“How are you doing?” I asked her.
She twirled a wine glass between her fingers. “Can I tell you something? I’m so done with this shit.”
I blinked.
Adam held me a little tighter.
Rosie leaned in. “This fancy stuff? I didn’t want it, Pops. Me and Mark have Rory. We’re a family. This is just a piece of paper.”
She’d had too much champagne.
I knew that straight away.
“I don’t want a big wedding. I want to marry him. But no. Our moms said big wedding where there’s no chicken and my sister has to run around for strawberries and there are so many parties that Fashion Week feels inadequate.”
Adam glanced at me.
“Ro, why don’t you come to the bathroom with me?” I stood up, rounding to her. “Ad, make sure Dad gets his…water, okay?”
“It’s fucking whiskey,” Rosie muttered.
“Okay, his whiskey,” I agreed.
“It’s cute when you call him Ad,” my sister carried on.
“And we’re going!” I looped my arm through hers and, after shooting Mark an ok sign with my fingers, took her into the bathroom closest to the ballroom.
I pushed the main door shut behind me, closing out the noise of the music that pounded through the ballroom.
Rosie leaned against the counter. Her pale pink nails contrasted with the black marble. Her other hand swept her bangs to the side, and she looked at me, fear and panic shining in her warm brown eyes.
“I’m scared,” she said softly. “All of this, Pop. And for what? Mom to change plans I didn’t want? Chicken to disappear? You to chase strawberries around Key West?”
Shit. She knew about that.
“Yes, I know,” she said, reading my mind. “I can’t even be mad because you did that for me. This wedding is too big, it’s too much, and I can’t do this.”
“You can.” I stepped forward and grabbed her hands. “I love you, Ro, and you can do this. You already are. Who gives a shit if there’s chicken or strawberries? You’re here for Mark, and he’s here for you. You’re here to get married and if someone has to eat beef instead of chicken or have carrots or something then tough shit. Order McDonalds.”
She laughed, bringing a hand to her mouth.
I pulled her into me. “You’re getting married, not putting on a fucking state fair, even if Grandpa is this close to setting up a booth and charging ten cents for a story about his time in the Red Light District.”
More laughing, this time into my shoulder.
Crying, too. I felt the wetness of a tear as it dripped to my shoulder.
“You can elope, you know,” I said, hugging her and staring at the tiles. “You’ve probably got time to get to Vegas and back by now. Depending on flights and delays and shit.”
She laughed.
The door opened.
I dropped her like hot coal and rammed my body against the door. “Sorry, this one is occupied!”
“It’s Mark!”
“It’s still occupied! I’ll call you!” I yelled. “Go away!”
“Poppy, I swear, I’ll—”
“Do nothing because I’m holding your future wife hostage!”
He shuffled. “I’ll tell all future dates about the time you accidentally tweeted a photo of your boobs.”
“It’s probably already saved on the Internet. Go ahead.”
Rosie laughed into her hands.
“Are you done?” I asked him. “I’m being a good sister in here and you’re killing my vibe.”
“Is that a sex toy?”
“Why don’t I shove it up your ass so you can find out?”
Rosie gave up hiding it at that point. She collapsed against the wall, laughing like someone invisible was tickling her.
She was ticklish. It was a real analogy. You so much as wiggled a feather in her direction and she keeled over.
“If I didn’t love you like my sister, I’ll kill you in your sleep,” Mark shouted.
“Is that how you talk to your son’s aunt? Wash your mouth out with soap!”
Rosie intervened at this point. “Honey, it’s fine. I just needed a break from all the crazy people.”
“So, Mom, Dad, Grandpa, Aunt Jean, Aunt Berry, Uncle Foster…” I trailed off.
“All of those people.”
Mark grunted. “If you’re not out here in five minutes, I’m sending your grandpa to the nearest microphone.”
“No problem!” Rosie grabbed me. “Make me human,” she whispered, begging me. “Please.”
“I’m no miracle worker, but let’s see what we have here.” I looked around. “Oh, great. A tap and paper towels. That’ll turn you into Scarlet Johansson.”
Rosie picked up the purse she’d dumped, then unzipped it. “Clutch. Makeup here. Make me look human and I won’t tell anyone your boyfriend is a big fat fake.”
“I love you, but you’re a bitch.” I picked up the concealer stick.
“Eh. Nobody would believe me.”
“What does that mean?” I turned her face to look at me.
Her eyes searched mine. “Nothing. Just that you’re doing a really good job at pretending you’re into each other.”
I glared at her, but hmphed and got on with it.
After all, it was her weekend.
She could believe what she liked.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN – POPPY
Bad Ideas and Balconies
I groaned, slumping against the door of our room.
Adam laughed, undoing the buttons on his shirt. “At least we got Rosie to bed in one piece?”
“Oh, please. She wasn’t drunk.” I bent and pulled off my shoes, tossing them to the side. “She was pretending to be drunk to escape the hell that is our family.”
He paused. “Well, then, she did a good job at pretending.”
“Of course she did. She spent long enough as a teen pretending she was sober. She knows exactly how to be drunk.” I pushed off the door, making sure it had locked.
“I’m sure that was just her.”
“I would like to invoke my right to remain silent.” I crossed to the mini-fridge and pulled out a bottle of water. “My teen years also have the right to remain silent.”
“By silent, you mean forgotten and ignored.”
“You don’t know my life, hockey boy.”
He laughed, grabbing a half-sized bottle of champagne. “The sun is still going down. Want to join me on the world’s tiniest balcony?”
Yes.
No.
Yes.
No.
You’re doing a really good job at pretending you’re into each other.
I hated my sister for planting that in my head.
“Sure. Why not?” I pulled the bobby pins out of the side of my head one by one and tossed them onto the coffee table.
My shoulders were tight. I could feel the horrible squeezing of my muscles as I took two champagne glasses from the top of the mini fridge. Tonight had been close to disaster—not that I actually believed my sister would elope—but we almost didn’t pass it off well enough.
Shark week had been our excuse, and if my mom asked, Rosie thought her period had started and needed me to get lady supplies.
Yeah.
It wasn’t the best, but it was about the only time I’d ever thanked Mother Nature for periods in my life.
I stepped out onto the balcony with Adam. A gentle sea breeze caught my hair, and I was thankful for the soft chill it brought with it. The ballroom had been hot, and the stress of my family had made me feel even hotter with all the fuss they’d made over just about everything.
I tugged up my dress and sat down on the floor next to Adam. “They could have given us chairs.”
“Where would they put them? Inside?” He chuckled, pulling the tab on the champagne to remove the foil.
“Seriously, though. That huge suite and we can barely sit our asses on this balcony.”
“Never mind our asses—I can barely cross my legs.”
“Well, they are about five feet long,” I said, shifting so there was enough room between us to put the champagne glasses.
Adam shifted, bracing himself to pop the cork. “Ready?”
“Yes. Just don’t pop it over the—”
Pop.
“Balcony,” I finished, watching as the cork sailed over the top of the balcony and smoke swirled out of the bottle.
Adam turned to me, looking innocent. “Where else was I supposed to pop it? Into you?”