Page 26 of How to Ruin a Wedding

“Oh, can I speak now?”

I look around at an invisible audience. “At what point did I say you couldn’t?”

“Every time I talk, you shut me down.”

“If that’s the case, pick a different topic of conversation.”

Taina groans and stomps her feet like she did whenever I told her she had to stop eating twenty Flintstones-vitamin gummies in one sitting. The memory fills me with a nostalgic warmth—something I assume mothers feel when they look at their children.

“I don’t see why you’re so against me going with you,” Taina starts for the fifth time. “IloveSouth Carolina. I want to go to the beach to tan, eat melting sorbets, and read till I fall asleep with sand in my hair.”

“I’m going for work,” I tell her. Again. “And you’re going because you’re unnecessarily worried about me. I told you. I. Am. Fine.”

“The more you say it, the more I don’t believe it,” she says.

“The more you don’t believe it, the more I wish I had sent you off to a distant aunt.”

“You don’t even know this guy.”

I go back to picking out clothes. “I don’t know any of the people I work with.” Though strangely, it feels like I do know Anders. At least, I know him a lot more than any other client, since he’s the first person to request meafterspending time together.

“Yeah, but you’restayingwith him. Shouldn’t he put you up in a hotel?”

“I looked up his place.” I gather three pairs of jean shorts and shove them in the suitcase. “There is plenty of space, and it’s by the beach. It’ll be nice.” I give her a look. “And you’ve already vetted him.”

“Anders Kennedy—graduated from Belhaven University, phone number 843-555-4458, email anders kennedy reads at gmail dot com, no priors, a speeding ticket when he was seventeen that fell off his record. Listed as a donor to the American Library Association. Single.”

I chuckle. “I’m surprised you don’t know his social.”

“Two-four-seven-two—”

“Taina!”

“What?” She crosses her arms. “I’m nothing if not thorough. And, okay,fine, Iamworried about you. You’re going through a lot, and I know you hate that I know you are, and you wish you could quietly deal with your problems and make it so I think you’re happy and healthy and financially stable because you know my anxiety gives me nightmares. So what? Is it acrimeto care about your sister now? Lock me up.”

I let out half a sigh and a laugh, then approach Taina and place my hands on her shoulders. “No, my dearest, prettiest, funniest, nosiest little sister, it is not. I love you, so look at me and listen when I say I am fine.” Taina and I rarely have any miscommunications, because we overcommunicate. We leave no roomnotto tell the other how we feel. We always want the other to be happy. Even when we’re mad, we have a rule to let it out, say we love each other before bed, no matter how hard it is to get out. So dealing with all her worry feels less overwhelming and more of a comfort.No matter how bad life sucks, I have a sister who loves me unconditionally.“I feel better than I have in a while. Trust me. And your anxiety is only going to make mine flare up. We can’t both be worried all the time.”

Taina rolls her eyes, and looks to the side, but not anywhere near me. “If I can’t go, then you have to share your location with me. And text me updates. And eat good, big meals. And lock your door atnight—I’m talking chair under the handle, knife by the bedside. And sleep with Anders if the opportunity arises.”

There’s always a burst of love and pain whenever Taina’s protective side makes an appearance. What a gift it is to be loved so deeply you canfeeleach panicked beat of someone else’s heart pounding for you. And what an embarrassingly crushing feeling to know that—despite living most of my life trying to get Taina to view me as someone resourceful, dependable, the person you come to with any and all problems, the woman with countless bandages at the ready, pockets full of pep talks, a constant, unbreakable, figure—she still sees me as someone to protect for all I try to hide.

I pinch her cheek. “First you didn’t want me to stay with him, but now you want me to sleep with him.”

“You think I didn’t see his photo?” She whistles. “I’m anxious, but I’m only a woman. No better than a man, really.”

I laugh, then shove her to the side. “Just help me close this suitcase.”

During my two-hour flight, Anders and I exchanged over a hundred messages. If I’m going to show up as the girlfriend he’s allegedly been dating for four months, we need to be completely on the same page—timeline, backstory, favorite sandwich.

I’ve started jotting down Anders-related facts in the journal Taina gave me to help keep track of the weddings I’ve crashed. It’s now doing double duty as a relationship study guide. I figure I should know at least the basics in case someone brings it up or I need to casually drop a detail without inventing a whole new life for him.

And yes, if we’ve been together that long, you’d think I would’ve been at the wedding two weeks ago. Reasonable assumption. Anders has fielded these suspicions by telling his family that he “wasn’t ready for everyone to meet me yet” and wanted to be sure things were serious. Which is very noble and romantic—now that I’ve been called in to fake it.

Favorite color: Green