I was saved by Amy walking out in an elaborate princess dress that was much more flattering than the previous dress. “I think this is it,” she said slowly, examining herself in the three-way mirror. My mother promptly burst into tears, then Ashlee, and finally Amy began to cry as well. My grandmother pursed her lips at me but said nothing.
For once, I was thankful that my mother’s attention was so laser focused on Amy that she didn’t notice my lack of genuine enthusiasm. But Amy was the youngest and the golden child and of course my mother was overly emotional that her baby was about to be the most beautiful bride she had ever seen.
Was I jealous, like my grandmother had asked? Not of her getting married, certainly, but yes. I was. My mother never fawned over me like this. And Amy just lived this charmed little life in which everything worked out perfectly. I was definitely jealous of her ability to do that, even if it wasn’t specifically how I wanted to live my life.
As they took Amy’s measurements and began the process of ordering the dress, I picked up my phone and began typing a post.
You know those cartoons where the character runs right off the cliff and doesn’t start falling until he looks down?
That’s my little sister. Except she never bothers to look down. Instead, she merrily skips along until she’s back on solid ground, never realizing she left it in the first place.
So for her, getting married is a pretty little fairy-tale ending to her perfect romance. Which is complete bullshit because she’s been with this dude for a year and has lived at home the whole time. So like, if they want to sleep together, do they have to wait until my parents aren’t home? Like they’re in high school? Sounds super romantic to me. （Actually, it’s gross and for once I’m thrilled that my childhood bedroom is now my mom’s treadmill room because if they were doing it on my old bed, I would puke.）
But I don’t understand how you live your life like that. How do you not check for the ground beneath your feet? Even the coyote knew to do that, and he was such an optimist, always believing he would finally get that roadrunner. Or maybe he was just a very hungry realist with an Amazon Prime account. But either way, I can’t do that. I look down.
Which is probably why she’s getting married （ostensibly—I still don’t totally believe it） and I’m on my way to dying alone with a cat that will eat my face before anyone discovers me—truly a terrible fate because I hate cats. And there was that article that says they really will eat you.
But even when I try not to look down, it doesn’t matter because someone always taps me on the shoulder and points out that I’ve run off the cliff. Remember that groomsman I hooked up with? Well, I found out which one it was, and he’s the single grossest guy （Not physically. Physically he’s not terrible. But he’s like Jabba the Hut in a decent body.） I’ve ever met, and that’s who I get drunk and hook up with.
Maybe being a cat lady with a half-eaten face won’t be so bad after all.
I felt a little guilty putting my sister’s business out there like that. But it was anonymous and, if I was being honest, it wasn’t like that many people were really reading it anyway. I hit “Publish.” Besides, it felt good to be writing, and it was certainly better than holding all of that annoyance in. And hey, maybe I’d break a dollar today.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The following Tuesday, I was in line at Starbucks when I heard someone call my name from behind. I had earned my first latte from the blog （and Friday was payday, so my account was less terrifying as long as I didn’t go shopping all week）， so I decided to treat myself. I turned around and saw Alex, wearing a suit and waving, with three people in line between us.
I looked at him, surprised. “What are you doing here?”
“Getting coffee. What are you doing here? I don’t think they serve martinis.”
The man standing behind me snickered and the woman with a small child behind him gave me a dirty look. I glanced surreptitiously at my watch, but I wasn’t running late for once, so I gestured for the people between us—rude as they were—to go ahead of me and moved back to where he stood in line.
“Cute. Very cute. I’m actually not an alcoholic, for the record.”
“For the record,” he repeated with a grin, “I didn’t actually think you were. Unless you’re having another—what did you call it? Existential crisis?”
I laughed and elbowed him sharply. “You’re a jerk, you know that?”