How to Ruin a Wedding(14)
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?”