How to Ruin a Wedding(5)

“What’s wrong?”

“I left for a few hours to meet a friend,” she begins. “Just a few hours! And then when I came back—well—I tried to stop him. I swear, I didn’t even notice the eviction notice he’d taped on the door. I even offered to pay the rent, but I guess he doesn’t trust you won’t be late again. That bastard must have been waiting until both of us left the place.”

Dread fills me, streaming from the pit of my stomach and spreading everywhere. “Taina, what are you talking about?”

“You’ve been evicted.”

Time pauses, and my heartbeat does too. “I sent him half the payment! He was supposed to let me stay.”

“I’m sorry.”

This can’t be right. He swore to me I could pay half now and the rest later. I rub my chest, and my heart starts to lose a steady rhythm. Maybe he just agreed to get what little out of me I had. And you, a grown woman, were naive enough to fall for it.

Taina says, “Whatever he didn’t trash, I’m having sent to my place.” Muffled, distant, she says to someone else, “Fuck you; my husband will sue you for all you have, you absolute asshole. You’re lucky I don’t shove those keys down your wrinkled-ass throat, you lizard-looking bastard.”

God, I can’t even bring myself to ask what she managed to keep. Everything, everything in there was from our parents. I didn’t get rid of a single thing after their death. Almost everything they ever owned is in storage or in Taina’s basement, but the rest, the best stuff, was in my apartment.

With me, so I could feel them every day. So it wouldn’t feel like they were in an unreachable place. So I wouldn’t be alone.

“It’s a blessing in disguise,” Taina says in my ear, focus back on me. “You’ll be more secure with me, and we can see each other more. Your place was at risk of falling apart any moment anyway. This is exciting!” Again, muffled, to someone else. “Fuck you.”

I love my little sister, but God I don’t enjoy her voice very much right now. No way I would turn a miserable moment for her into a silver lining, not until she’s had the proper time to process. It’s been thirty seconds. I deserve at least sixty.

I turn off my phone. I close my eyes and try to breathe through my nose. Try to be calm. I hate being upset. Really, being sad is the worst. Your stomach feels raw and filled with rock salt and your eyes swell until keeping them open creates this headache, like a woodpecker is stuck behind them.

My hands grip my phone so hard I’m surprised it doesn’t crack. I take another breath and it turns into a sob.

I pitch my phone to the other side of the room. It slams against the wall, and all I can think is, How much is that going to cost?

Damn it, damn it, damn it.

I rub my knuckles against my chest. Pressing as if it’ll stop my heart from beating so damn erratic.

I should have asked Taina what she managed to save. Now I’ll just think all the best stuff is gone. The Wall of Memories. Our family dog’s ashes. Dad’s favorite baseball glove. Mom’s go-to pot for rice. I need it all. It’s like glue linking me to them. A direct connection whenever I need them.

Evicted and jobless. But I can’t think about that now . . . I have a wedding to wreck.





2.


Unlike a sprain that needs a cast or a cut that can use some Neosporin, emotional pain can’t be cured with any over-the-counter remedy. But it can be dulled, if only temporarily, by regarding the bottom of a whiskey-filled glass. Repeatedly.

I’ve planted myself in a dimly lit bar in the farthest corner of the resort, handed over my card, which I’m sure will be declined soon, and taken a shot for every moment I think about my—no, not my—the apartment that once held my furniture, my most treasured items, empty.

Ah, another shot.

It doesn’t even burn as it goes down. It tastes enough like water that I lift the glass to smell it, to make sure the heavily tattooed bartender hasn’t decided to steal my emotional medicine from me. The scent of whiskey hits my nostrils, reminding me of my father sitting by our old coffee table, watching the game on a TV while I hovered nearby, ready to adjust the battered antenna every time the signal went out.

And that memory has me downing the rest of my glass.

I’ve lost track of how much I’ve drunk, but last time I looked at one of the flat screens hanging above the glossy mahogany bar, the teams on the screen were white jerseys versus blue ones. Now it’s red versus yellow, and maybe a different sport? Football or fútbol?

I’m very buzzed. And there’s a consistent feeling of a nail being hammered into the back of my eyes, sloppily pulled out, and hammered again. Maybe it’s a migraine, maybe it’s from all the drinking.

Maybe, I think as someone glides a glass of water over the countertop while heavily ringed fingers remove my empty glass, I’m dehydrated.

My head weighs approximately one hundred pounds, so turning it to the side takes extra effort.

There’s amusement in those familiar hazel eyes and concern in his furrowed brows as he meets my blurry gaze. The man takes a seat on the stool beside me.

“Stranger!” I say, patting his arm. I meant to tap him, but my hand squeezes his biceps to confirm—yes, they are as hard as they look. Nice.

If he cares at all about my assessment, he doesn’t show it. “Good to see you didn’t sprain an ankle sprinting away in those heels,” he says in greeting.