Kennedy—graduated from Belhaven University, phone number 843-555-4458, email anders kennedy reads at gmail dot com, no priors, a speeding ticket when he was seventeen that fell off his record. Listed as a donor to the American Library Association. Single.”
I chuckle. “I’m surprised you don’t know his social.”
“Two-four-seven-two—”
“Taina!”
“What?” She crosses her arms. “I’m nothing if not thorough.
And, okay, fine, I am worried about you.
You’re going through a lot, and I know you hate that I know you are, and you wish you could quietly deal with your problems and make it so I think you’re happy and healthy and financially stable because you know my anxiety gives me nightmares.
So what? Is it a crime to care about your sister now? Lock me up.”
I let out half a sigh and a laugh, then approach Taina and place my hands on her shoulders.
“No, my dearest, prettiest, funniest, nosiest little sister, it is not. I love you, so look at me and listen when I say I am fine.” Taina and I rarely have any miscommunications, because we overcommunicate.
We leave no room not to tell the other how we feel.
We always want the other to be happy. Even when we’re mad, we have a rule to let it out, say we love each other before bed, no matter how hard it is to get out.
So dealing with all her worry feels less overwhelming and more of a comfort.
No matter how bad life sucks, I have a sister who loves me unconditionally.
“I feel better than I have in a while. Trust me. And your anxiety is only going to make mine flare up. We can’t both be worried all the time. ”
Taina rolls her eyes, and looks to the side, but not anywhere near me.
“If I can’t go, then you have to share your location with me.
And text me updates. And eat good, big meals.
And lock your door at night—I’m talking chair under the handle, knife by the bedside.
And sleep with Anders if the opportunity arises. ”
There’s always a burst of love and pain whenever Taina’s protective side makes an appearance.
What a gift it is to be loved so deeply you can feel each panicked beat of someone else’s heart pounding for you.
And what an embarrassingly crushing feeling to know that—despite living most of my life trying to get Taina to view me as someone resourceful, dependable, the person you come to with any and all problems, the woman with countless bandages at the ready, pockets full of pep talks, a constant, unbreakable, figure—she still sees me as someone to protect for all I try to hide.
I pinch her cheek. “First you didn’t want me to stay with him, but now you want me to sleep with him.”
“You think I didn’t see his photo?” She whistles. “I’m anxious, but I’m only a woman. No better than a man, really.”
I laugh, then shove her to the side. “Just help me close this suitcase.”
During my two-hour flight, Anders and I exchanged over a hundred messages. If I’m going to show up as the girlfriend he’s allegedly been dating for four months, we need to be completely on the same page—timeline, backstory, favorite sandwich.
I’ve started jotting down Anders-related facts in the journal Taina gave me to help keep track of the weddings I’ve crashed.
It’s now doing double duty as a relationship study guide.
I figure I should know at least the basics in case someone brings it up or I need to casually drop a detail without inventing a whole new life for him.
And yes, if we’ve been together that long, you’d think I would’ve been at the wedding two weeks ago.
Reasonable assumption. Anders has fielded these suspicions by telling his family that he “wasn’t ready for everyone to meet me yet” and wanted to be sure things were serious.
Which is very noble and romantic—now that I’ve been called in to fake it.
Favorite color: Green
Favorite movie: Anything with Will Smith
Favorite team: Eagles
Broke his arm trying to climb a tree to save a bird nest from falling when he was 11
A night person
Likes “anything but country” music
Has traveled to seven countries
No allergies
Wanted to be an astronaut growing up, realized he needed to be good at math, immediately moved on
30 years old
No mention of parents, only Aunt Bethany
Has a best friend since childhood, Lucas, who was the one who told him to climb the tree to save the nest
When I land, exhaustion adds weight to my bones, and I drag myself from the plane out the winding path of bars and restaurants to baggage claim. It’s a little after 3:00 p.m., but I barely slept the night before, after spending most of the evening reconvincing Taina not to come with me.
The more anxious she got, the more worried I got, and our late night has added five-pound dumbbells to my eyelids as I try to stay awake while I wait for the conveyor belt to bring my borrowed luggage.
I blink, and I’m not sure how many minutes have passed. One moment, there was silence as I and the other passengers stood around, and the next, the belt was moving and packed with suitcases.
It’s easy to spot the lime-green case hidden under an oversized black one. I drop my matching carry-on on the tiled floor and move toward it.
Nobody comes to retrieve the stray bag, so I try to shove it off, but it’s too heavy. I suck my teeth and shove my palms on the rough canvas, and it budges, but not enough. I keep trying, but the belt moves it whenever I almost get it off, and I lose momentum.
Frustration sprints through my blood, and I brace my foot against it, finally managing to knock it over. I reach for the handle of my own bag and get it halfway off when someone pushes it back onto the belt.
A man dressed in a full camo tracksuit shoves himself directly in front of me. “The hell you get off kicking my luggage?”
I let out a sigh as another body shoves itself between us. So close, I jerk back and get a full view of Anders, in pale-washed jeans and a white shirt rolled at the sleeves, leaning over and gripping my luggage handle with one hand and the black luggage with his other.
The veins in his arms and the muscles in his biceps constrict as he lifts them both off the belt and puts them on their wheels.
Anders turns and faces me. “Any other luggage?”
His unexpected appearance steals my ability to speak, so I shake my head. Camo points his finger over Anders’s shoulder at me. “Hey, are you listening to me?”
Anders half turns, a polite smile on his face. “Your suitcase is right there.”
“Yeah, I can see; I’m not blind. I’m asking why the hell she kicked it.”