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“It’s not going to be okay, Lydia, because I don’t want to get fucking married.” I’ve never been very good at hiding my thoughts to Lydia. As much as she drives me nuts, there are parts of me that respects her too. I mean, she tolerates my father.
“Oh, sweetness.” Lydia pats my cheek, her cool leather-like palm skating over my plush cheek. “Marriage is overrated. You could have been worse off. Count your lucky stars.”
I pause. Over the years, I’ve known Lydia to take little jabs at her and Dad’s marriage. I don’t know their story or why they’re together, but I’ve known for some time that Lydia wasn’t happy. I mean, all you need to do is take one look at her and it’s obvious.
“Lydia?” I ask, straightening my dress while looking at myself in the mirror and tilting my head. “If you’re not happy with Dad, why don’t you leave?” She seems to ponder over my question until a few silent beats passing us.
“Sometimes we do things because we have to, Isa. Not because we want to.” There’s that connection. This is why, because I know that underneath that strong shell, she hides a lot of pain. Pain that maybe I won’t understand just yet, but I hope to in the future.
Breathing in and out deeply, and hearing her passive aggressive comment loud and clear, I exhale. “Okay.”
Pulling open the door to the master bedroom of Bryant’s apartment, I gather the train of my dress, lifting it up off the floor. “Deep breathing,” I whisper to myself in hopes to calm down. Lydia steps in front of me, taking the lead and I follow, walking toward the elevators. Once inside, we descend down a level, the doors opening to Jerry and around six MIB’s. Must be added security because of the day and all. I mean, I’m about to marry my worst enemy, I’m pretty sure the only threat to my life is from my husband-to-be.
“You look beautiful, Mrs. Johnson.” Jerry nods his head toward me. Something warm blossoms deep inside my chest and I smile sweetly at him. “Thanks, Jer.” The elevator continues down until eventually, we’re in the lobby, heading toward a large white stretch limo that’s sitting outside. I bypass all the stares that I’m getting out of the corner of my eyes, and walk through the front doors, out toward the awaiting car. The driver jumps out, popping open the back door, just as Jerry and the MIB’s pile into a couple SUV’s. One is in front of us and another behind us.
“Thank you.” I smile at our driver, sliding into the backseat as quickly as I can with Lydia climbing in behind me.
“Wait!” Brianna yells, coming down toward the limo. “Sorry I’m late,” she adds, slipping into the backseat and sitting opposite me. Typical Brianna fashion.
“Thanks for showing,” I sarcastically add, closing the door and leaning my head against the cool window. My idea of having a relaxing trip is now ruined, thanks to my sister. So much for ‘I’ll meet you all down there.’
“Are you mad?” Brianna asks, putting her earrings into her ears. “You know that I had a conference today, Isa. I made do the best I could and I mean, hey! I’m still here aren’t I? Even if I am missing my shoes, and in my defense, I had short notice to attend. I would have liked to lose a couple pounds—if you know what I mean.” No, I don’t, because my sister is a size freaking two.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” I shake my head, choosing which part of her sentence I want to reply to. “How’d you manage to lose your shoe?” I chose the easiest one.
Brianna shrugs. “I’m me, that’s how.” She’s right, no explanation needed. As put together my sister is on the outside, she’s a klutz. A natural fucking disaster waiting to happen. The only difference between her and I is that she hides her category 5 cyclone ass better than I can. Even when we were kids, Brianna would be next to me through everything. She may appear to be perfect and well-polished, but she’s always been loyal to me, even when we were kids. I’d be getting into trouble, but she’d always be there in an attempt to save me. She always tried to butter our father up to go easy on me, but he never did.
“Isa,” she whispers, finally finished with her shoe and leaning over, flicking open the little bar fridge. She takes out the chilled bottle of champagne and two flutes before leaning back into her seat. I try to ignore her penetrating glare and look out the window, watching the passing trees whisk past as we head toward the Chapel in downtown New York City.
“Isa?” Brianna repeats. I can see her trying to hand me my flute of champagne, so I take it, but keep my eyes locked on the passing world.
