MARGOT: AMELIA. DO NOT.
AMELIA: Too late already sent it
The gif loads. And it’s exactly as bad as advertised.
Pixel officiant. Victor and me in those ridiculous jerseys. The kiss. The Super Mario death sound dubbed over it like the internet personally hates me.
I drop the phone onto my chest and close my eyes.
It’s going to be okay. It HAS to be okay.
So what I just accidentally married my boss at a video game chapel, became a viral meme, and possibly destroyed my career?
Twenty minutes later, there’s a knock at my door—aggressive, older sister-energy knocking.
“I KNOW YOU’RE IN THERE,” Margot yells through the door. “I can see your location, HARPER.”
“I’m not hiding!” I yell back, which isn’t a lie, because I’m not physically hiding, even if I am emotionally hiding in my own ribcage.
The knocking becomes more determined.
“And if you don’t open this door,” Margot continues, “I will pick the lock, and then I will bill you.”
I drag myself off the couch and open the door.
They barrel in like a SWAT team.
My older sister Margot first—tall and stern-looking She’s still in her nurse’s scrubs, her lipstick the very shade of authority. Carrying two bottles of wine and a tote bag, she marches in, my younger sister Amelia right behind her.
My baby sibling has my mother’s big expressive eyes—only hers are permanently set to “delighted menace.”
Flitting in like her body is physically incapable of taking anything seriously for more than eight seconds, she sports a T-shirt that says YES, I’M ON MEDS and a mountain of Thai takeout plus two bulging crochet bags—one of them mine.
“Hi,” I say weakly.
Margot sets down the wine with a thunk and turns to me. “Explain.”
“Which part?”
“All of it. Start from the beginning. Leave nothing out.”
Amelia is already unpacking containers onto my coffee table. “Start with the hot part. Was there a hot part? There had to be a hot part. He’s like six-feet-four-inches of anal retentiveness and expensive suits. That’s a whole genre of hot.”
“Amelia,” Margot snaps.
“What?” Amelia rolls her eyes. “I’m engaged, not blind. I’m allowed to observe other men like they’re museum exhibits. Declan supports feminism.”
Margot’s eyes narrow. “Declan also supports monogamy.”
Amelia shrugs. “It’s not cheating if it’s a fantasy.”
I sink onto the couch, still in my work clothes, still carrying the spiritual weight of a diamond ring and a mistake.
Margot sits on the armchair across from me, and Amelia flops onto the rug, digging through the crochet bags. She pulls out three balls of yarn—sage green, blush pink, and a dramatic black—plus a half-finished granny square.
“We are not treating this like a regular Thursday crochet night, remember,” Margot warns automatically.
“I know,” Amelia says, solemn. “But the yarn needs to be present for emotional support.”
