Chapter 27
TWENTY-SEVEN
Annie
May and I lay under the covers in my giant bed, eating Pocky and watching a reality television show where everyone shouts at each other.
“Ready to talk about it?” she asks, as we watch a piece of bread fly towards another cast member.
I groan.
She opens her arm. I curl into her side without hesitation, like I’ve done since we were little. Same dynamic, same comfort, just with more adult problems and better snacks.
“I don’t know how to do this,” I mumble into her shoulder.
“Do what?”
“Not fuck it up,” I admit.
She doesn’t push. Just rubs my arm in those long, even strokes she’s perfected since childhood.
She used to do this when I’d lose my mind after getting in trouble—when I’d scream at our mom for being cruel, when I’d take the fall for May’s broken vase or missing homework because I could absorb the punishment better than she could.
“I don’t know how to be in something that isn’t already halfway to disaster,” I whisper. “I only know how to crash into things. Not keep them.”
May stays quiet, which is how I know she’s really listening.
“I like him,” I say, then exhale. “I really, really, really like him.”
May raises an eyebrow.
I ignore her because she knows exactly what I mean.
“And it’s been—what, a week?” I continue. I don’t mention the months of Ali and Chef. “That’s ridiculous. It’s ridiculous even for me. And that’s saying something.”
May makes a soft sound in her throat. But she stays calm. Always calm.
I keep going because if I stop, I’ll lose my nerve.
“Something in me is screaming that he’s just another one of my flaky, self-destructive choices.
That I’m just doing what I always do—jumping into something dramatic because I’m bored or sad or lonely.
That I picked the hot guy with a weird job and good dick because I thought it would be a good story or because I liked the chaos. ”
“You think Nico is chaos?”
“No,” I say instantly. “That’s the thing.
He’s not. He’s… good. He’s stable and safe.
Kind. And I don’t know what to do with someone like that.
” I pause, fingers fiddling with the Pocky wrapper.
“He’s the kind of person who makes careful decisions.
Who thinks about other people.” I look at the television, where something else goes flying across a table and towards a head.
“I think he’s the first person I’ve ever liked for who he is. Not for what he can do for me.”
I stare up at the ceiling, overwhelmed by the weight of everything I feel.
“What if I ruin it?” I whisper. “What if I scare him off? What if he figures out I’m not actually funny or hot or interesting—I’m just crazy and exhausting and high maintenance and dramatic?
Or that I’m too loud or cranky or cry too much.
Or just too much? What if he realizes I’m not a partner, I’m a liability? ”
May finally pulls back enough to look at me. She’s got that look on her face, the one that says I am your sister and also your fiercest advocate, so shut the fuck up with that nonsense.
“Annie,” she says, steady and certain. “You’ve always been a lot. You know that.”
“Thanks.”
“I mean it in the best way. You’ve always been full-volume, full-color. Big feelings, big loyalty, big everything. You’ve always been big enough to take up space for both of us.”
My throat tightens. “That sounds suspiciously like exhausting, high maintenance, dramatic, loud—”
“It means you’re fierce. You feel everything, and instead of shrinking from it, you use it. You turn it into fun and love and protection and wildly inappropriate reactions.”
I let out a watery laugh.
And I feel a piece of me heal.
May’s voice softens. “Nico isn’t scared of you.
He watched you today like he wants all of it.
Like he was so lucky, like you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to him.
He’s a great guy—he deserves someone who loves and protects like you do.
And you deserve that kind of love more than anyone in the word. ”
I nod. Because maybe… I do.
We fall silent again for a moment. The TV blares in the background—someone screaming about betrayal and hair extensions—but there is a kind of quiet that isn’t silence so much as a shift in temperature.
“I know that you love me. And… I know what you’ve done. But…” she swallows. “I want you to stop.”
I rear back. “What?”
“You made yourself big so I could be small.”
I blink at her.
“You were the lightning rod, so I didn’t have to be,” she says.
“You took up all the air so I could breathe without being noticed. I didn’t get yelled at because you were already screaming.
I didn’t get questioned because you were already in trouble.
You made it easy to be the good one, because you took all the heat. ”
I feel my throat tighten. “I wanted to.”
“Did you, Annie? Did you really? At the expense of your own happiness? Sacrificing yourself over and over again—”
“I could take it, and I wanted to, May—”
“You were protecting me. You always have. But also sometimes… protecting me meant making all my choices for me. Even when I didn’t know it.”
I flinch a little.
May notices, but she doesn’t stop. “I let it happen. I liked that I didn’t have to be messy. I liked knowing you’d always stand in front of me if something went wrong. I liked being good.”
There’s something bitter at the edge of her voice. Not about me—but about the cost of all that goodness.
“But I’ve lived my whole life by the rules because I was afraid of what would happen if I didn’t. Afraid of being like you. Afraid of what would happen if I weren’t good. If I didn’t make the ‘right’ choice.”
There’s a long pause. “He’s the right choice for me,” she says eventually.
Tom. She doesn’t have to say it. I read the name on her face.
“He’s… safe.”
There’s that word again, but it carries a vastly different weight than the way I just used it to describe Nico. Because “safe” got wasted the night before his wedding and is god knows where right now.
She stares at the television, her expression glassy. “He’s predictable. Respectable.”
And suddenly, I see it. The shape of her life. The rigid outlines she’s drawn around herself so nothing unexpected can slip in. The lines that have kept her calm, composed, reliable.
She picked a path. And now she’s walking it with her eyes closed.
I reach out and hook my pinky around hers. “You know I’d murder him and make it look like an accident if you asked me to, right?”
A smile ghosts across her lips. “I know. But please don’t. I’d like tomorrow to be drama-free, please.”
We fall silent again. The TV’s still loud, someone’s still screaming about betrayal and extensions, but it all feels very far away.
I stare at the ceiling.
I’m thinking about Nico. About how good it felt to be safe with someone and still fully myself.
And I’m thinking about May. About how maybe I’ve spent so long protecting her that I never gave her the space to learn what she really wants. Maybe she thinks love is what happens when no one yells. Maybe she thinks respectability is the same thing as happiness.
She deserves more than that. We both do.
But it’s not my place anymore. I don’t need to protect her. She can make her own choices. Even if they’re ones I wouldn’t make.
Even if they break her heart.
Even if they break mine.
We wake up to room service knocking on the door. Yes, I ordered us room service in advance, because I am the most honorific of all maid of honors ever. I hop out of bed before May even opens her eyes and let the woman in.
She rolls in a cart full of all of May’s favorite breakfast foods.
May sits up in the bed, only for me to tackle her right back into it. “It’s your big day, you big, beautiful bride, you. Congratulations.”
There is a minor scuffle while she attempts to shove me off of her, but I latch onto her waist, pull open her robe, and blow a raspberry right on her belly.
She screams. “Get off me,” she shrieks, but she’s smiling.
The day is gorgeous outside our window. The sun is shining bright, and the sky is blue with a smattering of clouds. It’s really not a bad day for a wedding. I start popping lids off of the platters and uncover a tiny jar of honey that makes my insides feel like gooey warmth. Or honey, I guess.
“Tom’s okay,” May announces from the bed, looking at her phone. “He and the other groomsmen will come down to the big suite after they’re done getting ready.”
“What constitutes getting ready?” I ask, unable to resist dipping a finger in the honey pot and taking a lick. “Drinking from matching flasks? Smoking illegal cigars?”
She shrugs. “I don’t really want to think about it.”
“Then don’t think about it,” I tell her. “It’s your perfect day, Plum.”
Getting Ready is fun. Even if it’s hours of hair and makeup and giggling, I’m having fun.
Even if my mom is here, wearing her fake maternal smile that tricks everyone into thinking she’s an adorable little old Asian woman.
Even if May’s bitchy friend Elodie keeps making snide remarks about every tiny little detail.
But Izzy’s here, and the rest of the bridal party are great, so loving, and a hilarious bunch to be around.
I’m so happy for May, to have found her people. Her girls.
There’s an energy, a camaraderie that exists in the air. A little bit of nerves, a lotta bit of love and excitement. It only increases after five hours of Getting Ready. I could be into this. I take some notes. For no reason, and for no person at all.
But I do text that person to come up to the suite with Tom and the groomsmen and the rest of our family for pictures.
“Annie, sit down for a second,” May calls from across the room, while I’m checking her hanging qi pao for wrinkles and texting with the wedding planner for the eighteenth time to make sure everything’s okay and is she sure she doesn’t need any help and you’re sure the string quartet has arrived to the hotel? “Relax,” she laughs, consummately calm.