10
My first impression of Valerie was an intriguing combination of spoiled, self-aware, selfish—but with a dash of kindness and a hint of warmth.
Those traits still rang true after six hours of venue scoping.
However, with those characteristics in place, I thought she’d take more of a back seat in wedding planning, maybe hire a handler.
Now we’re at our seventh venue of the day, sunlight still pouring over us in Valerie’s convertible, the breeze tangling my hair into wavy knots.
I’m convinced she’s purposely wasting time.
There is no venue for her. She only wants the marriage on paper, not a grand event—though even that feels off.
Everything about her screams Look at me; I know you want to, and I admire my admirers.
And yet here we are, speed dating buildings.
Had Bethany not pressured her into a wedding, a real one, Valerie would be out drinking wine and socializing with friends—so she has reminded me multiple times as we continue with our scouting.
Is this some subconscious sabotage? Surely this modest art gallery the employee is leading us through isn’t as good a fit as the others we visited.
Valerie had hated each one more than the last.
Bed and breakfast? (Too homey. Meant for those “over the hill” and on their third marriage.)
Church? (Beautiful stained-glass windows, sure—but hard to get married in a place where she once hooked up with the priest’s son.)
Garden? (One gnat flew in her face, and she turned us around.)
Boat? (If anyone got sick during the ceremony, she’d shove them overboard.)
Hotel? (Too pretentious.)
Beach? (Not pretentious enough.)
The employee stops by an arched opening. “I’ll let you two wander. Do let any of the staff know if you have questions.”
Valerie barely waits for her to finish before she marches into the first room, heels clattering on the floor. I hurry after her, my battered sneakers leaving less of an impressive echo.
“Didn’t peg you for a lover of the arts.”
She tosses her hair over her shoulder, revealing the top of her sleeveless dress. “Unfortunate as it is to admit any sibling worship when I turned out to be so amazing, Anders might have rubbed off on me.”
“Your brother adores you,” I say, pausing as she stops to view a landscape of a forest. “I think he’d like to hear that.”
She rolls her eyes. “What he’d like to hear is that I’ll call off this wedding and stop making him worry about my mental health every other day. God forbid a girl get sent to the psych unit once.”
Whatever she sees on my face makes her bark out a laugh before narrowing her eyes.
“So,” she says, “Anders didn’t tell you about that.”
Just how close are you really, then? is what I hear. It’s treacherous—this balance of playing the doting girlfriend, the supportive friend, while having only read a chapter of Anders’s story. If anyone skips ahead to a page I haven’t reached, I’m lost trying to fill in the blanks.
“Unfortunate as it is to admit any sibling worship,” I repeat, “his love for you is pretty evident in the way he talks about you—including what he doesn’t share.”
She stares at me for three seconds, then faces the painting again, though not before I catch a small smile.
“That’s his fatal flaw, you know. He loves too hard.” She snorts. “Maybe I shouldn’t be saying that to you, but if you can’t accept him for who he is, then you should leave.”
There it is again, a snag of guilt pulling at my chest. What will Anders say when I’m gone? Will his family worry all he holds in his bones will crumble? Will they hate me for whatever lie he tells them about our separation?
Why do I care if they do?
I smother the guilt, but I can’t stifle the building curiosity rising within me at the mere mention of Anders’s name.
“Some people would say loving isn’t a flaw at all.”
“It is for Anders,” she says, crossing her arms. “He does anything and everything for whoever he loves. Whatever’s in his capabilities. He has this need to protect people, to care for them so they don’t feel any pain. He doesn’t realize that can be painful in itself.”
That doesn’t make any sense. Since when is trying to protect someone you care about a bad thing? As an older sibling, I know exactly what it’s like—it’s not even conscious; it’s a reflex.
“You don’t agree,” she says when I don’t respond.
“But you’re an older sibling, too, so you don’t get it.
But as a younger sister, nothing sucks more than feeling like everyone’s waiting for you to crack.
Like you’re too fragile to make basic decisions.
And worse, the guilt of always being a constant worry in their life.
I mean, if I can get over losing the head cheerleader spot senior year to Mary Tambini despite her inability to do a basic handspring, I really can come back from anything. ”
“That’s not how my sister feels,” I snap, then immediately hold up my hands. “Sorry, that was aggressive. I mean, everyone is different, and from what I know about Anders, you’re severely underestimating the way he views you. He doesn’t think you’re weak.”
She groans, moving on to the next installation—a series of different-sized canvases with delicately painted bubbles stretching almost to the ceiling.
“This one is from a local artist. Chasing Reflections. It’s one of Anders’s favorites,” she says, arms crossed. “Older siblings are so dense. I was just starting to like you for getting Anders to back off the wedding. Please don’t bombard me with some lovey-dovey defense.”
A good point to bring up. I shouldn’t go against Anders in a way that’ll raise flags, but I need to get on Valerie’s good side.
Earn her trust. Learn more about her relationship, figure out exactly where to poke, pull, twist, and pry, like she’s my own personal Bop It!
Securing a place in her inner circle is my top priority.
If she wants to have incorrect opinions about sibling relationships, that’s her prerogative.
I press my hands together like I’m in prayer.
“Forgive me for bombarding you with lovey-dovey interactions. Shall I equal things out with an insult?” When she raises a brow, I add, “I have never seen someone so terrible at parallel parking. Honest to God, I felt such secondhand embarrassment even though no one was around to see it.”
She laughs. “You should’ve. There were probably wandering ghosts that pointed and laughed. If you’ve seen him try to reverse into a space, you’ll know it can get even worse.”
“How’d he even get his license?”
She leans in like we’re coconspirators. “It took him five tries. And on the fifth, I’m pretty sure Aunt Bethany bribed the DMV examiner.”
I grab her hands. “Please let me tease him about that.”
“I’d love it if you did. It’s one of the only things that riles him up.”
At the image my brain conjures of the cool, collected, charming Anders being anything but, my lips pull into a smile.
“Gross,” Valerie says, shoving me before continuing her journey through the gallery.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and when I glance down and see Joshua’s name, my stomach tightens.
“Hey, give me one sec?” I tell Valerie, already stepping away. “It’s a work thing.”
She shrugs and drifts toward a bright red canvas.
I answer the call, moving into a quieter corner near curvy, silhouette-shaped sculptures. “Hey, Joshua.”
“Lucy,” he says, upbeat but direct. “Just checking in. I wanted an update on how things are going on your end. You still on track for your buy?”
I force a smile he can’t see. “Yes, thanks for asking. Sure am.”
He hums, clearly not fully reassured. “That’s good to hear. The other potential buyer reached out again this morning. He’s ready to sign, and frankly, I can’t hold him off much longer unless I know you’re a sure thing.”
I press a hand to my forehead. “I’m in, Joshua. I want this. I just need a little more time to get the rest of the funds together. But I’ve got a plan. I’ll meet your deadline.”
There’s a beat of silence on his end. “All right. I just need to know where you stand, Lucy. I want this to be you. I know how bad you want it.”
“I’m in. I promise,” I say, too quickly.
“Okay,” he says. “Let me know if anything changes.”
The call ends, and I stand there for a second, heart hammering. I tuck my phone away, adjust my expression, and head back out into the gallery like this didn’t send every wing of anxiety fluttering in my stomach.
If anything, this needs to get me focused even harder on the task at hand.
When I spot Valerie walking, I match her pace, watching her weave through the building.
Sometimes she stops to admire a piece; other times, she barely spares a glance.
As someone with the artistic capabilities of a newborn, everything looks confusingly beautiful.
Some pieces are so abstract I can’t even place what they are, and yet, my brain still simply thinks pretty.
“So,” I say, “it’s been half an hour, and you haven’t said a single bad thing about this place. Is it special?”
“Well, it was the first gallery ever built in Charleston.”
I roll my eyes. “I meant to you.”
She tosses her hair. “Not really.”
Her tone sounds normal, but her shoulders stiffen ever so slightly. She tilts her head away, and the act reminds me so much of Taina that a sense of homesickness strikes me square in the chest. I maneuver myself in front of her.
“Oh, it is special to you!”
“I guess.”
“You have to spill now.” I loop my arm through hers. So she feels less pressure, I keep my gaze on a portrait of a woman facing a lakeside cottage, painted with such detailed strokes it looks like a photograph. “Share it with the class.”
“Is the class a private course or a public one?”
“It’s whatever your heart desires.” I hold up a pinkie.
She takes it in hers, and the ever-present guilt of this job sinks its claws into my stomach. Not only will I break every promise I make to her, but I’ll be sharing everything with Anders as soon as I can.
“My first love took me here on our first date,” she says, and I frown.
I’m sure John is last on the list of Valerie’s loves.
“It was one of my favorite dates ever. I thought he was the first person to see me as more than some bratty little airhead—and I can be that—but I’m more.
And Nick always had a way of bringing that out in me. ”
As soon as I feel my eyes widen, I blink until they’re back to normal. I keep my voice smooth. “You want to get married here? Where your first love took you?”
“You think that’s crazy?”
Even if I’m trying to impress her, Valerie seems to value honesty—and a bit of snark—so I don’t mince words. “I don’t think it’s exactly sane.”
She snorts. “Maybe that’s why I think it’s a good idea. I’m drawn to the crazy. And this is where I discovered true love exists.”
“Don’t you think getting married here will only remind you of your ex?”
She purses her lips. “Is that a bad thing?”
For Valerie to have such a strong impression of this place, it must mean a great deal, but it sounds like it’s less about the place and more about the person who brought her here. Is this Nick someone she still harbors feelings for?
Has to be, for her to even consider this venue. I mean, I still can’t enter the coffee shop my ex and I used to frequent—going so far as to walk two extra blocks to avoid it.
Those who are alive can haunt places just as much as those who are gone.
And it doesn’t seem like Valerie minds this particular ghost.
“I’m not judging you, to be clear. But I don’t understand. I’d like to.”
She sighs. “This is getting too heavy. We’re supposed to be having fun.”
The change in her is quick. I know I won’t get anything more out of her now, and if I push, it’ll only make it harder later. I’ll gather this and tuck it into a mental file.
I wrap my arm around her. “You’re so right. And I bet the café upstairs has enough champagne that anything from this moment on is guaranteed to be fun.”
“My treat.” She squeezes my arm, and we race to the liquor.