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I sit down beside her on the couch, getting closer than is polite. “That’s not what I asked and you know it. That’s your family. Tell me about you.” My voice is deeper, darker now.
She hesitates but gives in. “I’m weird, not like my family—all serious and business-y—but I am that way sometimes, if that makes sense? Like I’m a square peg that doesn’t fit in a round hole, but I’m still a peg. Does that even track?” She shakes her head, leaving the metaphor behind. “I’m creative, wild, and free. Half the time, I don’t even know what I’m going to do or say next until it happens. I’m just as surprised as everyone around me.” She laughs like she didn’t expect to say that, proving her point.
“Good,” I praise her. “Tell me about your flowers.”
That seems to be an easier topic because she speaks comfortably, fast and with bubbly enthusiasm. “I’ve loved flowers since I was little. I would help the gardener and make bouquets. One year, we watched the Tournament of Roses—do you know what that is?” she asks.
“I’ve heard of it. A parade, right?”
She nods. “Yeah, so we’re watching that on television and I was in awe of what they could create with flowers. While Dad and Ross watched the game, I went out in the yard with my Barbie car and a pair of kitchen scissors and went to work. It was awful,” she says on a horrified laugh, “but I thought it was amazing. That was when I knew, though it took me a bit longer to actually figure out how to do things well.”
I see the light in her eyes, the way her voice changes. Gone is the nervousness. Gone is the worry. She loves her craft, and even though I’ve never seen her arrangements that I’m aware of, I admire her passion.
It’s the same passion I have for cooking, I suspect.
“And this Emily? You said she was a rival of sorts?”
I can see her mind disappear into the past, her vibrancy dimming. “Yeah. I don’t know what started this thing between us. It was just always there. Admittedly, as Ross’s younger sister and an Andrews, I was kind of automatically popular. I never really cared about things like that, though. But Emily did. At first, she tried to copy me—her hair, her clothes, stuff like that. In hindsight, I think she was even trying to be friends. But I had Violet and we were thick as thieves, and I truly didn’t even notice Emily. Until she started talking shit about me. That got my attention. And somehow, it was like ‘game on’ between us. She would show up at parties I went to and stand on the table, playing Queen Bee. She dated the football star from our year and then became head cheerleader. She kept climbing the ladder, like she had something to prove, and I was just doing my own thing. If I wanted to date, I did. If I wanted to cheer, I did. If I wanted to do theater, I did. I would flit from one thing to another with the attention span of a gnat and she would follow along doing everything I did, still copying me. But it wasn’t friendly then. Especially not when she slept with my boyfriend. She just sucked all the joy out of what should’ve been some of my best years, and though it’s stupid—and believe me, I know how juvenile it sounds—I want to show her that despite all that, I still did okay.”
“That you won,” I surmise.
Abigail flops back to the couch, her arm going over her eyes. “Oh, God, I’m awful. I’m so sorry for dragging you into this. We can call the whole thing off or whatever. Tell her I lied. You don’t need this drama, especially this week. Fuck, I don’t need it this week.”
She’s right. This week, this wedding is big for the both of us. But I sense that something even bigger is happening to Abigail. If she walks away from this thing with her tail between her legs, she might never recover. It will foundationally affect who she believes herself to be.
“No,” I say sharply. “This is a . . . how do you call it? ‘No harm, no foul’. We’ll play along as newlyweds and have a little fun while you get your closure with this Emily.”
She peeks from below her arm. “Really?”
“Yes. Now, it’s getting late. We should get ready because I need a shower after being in the kitchens.”
I rise, heading toward the bedroom and already dreaming of the ensuite bathroom that will surely be as luxurious as the rest of the room.
Abigail sits up. “Wait, what about you? I don’t know anything about you!”
I grin. “You’re welcome to shower with me if you’d like?” At her sour look, I soften the vulgar suggestion. “Come. Sit and talk to me while I get ready.”
