I looked at him for a moment, processing what he had just said, and then let out a small yelp of hysteric laughter.
“Never tell her I said that.”
I mimed locking my lips. “Mom isn’t helping either.”
He sighed. “It’s a good thing you never moved back home. I wouldn’t have survived it. But your mother, as much difficulty as she has showing it sometimes, loves you to pieces.” I screwed up my face in disbelief. “You’re more like her than you realize.”
“I think that was an insult.”
“Absolutely not. But she sees herself in you and criticizes those faults. She wants you to be the perfect version of her.”
“Why isn’t she like that with Amy?”
“Amy’s the baby. She’s hard on her in different ways.”
“I never see it.”
“You don’t live here.” I didn’t quite believe him. “But your biggest fan doesn’t just provide silent moral support.” He pulled his checkbook out of his drawer. “It sounds like you’re struggling,” he said as he wrote. “I’d like to help take away some of your stress. Consider it a loan from your own wedding account. We’ll spend a little less on flowers when your day comes.”
My eyes felt wet and I rose to hug him as he handed me the check. “Thank you, Dad.”
“I love you, Lilypad. But uh—maybe don’t tell your mother about this. It’ll be our little secret.”
I hugged him tighter. “I’ll go apologize to Mom.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Remember in Pride and Prejudice, when Mr. Darcy’s awful aunt is horrified that the younger sisters are “out” before the older ones are married? When did she become my favorite character? Lady Catherine has a solid point there.
I’m not saying my younger siblings need to be locked in an attic until I find a spouse, but good Lord! Forcing me to be in both of their weddings at the same time seems like the definition of cruel and unusual punishment. Can I cite the Eighth Amendment as a reason to sit these two out?
It doesn’t help that my baby sister （Emphasis on baby. Doesn’t she need parental permission to get married at her age?） is openly antagonizing me and has suddenly become best friends with my brother’s fiancée. Who, as far as I can tell, is utterly devoid of personality. Or perhaps she has a lovely personality, but an evil sea witch stole her voice and marrying my brother is the only way to get it back. I’m not really sure yet, but my sister talks enough for two people, so I guess it evens out.
Then there’s my ever-suffering mother. Poor mom. Not only is her eldest child a spinster with eggs dying off faster than you can say, “Actually, I’m only thirty-two and that’s NOT too old to get married or have kids,” but that spinster also lacks anything resembling prospects.
But to add insult to injury, the save-the-dates have arrived for the five weddings and two of them are addressed to me “and guest.” Have you guessed which two yet?
Oh Mom, your subtlety is the stuff of legends. I wonder, if I fail to procure said dates, will she provide them for me? And will it actually be anyone good, or some random dude to whom she gives elocution lessons, My Fair Lady–style, to create the illusion to all her friends and neighbors that she has succeeded matrimonially with all three of her children?
I’m afraid to find out.
My mouth twitched into a smile as I reread that one. Yes, the save-the-dates for Amy’s and Jake’s weddings had included “and guest.” But with the express caveat from my mother that it only applied if I was dating someone seriously. She would never find me a wedding date. On the contrary, I felt sure she would rather punish me for my life choices by making me go single if I wasn’t in a committed relationship. But the blog version was funnier, so I kept it and hit “Publish.”
It created an interesting dilemma, though, because it hadn’t occurred to me that having a date at the weddings would make them far less painful. And if I did have a boyfriend by then, how sweet would that little getaway in Mexico be?
Okay, I had to get my grandma down there, but I would have my own room. I pictured some tall, dark, and imaginary boyfriend giving my grandma his arm as we walked through the airport together.
I shook my head, dispelling that pipe dream.
But still.
I picked up my phone and texted Alex. What’s the story on Tinder?
Three dots appeared. What do you mean?
Like is it safe? Or am I going to get murdered if I use it?