Phoebe Berman's Gonna Lose It(44)

“Phoebe, it’s perfect,” Jamie gushes, looking ethereal in her ivory silk slip dress. Even though she’d say the same if I decorated the room in cobwebs and fake blood, her approval fills me with pride.

“There she is.” Ethan barrels toward me, lifting me off the floor in a signature Ethan bear hug. “My favorite sister.” He chuckles to himself. Ethan has no sisters of his own, and thus finds this bit completely hysterical every time he does it. Which happens to be every time I’m with him.

“Good one,” I indulge him just this once. He spins me around in a circle and then firmly plants me back on the floor, and it takes a second for my dizziness to subside before I can really appreciate the sight of him and Jamie before me. Jamie towers over Ethan in her heels, and I’m reminded of why I love him. He’s always insisted that the inches Jamie has on him are sexy. According to Ethan, every single thing Jamie does is sexy.

Taking out the trash? Sexy.

Yelling at him for leaving his socks on the floor? Sexy.

Waking up from a nap with drool running down her chin? Sexy.

She could be all dolled up for a night out, or barefaced in her pajamas, and he’ll ogle at both versions of her with a look in his eyes that says I’m the luckiest guy in the world.

I make a motion with my index finger for him to turn around.

“Let me see what we’re working with.”

He complies eagerly with a slow 360-degree spin. His blond hair is parted to the side, and his suit is tailored immaculately.

“My god, those pants are tight,” I tease.

“I think all my working out is finally catching up to me.” He makes a dramatic display of flexing his biceps, and Jamie pats his arm lovingly before rolling her eyes in the direction of his pants.

“Aunt Carol’s gonna love those.”

“You really think so?” Ethan asks earnestly. Jamie swats at his shoulder, and he grabs her hand and presses a kiss to it. The action is so second nature that it makes my heart ache.

Aunt Carol is everyone’s worst nightmare, and Jamie’s always been the one with the most patience for her. Up until her graduation party, that is, when Aunt Carol had too many glasses of red wine and stuck her hand down Ethan’s back pants pocket.

“She kept it there for eight full seconds,” Ethan had told Jamie and me when he pulled us into the pantry, out of earshot of the rest of the partygoers. “I counted. And there was some definite”—he paused to find the word—“caressing.”

Jamie had one request for the wedding weekend: keep Aunt Carol away.

And that’s why she’ll be sitting in the back tonight, at a table with the Florida cousins. It’s the farthest spot away from Ethan and his pockets that I could manage.



* * *



—

As I suspected, the Guess Who? seating chart was a hit. And if it weren’t for Aunt Carol’s white slip dress, practically identical to Jamie’s, it might even have been the talking point of the evening.

From the corner of my eye, I catch Dad looking across the table at Jamie. In an effort to distract him from what would be his third time bursting into tears, I gesture to his plate.

“Eat your salad. I haven’t seen you eat one green tonight.”

“It’s rabbit food,” he whispers under his breath.

“It’s good for you,” I tell him, and he stabs at the pieces of arugula and radish like he has a personal vendetta against them.

I’m about to ask Jamie if she’s ready for the toasts when I’m distracted by an unbearably loud screeching sound coming from somewhere behind me. I turn to see Aunt Carol dragging her chair across the floor with one hand and balancing her wineglass in the other. A large red wine stain covers her left boob. She’s headed in our direction.

Jamie slaps my arm.

“Ow?” I rub my shoulder where she struck.

“Do something,” she pleads.

I turn to my father. I slap his shoulder.

“Ow!” He drops his fork, and I jerk my head in Aunt Carol’s direction.

“Do something.”

He turns to my mother, but it’s too late. And we’ve wasted too much time.

She’s here.

“Peebeeeee.” She slides my dinner plate over to make room for her glass of wine. Her bleach-blond hair is so fried it feels like sandpaper brushing across my shoulder as she squeezes herself between me and Dad.

“I didn’t want to say anything earlier….” The red lipstick on her teeth pairs well with the wine stain on her dress. “I didn’t want to embarrass you. But you put me at the wrong table.”

“Well—” I start, ready to recite my planned speech about how the Florida cousins had specifically requested her presence, and who was I to deny them after they came all this way.

“It’s fine,” she cuts in. “I’m not mad; it was an honest mistake. Just please make sure you get everything sorted for tomorrow’s seating arrangements. This is the last of the kids’ weddings.” She gestures toward all my married cousins and their significant others at the opposite end of the table. “I want to make sure I don’t miss out on any of the family fun.”

She takes a giant swig of her drink.

“Uh.” Dad clears his throat. “It’s not the last wedding, Carol. Phoebe hasn’t gotten married yet.”