Page 38 of How to Ruin a Wedding
My first impression of Valerie was an intriguing combination of spoiled, self-aware, selfish—but with a dash of kindness and a hint of warmth. Those traits still rang true after six hours of venue scoping. However, with those characteristics in place, I thought she’d take more of a back seat in wedding planning, maybe hire a handler.
Now we’re at our seventh venue of the day, sunlight still pouring over us in Valerie’s convertible, the breeze tangling my hair into wavy knots. I’m convinced she’s purposely wasting time. There is no venue for her. She only wants the marriage on paper, not a grand event—though even that feels off. Everything about her screamsLook at me; I know you want to, and I admire my admirers.
And yet here we are, speed dating buildings. Had Bethany not pressured her into a wedding, a real one, Valerie would be out drinking wine and socializing with friends—so she has reminded me multiple times as we continue with our scouting. Is this some subconscious sabotage? Surely this modest art gallery the employee is leading us through isn’t as good a fit as the others we visited. Valerie had hated each one more than the last.
Bed and breakfast? (Too homey. Meant for those “over the hill” and on their third marriage.)
Church? (Beautiful stained-glass windows, sure—but hard to get married in a place where she once hooked up with the priest’s son.)
Garden? (One gnat flew in her face, and she turned us around.)
Boat? (If anyone got sick during the ceremony, she’d shove them overboard.)
Hotel? (Too pretentious.)
Beach? (Not pretentious enough.)
The employee stops by an arched opening. “I’ll let you two wander. Do let any of the staff know if you have questions.”
Valerie barely waits for her to finish before she marches into the first room, heels clattering on the floor. I hurry after her, my battered sneakers leaving less of an impressive echo.
“Didn’t peg you for a lover of the arts.”
She tosses her hair over her shoulder, revealing the top of her sleeveless dress. “Unfortunate as it is to admit any sibling worship when I turned out to be so amazing, Anders might have rubbed off on me.”
“Your brother adores you,” I say, pausing as she stops to view a landscape of a forest. “I think he’d like to hear that.”
She rolls her eyes. “What he’d like to hear is that I’ll call off this wedding and stop making him worry about my mental health every other day. God forbid a girl get sent to the psych unit once.”
Whatever she sees on my face makes her bark out a laugh before narrowing her eyes.
“So,” she says, “Anders didn’t tell you about that.”
Just how close are you really, then?is what I hear. It’s treacherous—this balance of playing the doting girlfriend, the supportive friend, while having only read a chapter of Anders’s story. If anyone skips ahead to a page I haven’t reached, I’m lost trying to fill in the blanks.
“Unfortunate as it is to admit any sibling worship,” I repeat, “his love for you is pretty evident in the way he talks about you—including what he doesn’t share.”
She stares at me for three seconds, then faces the painting again, though not before I catch a small smile.
“That’s his fatal flaw, you know. He loves too hard.” She snorts. “Maybe I shouldn’t be saying that to you, but if you can’t accept him for who he is, then you should leave.”
There it is again, a snag of guilt pulling at my chest. What will Anders say when I’m gone? Will his family worry all he holds in his bones will crumble? Will they hate me for whatever lie he tells them about our separation?
Why do I care if they do?
I smother the guilt, but I can’t stifle the building curiosity rising within me at the mere mention of Anders’s name.
“Some people would say loving isn’t a flaw at all.”
“It is for Anders,” she says, crossing her arms. “He does anything and everything for whoever he loves. Whatever’s in his capabilities. He has this need to protect people, to care for them so they don’t feel any pain. He doesn’t realize that can be painful in itself.”
That doesn’t make any sense. Since when is trying to protect someone you care about a bad thing? As an older sibling, I know exactly what it’s like—it’s not even conscious; it’s a reflex.
“You don’t agree,” she says when I don’t respond. “But you’re an older sibling, too, so you don’t get it. But as a younger sister, nothing sucks more than feeling like everyone’s waiting for you to crack. Like you’re too fragile to make basic decisions. And worse, the guilt of always being a constant worry in their life. I mean, if I can get over losing the head cheerleader spot senior year to Mary Tambini despite her inability to do a basic handspring, I really can come back from anything.”
“That’s not how my sister feels,” I snap, then immediately hold up my hands. “Sorry, that was aggressive. I mean, everyone is different, and from what I know about Anders, you’re severely underestimating the way he views you. He doesn’t think you’re weak.”
She groans, moving on to the next installation—a series of different-sized canvases with delicately painted bubbles stretching almost to the ceiling.
