Page 106 of How to Ruin a Wedding

“You wanted to get married where he took you on your first date,” I explain, try to see the reasoning behind this, find the lost communication. “You said it’s where you realized true love exists.”

“Because ofJohn.” Veins pop out of her neck. “Anywhere Nick took me, all my favorite places, felt tainted, felt unreachable. John spent months and months bringing me to all the places I loved and hated, and showed me that I could form new, better memories.That’swhat I meant.”

Panic blooms from every pore. “He tracks your location when you’re out.”

“Because I have a tendency to wander off on my own, and he wants to make sure I’m somewhere safe.”

“You guys barely show any affection.”

“Oh my God, Lucy. He’s shy, is that a crime? Is it so horrible that he’s this awkward, weird, quiet, foolish man? I love him anyway! I love the way he makes me feel like me. No matter what he is, he’snevera bad person. That’s all that matters to me. You had no right to try and ruin that. I thought we were friends.” She shoots out the last word like venom before turning on her brother. “And we’re blood.”

Mathew says, “You really ruin everything you touch.” Turning to Anders, he sneers, “You really think she cares about you? She only attaches herself to established, wealthy people—people who can take care of her, because she doesn’t know how to do it herself. She wouldn’t give you an ounce of attention otherwise.”

“Not true.” I can barely get it out, and the sound of the words feels like a lie anyway.

“Lucinda,” Anders says, like a plea.

“She ruins weddings for a living,” Mathew says. “You think she believes in love? That doesn’t matter to her. Save yourself the mess she brings wherever she goes.”

Not true, not true. It’s not true. Right?

But if it wasn’t, then the weight of everything I’ve done, everything I’ve done wrong, shouldn’t squeeze into my bones like they’re in the process of being smashed by a handpress. I can take a lot, but not this. Not the eyes of people I love and care about watching me like I’m a stranger, waiting to hear words they deem empty.

Rightly so. They owe me nothing. Not anymore.

If I reach out a hand, if I try to defend myself, everyone will recoil. And witnessing that, feeling the cold of rejection so firmly, is something I can’t bear.

There’s only one person, a single human, who, no matter what I’ve done, no matter who they’re against, will forgive me and save me from any pain if they could.

My sister.

I meet her gaze, and I see her register every thought and emotion running through me. See her own counter it—the betrayal, the anger, the sympathy, and understanding.

And what overwhelms it the most is the loyalty of love.

In a blur of motion, she grabs my hand and pulls me away. Gripping her keys, she shoves me in a car, and we drive away. Together.

And my sister’s presence, no, her very existence, is the only thing that keeps me from breaking entirely.

28.

Days have passed since everything imploded.

I haven’t turned on my phone once since we left Charleston. I’ve been taking comfort in a small cottage on the coast of Connecticut, away from Anders, Mathew, or anyone else—just Taina and the lake surrounding us.

It felt wrong to leave everything so messy, without a word, but I’m too much of a coward to face anyone—especially Anders. All I could do was leave him a handwritten letter, filled with apologies and my wish to have done better, to have been better, to be better. I told him Mathew was right: everything I touch shatters into something horrible. It’s better this way—before I break everything beyond repair.

I left another letter for Valerie, explaining it was entirely my fault, my plan, and that Anders had nothing to do with it. (I gave Anders a heads-up in his letter, so he’d know he could throw all the blame my way and repair his relationship with his sister.) I told them I was sorry, and I wrote the same to Bethany and Olive, telling them they deserved better.

A coward’s way out—leaving it to Taina to put the letters in their mailbox. Proving Mathew’s point that I rely on her too much. But I’m so incredibly fragile that any conversation puts me at risk of spiraling.

That’s not why Taina has barely spoken to me all these days, though I pretend it is. I know it’s because she has so much she wants to say, shecan’t process it all at once, at least not in the beginning. Now, she waits for an opening—one where she feels I won’t break.

And I’m not sure when that will ever happen again.

Instead of facing anything, I rock on a wooden chair overlooking the lake, surrounded by thick trees and untamed grass. The soft night wind sends ripples through the water, the setting sun dipping into the center of it.

There’s only one chair out here, on the dock at the foot of the cottage.