I really didn’t want Dr. Punched-Him-in-the-Throat (I’m building up to this story, okay? Bear with me!) to pester me about it. Not that he did. Cruz Costello was somewhat of an expert at ignoring my existence.
But if I could ensure he and I wouldn’t have to speak to each other before the cruise, I was going to give it my best shot.
On the cruise company’s website, I entered the Elation into the search bar, the cruise ship we were going to be on. It sailed from Port Wilmington and proceeded on a ten-day cruise to various Caribbean islands.
Apparently, this was a long-time tradition for the Costellos, who took their sons on a cruise to a different exotic destination every summer. We, the Turners, had had a few summer traditions of our own before I gave birth to Bear.
Namely, to haul ass to Disney World every August, complain about the Floridian heat, and then, later, about the insane lines, swear we’d never, ever come back again, and frantically try to find my very drunk, very friendly dad striking up a conversation with whatever poor actress they had dressed as Elsa that day.
Admittedly, I was a little tipsy when I booked my and Cruz’s tickets.
Things were a bit…blurry as I entered all our details and forwarded the confirmation via email to [email protected]. Which was why I peppered the email with middle finger emojis, just so he’d know who it was from.
In the end, I shut down my computer, took my wine to my room, and collapsed onto my bed for an honest, six-hour-long slumber. A slumber filled with dreams of Benicio del Toro, and lottery tickets, and no Rob Gussmans or Cruz Costellos.
The next day, I went to my parents’ house after dropping Bear off at school. I had an evening shift, and I’d promised to help my sister Trinity make goodie bags for the bachelorette party later that evening.
Yup.
That was right.
One of the two bridesmaids—me—wasn’t invited to the bachelorette party. Or, if we were going to get all technical about it, wasn’t available at that hour, on that date.
But Trinity knew dang well there was no one to cover my shifts—and Tuesday was a night shift. So what I gathered from this, was that she didn’t want me to be there.
Which, admittedly, wasn’t a huge loss, seeing as Trinity’s friends weren’t my biggest fans.
Still, it stung she’d chosen this date—weeks before the actual wedding—just because she knew I couldn’t make it. Although, if you asked Trinity, she’d say 0720 was her lucky number. Which we all knew was bull-bleep. No one’s favorite number is 0720.
“Hello, hello, hello! I’m here!” I used my key to open the door to my parents’ Cape Cod-style house, holding a huge box of donuts. I toed off my leopard-print heels, strutting my way to the kitchen and flicking the coffee machine on.
As far as interior design went, my parents’ house was a disaster of global proportions. My mother, who was an art teacher at the local elementary school, had pretty eccentric taste. And by eccentric, I mean, of course, hideous.
They had turquoise wall-to-wall carpet, a painting of some kind of a freaky farm on the kitchen wall that was supposed to be pastoral, and the bathrooms and bathtubs were painted in hot red and orange, which gave the rooms the elegance of a whorehouse on fire.
“Coming!” I heard footfalls coming from upstairs.
Trinity was still living with my parents. I was actually mildly concerned about her getting married and moving in with Wyatt. Home at twenty-five, she’d grown up way more sheltered than I had.
Wyatt was almost a decade her senior, and even though he had a great job as an engineer in Winston-Salem, he was known for his love of booze, partying, and questionable decisions.
I could argue that if I wasn’t such a thorough failure, Wyatt would take my place as the town’s official Disrepute. Then again, he had Cruz to balance his horribleness. The perfect distraction.
Footfalls hit the carpeted stairs, and my fair-haired sister appeared in the kitchen, still in her satin, baby-blue pajamas, her hair in a long braid.
“Nessy! Oh, Nessy, I’m so glad you’re here. I’m totally overwhelmed.” She threw her arms around my shoulders, hugging me close. I patted her back. “Mrs. Underwood has been goin’ around town telling people you made a kid choke on a straw yesterday?”
“That’s a lie,” I murmured into her hair, wishing Mrs. Underwood herself an unpleasant visit from karma.
“Yeah, I figured.” Trinity sniffed the air, looking around her. “Do I smell coffee?”
“And donuts.” I flipped open a small carton of the fresh goodies I’d picked up on my way there.
“Glazed?” Her eyes widened with hope.
“You know it.”
I poured both of us cups of coffee as Trinity perched on a repainted, bright-yellow chair and began nibbling the frosting off one donut. She only ever ate the frosting. And then pretty much nothing else for the rest of the day.
“Ugh, I wish you wouldn’t have brought them. Those last couple of pounds I’m trying to lose for the wedding are kicking my butt.”
She shoved the entire donut into her mouth, looking pained more than happy.
There was only one thing Trinity loved more than her figure, and that was donuts.
“You look beautiful,” I said.
“Easy for you to say. You were always stick-thin. Do you want me to look bloated in the wedding photos?”
You’re so welcome, little sis.
“Where’s Mom?”
I sat next to her, cradling my mug of coffee. I’d been cutting Trinity some slack on the behavioral front, seeing as she was about to tie the knot in six weeks. I’d watched enough episodes of Bridezillas to know that, on the anxiety scale, planning a wedding could be the equivalent to giving birth to triplets with no epidural.
“She went to exchange the macarons for the bachelorette party gift kits. She totally forgot Gabriella’s allergic to nuts and ordered normal macarons, with almonds and all. We had a screaming match last night, which ended with me telling her that if she was going to kill my maid of honor, she might as well fess up and I’ll just call the whole thing off. Finally, she managed to convince Mrs. Patel to remake them. Pretty sure Mrs. Patel didn’t sleep a wink last night, but what can you do, right?”
You could just tell Gabriella not to touch the macarons. It’s not like she has consumed a carb in the last seven years, anyway.
“How does one make macarons without almonds?” I wondered aloud.
“One does not care, as long as the maid of honor doesn’t drop dead at her bachelorette party.” Trinity snorted, dropping another frostless donut she’d nibbled on back into the pack and picking a new one. “Do you think this’ll be enough?” She motioned to the table in front of us, which was laden with mini champagne bottles, personalized lip balms, Mani Thanks nail polish, bath bombs, and fluffy personalized socks. “I wanted to do matching Swarovski earrings for each of us, but Dad said he’d take me out of his will if I spent that much money.”
“I think this is more than enough.”
I also thought it was going to be really tedious to decorate each kit with multicolored raffia paper and miniature handmade candy, especially since I wasn’t going to be the recipient of even one of these bags.