8
After a look in the rearview mirror and a muttered curse at Anders, I demanded he pull over so I could grab my makeup bag.
It’s now sitting on my lap, and I pat concealer under my eyes as he pulls off the highway.
He reaches over and presses his finger on the side of the vanity mirror, where LED lights surround the glass.
“Wow, I can see every single pore on my face. Turn it back off.”
His laugh is warm and echoes, or it does in my head, anyway. “You don’t—”
“If the next words out of your mouth are something along the lines of you don’t need makeup, then swallow them.”
He raises a hand from the wheel. “Note taken.”
After some silence, I speak, “Can I ask you something?”
“Of course,” he says.
I swipe gloss over my lips, then drop it back into my bag, zipping it shut.
“Why are you paying me so much?” He’d agreed to double what I needed to buy my share of Save a Paw, simply because I asked.
“I mean, you know I’ve been evicted, and I’m unemployed, so really, you could have paid very little, and I might have agreed. ”
“I have the money. You need the money. Why would I say no?”
“Because my pricing is unreasonable?”
His head tilts slightly to the side—a habit I’m noticing he does whenever he takes a few extra seconds to think before answering. “But your reasoning is not.”
I squint my eyes, but I can see nothing in his face that seems like an ulterior motive or a lie. He answers everything I ask, not vaguely either, yet I still feel more questions take root after he does.
“You seem pretty steady, so I can’t imagine why your aunt would have to worry about your spiraling,” I say without thinking, but Anders doesn’t tell me if the statement crosses any boundaries.
Instead, he shrugs. “My aunt says I keep my emotions in my bones. That no matter what I’m feeling, I don’t let it show or let it out. It just merges with my body and becomes part of my foundation—she’s worried for the day it crumbles. What’ll be left behind.”
“Are you? Worried, I mean.”
“I’m not sure. I feel fine, more often than not.”
I purse my lips and watch a man walking two large dogs on the sidewalk as we drive. I have to know, seeing as I’m meeting with his family, but it still feels like trespassing into Anders’s private, meticulously locked corridors when I ask, “Where are your parents?”
“My biological mom? Somewhere in the world, traveling, maybe remembering to send a postcard from wherever her free spirit pulls her. My dad and stepmother are here in South Carolina. My father’s an executive director at a law firm; my stepmother doesn’t work.”
“You talk about your aunt as if she’s more maternal than them.”
He rolls his shoulders. “She practically raised me. My mom was my father’s mistress, so my being born caused a lot of problems. For my mom, who never wanted kids, and for my dad, for obvious reasons. My mom kept me because she figured my father would send her money to keep her away. She was right.”
“That’s horrible.” I can’t keep the horror from my voice. “I’m sorry.”
My resentment at the loss of my parents is entirely directed at the universe, and my love for them remains this great, beautiful thing. So much less burdensome than it must feel to be entirely, voluntarily left behind the way Anders was, without ever feeling the love a parent should give.
“Don’t be sorry. My aunt is the greatest person. I’ve lacked nothing in my life.”
There seems to be no underlying grief behind the words, but I can’t imagine it being true unless Anders is far more emotionally resilient than most, or he truly has just accepted his mom abandoning him. I’m not sure what’s sadder.
“They’re still assholes,” I mumble and earn a low chuckle from Anders.
“So, anything else I should know about you? Something your family will expect me to be aware of?”
He shakes his head. “We went over the basics already, but nothing is pressing. Don’t worry about that; they’re easily charmed by compliments and gifts. Just try and get to know them, especially Val.”
I blow out a breath and nod. I needed that, the reminder of what I’m here for. It’s not about getting to know him, though my brain keeps forming questions that branch off endlessly. No matter how sweet Anders is, his sister is also his priority. I need to focus.
“Right, so I’m going to impress them all. Charm them into letting me in on the wedding planning and get invited as a participant.”
“Anything I can do to help?” he asks.
“Not yet. I have to figure out what kind of wedding your sister’s is.”
“What ‘kind’ of wedding?”
I nod. “Each wedding, the ones that need wrecking, falls into one of three categories: Because of Family, Because of Opportunity, or Because of Delusion.” I explain, “There are smaller umbrellas, too, that couples can fall under. Usually, it’s Trust, Lust, or Rust. Trust, there’s infidelity.
Lust, you only said yes because you had rose-tinted glasses, or you’re in love with someone else.
Rust, the love got stale, and you’re staying together out of obligation and duty.
Once I figure out that, I can decide how to ruin it. ”
“Wow.” He whistles. “I know you said this isn’t what you want to do forever, but you seem to know a lot about such a niche gig in the short amount of time you’ve been doing it.”
“If you’re going to do a job, do it right,” I say, echoing one of my father’s many mottoes.
He grins. “A true professional.”
There’s a long stretch of silence, and I catch myself watching Anders more closely than I probably should. Part of me wonders if I’m genuinely curious about him—or if it’s just the shallowness of finding him so attractive that I want to know what’s really underneath.
My curiosity buzzes too loudly to stay quiet any longer. I tilt my head and ask, “An inappropriate question, maybe—but do you believe in it?”
He lifts a brow. “In what?”
“Love,” I answer. “You’ve had some pretty crappy experiences with it, and it seems too many examples of it haven’t surrounded you—romantically, of course.”
He exhales, looking past me for a second like he’s thinking about how honest he wants to be. “I used to, so it exists, maybe.” He huffs a short laugh—no bitterness, just distance, like he’s not even talking about himself. “More like, love exists, but it’s not built to last.”
“That’s cynical,” I point out.
Another smile. “Maybe so. I think love is more fragile than people want to admit. And way more common. People fall into it all the time. It’s staying in it that seems impossible. I loved Anna, but now that love is gone, it’s something affectionate, but not as intense anymore.”
I nod slowly. “I’ll downgrade you from cynic to skeptical.”
“Still feels like the same meaning.”
“Skeptical sounds less harsh.”
He nods. “Thanks, then.” Another beat of silence. “And you?”
I’m saved from answering as the car rolls to a stop in front of a two-story home surrounded by a deck filled with furniture, rocking chairs, benches, and couches, like it’s the main living room. And curved windows with no curtains to let in every bit of sunshine the sky offers.
Nerves circle the pit of my stomach as a lanky girl comes barreling down the porch toward the car. Before I can say anything, she yanks Anders’s door open.
“Uncle Anders!”
“Little Olive!” Anders jumps down and sweeps this preteen into his arms. I let myself out and wait until they make it around the Jeep, Olive riding piggyback with a wide grin matching Anders’s.
They’re technically cousins, but Anders mentioned she refers to him as “uncle” and Valerie as “aunt” because of the age difference and how they’ve helped raise her since she was a baby.
Olive’s dad is not around, a one-night stand that didn’t want a kid.
She hops off and places her hands on her hips, looks me up and down with a full-blown assessment before speaking. “Pretty, and smells like peaches even though you just got off a plane, two pluses. Do you like dogs or cats?”
“Dogs.”
She crosses her arms, covered in colorful friendship bracelets running their length. “If you had one superpower, what would it be?”
“Teleportation.”
“Who wins in a fight: Iron Man or Thor?”
I smirk at the interrogation. “Verbally: Iron Man. Physically: Thor.”
“What’s the best sauce to dip fries in?”
“Ice cream.”
“Do you think nine is too young for a phone?”
“All right.” Anders ruffles Olive’s light-brown hair, blond in spots because of the beaming sun. “Introduce yourself like a normal human being, please.”
“Mom says ‘normal’ is a man-made construct that I shouldn’t have to abide by.”
Anders half laughs, half sighs. “Olive.”
Olive rolls her big, hazel eyes framed with blue mascara—the only thing about her I can attach to Anders. She holds out a hand for me to shake. “I’m Olive; it’s nice to meet you. You seem cool enough. For now.”
I shake her hand, firmly, each of her fingernails painted a different color. “I’m Lucy, and you seem cool too. For now.”
She smirks, then wraps an arm around me, leading me to the front door. “How’d you know about the ice-cream thing?”
“My little sister has asked for that combination almost every week of her life.”
“So cool.”
Olive leads us through the home, so many frames pinned along the walls that it takes me a moment to spot the sliver of gold paint behind them.
I trip over someone’s boot as we walk through the living area to the kitchen, overlooking emerald couches and chairs, dozens of colorfully patterned rugs, and candles surrounding us in warm cinnamon and vanilla scents.
A woman in a flour- and grease-stained red apron that matches the bright red shade of her silky hair approaches us, then punches Anders’s arm. He feigns pain before Bethany wraps him in a hug. “I haven’t seen you in months. Who the hell do you think you are?”
Anders pulls away, his clothes stealing some of Bethany’s flour. “It’s been a single month.”
“Wow, and now you’re claiming I don’t know how to count? I hope your guest has more manners than you.”