“I was just looking at what you’re wearing. It’s cute.” When Nicki described anything as “cute,” it really meant she secretly hated it and thought it was hideous.
I thought I was stylish—not her type of stylish, but stylish nonetheless. I liked delicate, feminine clothing. My closet was filled with little lace blouses, floral spring dresses, bejeweled ballet flats and sandals. Tonight I wore a short, vintage-inspired dress with rickrack sown onto the cap sleeves. I thought it was whimsical.
I walked around the kitchen island and past Nicki to collect the dinner napkins.
“What’s that smell?” she asked.
“Huh?”
She leaned in my direction and sniffed.
“Bailey,” she said under her breath, “you kind of stink.”
“Oh, Erica spray tanned me earlier today,” I replied. I smelled my forearm. “I don’t think it’s that bad.”
“That stuff will rub off all over your clothes. If it smells like that, it’s probably cheap. And cheap means clothes get ruined,” Nicki replied.
“Well, I wasn’t expecting to come over here at the last minute,” I replied. “I planned to spend the evening in old sweats in front of the TV.”
“Really? ‘Cause you said you might be going out with your new boyfriend,” Nicki pointed out.
Shit. I scrambled.
“Uh huh. He was gonna come over and watch TV with me,” I said, smiling sweetly.
“Was he now?”
“Girls . . .” Mom warned.
Here’s something you need to understand about Nicki. First of all, she looks like a supermodel. I’ve no idea how my parents’ genes translated to that. She’s five-foot-eight with long blond hair and alabaster skin. She’s one of those girls who can wear high-waisted shorts and not look like she instantly gained ten pounds. She dresses like a teenager, and she can get away with it. Her closet is filled with Forever 21 finds. She’s vivacious and opinionated (like our mother) and has a superiority complex. Anything she says and does is automatically better than anything I say or do. I was wrong to not consult her about my spray tan before I let Erica do it, and she let me know it with her bullshit snarky comments.
I ignored Mom and trudged to the dining room.
“How are you, Bailey?” Brad asked as we set the table. I was actually impressed he knew how. And then I was slightly annoyed when he corrected my fork placement.
“Just fine. And you?”
“I’m good. Things are good. Job’s good. Nicki and I are good.”
I nodded.
“I hear you’re dating. Congratulations,” he said, refolding the napkin I just placed on the table.
“Thanks?” Who congratulates someone on dating?
“How’s work?” he asked.
“Same.”
“How’s the house?”
“Great.”
“How’s . . . ?” And then he realized he had nothing left to ask me. He smiled uneasily instead.
“What’s this news Nicki wants to share?” I asked. “That’s the whole reason we’re here, right?”
Brad blushed, and I suddenly thought Dad might be right.
When we were all gathered around the table, Mom cleared her throat. For the first time, I noticed she was wrapped in one of her loveliest dresses. We called them her “church dresses” even though we seldom went—just Christmas and Easter. This one was also vintage-inspired with a flair skirt like mine. But Mom’s didn’t sport rickrack, so her dress seemed more elegant than fun. I suppose she already learned the news and wanted to look the part of a regal grandmother-to-be.
“I’m pretty sure we’re all here for a reason, right Nicki?” she said. “Why don’t you share before we start eating?”
I thought about all the names Nicki might call her baby boy. She was definitely a Ryder-Storm-Mason kind of girl, and I imagined he’d look just like Brad (which wouldn’t be bad) and have Nicki’s unbearable personality. I also imagined he’d grow up spoiled and pampered by a grandmother who would tell him over and over, “I wish you had cousins to play with, but your auntie can’t raise a child and count her steps all day.”
Nicki beamed on the other side of the table. Here it comes . . .
“Brad and I are—”
How often must I visit this kid?
“—getting married!” she squealed.
Huh? I blinked twice to refocus, but my eyes weren’t the problem. It was my ears. Did I hear that right? Marriage? And why on earth had I not considered it?
“Married?” Dad asked.
“Oh, it’s fine, Samuel. Brad asked me for our blessing,” Mom replied.
My mouth dropped open. Okay, I’m neither a progressive nor conservative thinker. I’m somewhere in the middle. But I do tend to lean toward tradition on certain things, and asking the girl’s father for permission to marry his daughter is one of those things. Or perhaps I just felt strongly in this case because Mom sat so smug in her seat staring at Dad while he absorbed this information.
Bitch.
“You asked our mom?” I directed the question to Brad. And yes, it came out a mixture of accusation and disgust.
Nicki glared at me. “How about a congratulations, sis?”
I shook my head. “I’m sorry. Oh my God, I’m sorry. Congratulations, you two.”
Nicki clicked her tongue. And then she turned to our father, who hadn’t uttered a word. He just stared across the table at Brad who avoided his gaze.
“Daddy, you’re always at the lake!” she laughed. “Brad called to talk to you, but Mom said she didn’t know where you were, and he just couldn’t wait. He had the whole evening planned out for me. And it was such a beautiful proposal.”
So naturally, we had to hear about it. Mom cried. Brad smiled triumphantly, like he just slayed the dragon. Dad listened carefully. And I stared at the salad bowl feeling my stomach rumble beneath my floral dress.
“This calls for a celebration!” Mom cried. She popped up, and so did Dad.
“I’ll get it,” he said gruffly, and Mom sank back into her seat. She smiled and nodded.
“I’ll help!” I said, plastering an I’m-not-jealous-right-now-that-my-younger-sister-is-beating-me-to-the-altar smile.
I followed Dad into the kitchen and searched the cabinets for the champagne flutes.
“That’s what we’re having, right? Champagne?” I asked, holding up a glass.
He grunted.
“Dad!” I hissed.