Page 15 of How to Ruin a Wedding

“Mathew is away for work, and I was bored.” She taps my leg. “So I thought I’d see what my pretty, sad sister was up to.”

“Well, I applied for more jobs and was rejected within hours. A new record, really.”

“Who rejected you? Give me a company name,” she says, smiling—her murderous one where she thinks if she looks sweet enough, nobody knows her intentions, but a threat glistens in her heavily mascaraed gaze. The phraseif looks could killdoesn’t apply to Taina. Tainawillkill. Taina, despite my best efforts, has a criminal record.

Not for murder, but I wouldn’t put it past her.

Neither of us is exactly the best law-abiding citizen, but when I was the head of the household, I didtryto be a good influence. Not too much cursing, thinking before speaking, counting to ten before letting anger get the best of me—though it got the best of me more often than I liked. But Taina has always had a fiery temperament that I had to constantly smother, and I, quite literally, had to bail her out of jail. Twice. Though the men she clawed at the nightclubs did deserve it for trying to cop a feel.

Especiallysince Taina’s anemia was so bad when she was younger. I’m convinced the more her blood pressure rose, the more frequently her fainting spells occurred. Having a calmer reaction to stressful environments would be helpful for everyone involved.

I close my eyes, and somehow even that hurts. “No hacking into company websites.”

Her gaze narrows. “You can’t tell me what to do.” Then, her gaze softens. “Well, okay, you can. You can tell me things, andI’lldo it. And ifItell you to do things, thenyoucan do it too.”

“Taina.” I pinch the bridge of my nose, too tired to have this argument again. “I’m not moving in with you and your husband.”

“Oh, please,” Taina says, gesturing to the space around us. “This is your own floor. A private entrance, kitchen, and bath; it’s like your own apartment.”

Of course, this was Taina’s motive for coming here with treats and a smile. Offering the comfort of her $3.4 million Connecticut mansion. Since I started the Wreck a Wedding business five months ago, she’s been hounding me to move in with her.

Granted, I have also called her numerous times complaining about a faulty sink, a leaking shower, moldy walls—so this request has been a long time coming. But Ichosemy old apartment knowing it wasn’t the best. It was the lowest rate I could get in New York a short distance from my old job. I could have gotten something better, but I wanted to save as much as I was able.

My dad always preached about how much better it was to live below your means—to always have a little extra stashed away for emergencies, like hospital bills or unexpected expenses. We saw that firsthand with Mom’s illness. Saving wasn’t just about being responsible; it was about survival.

Still, I’ve gotten better at allowing the people around me to care for me when they can. I wouldn’t deny Taina’s help if it were about anything else. If I needed a shoulder to lean on while whining about a date gone wrong, or help with an essay for my online university courses because I can never remember where an apostrophe is supposed to live, or company while cleaning up crap and dirt from the animal shelter. For anything else, I have no problem taking Taina’s often-extended hand.

Money is an entirely different story. A story I’ve yet to tell Taina, and am not sure I ever will—for her sake. “I’m looking for another place,” I get out, trying to ignore the sudden pinch in my chest.

“You lived in the equivalent of a dumpster. Actually, worse than that, dumpsters have roofs. You had a collection of holes vaguelyconnected by twenty-seven coats of paint. And you couldn’t even afford that. How will you afford anything back in the city?”

I jerk back, then soften my posture. I know Taina doesn’t mean it maliciously. It’s just, when she has a goal, she will do anything to reach it. She’s driven like that. Her current goal? Keeping me in the safety of her home.

I completely understand because, for most of my life, my thoughts were all just fragments broken from my singular purpose:Take care of my sister.

When we were kids, and our parents gave up dinner so we could split a bowl of Avena, I would give her my share. I worked multiple jobs and did under-the-table work at a bar to get her through college. Stole clothes from rich neighborhoods’ trash so she would have brand names in class when the other kids would sneer at a knockoff. At my lowest, I “borrowed” books and supplies she needed from department stores.

And now her bank account looks like a phone number, while mine looks like the receipt for a hamburger.

“I just need to get through the slow season. Or actually get a call back for an interview somewhere. I’ve started applying outside of the city.”

These past months have felt like a yearlong slow season. It’s not like I can hang around wedding venues and hand out flyers. I don’t have a large pool of clients to draw from.

“What you need is help,” Taina says, softening. “The job market sucks right now and—”

“And after I was fired, I destroyed my supervisor’s desk and had to be escorted out of the building,” I finish for her.

That day is still fresh in my mind. My condescending, aging prick of a supervisor sat me down, called me the name of the only other woman in the department, and asked me to wear looser clothes because I was distracting my peers. If I was going to continue to dress that way, I was basically “asking for it.”

Taina was ready to sue the second I got fired—Mathew’s a lawyer, and she practically had the paperwork drafted before I’d even made it home.

But buried in the mountain of new-hire paperwork I signed on my first day was a clause that waived my right to sue the company. I didn’t catch it. I was too busy feeling grateful—after years of juggling part-time jobs, night classes, and overdue bills, I would’ve signed a napkin if it came with health insurance and a 401(k).

“I’m sure they’ve warned every firm in the tristate about me. My resume is too impressive not even to get a callback.”

And yet, given the chance, I’d for sure say yes if they offered me my position back in the field rather than the high-risk, low-opportunity, anxiety-inducing trade of wedding wrecking.

I’ve always been happier with the ability to keep a roof over my head. And when you try to live without it, you find that money does indeed buy happiness—something achievable with a stable, salaried job like my marketing role at a New York City tech firm.