“And we’re eloping this weekend,” Petey adds on.
Adrenaline surges through my veins, and I want to grab something, anything, but my fingers have turned into bricks.
Eloping?
“Finally!” Ethan cheers while my features arrange themselves into anAre you serious right now?face before I can stop it. My chest burns from the inside out until a red, splotchy stress rash blooms on my neck. And I know exactly how bad it looks, because I can see it in the stupid FaceTime window.
They can’t do this now. It’s too soon. The only thing that was stopping me from truly losing it was the knowledge they’d never stay together long enough to plan a wedding. I might be new to this whole “marriage is bullshit” thing, but Laurel was a founding member of the forever-single club.
She was mad at me—actually stopped speaking to me for three days—when I wouldn’t self-fund a “Shes and Theys Only” compound for us to retire on. Her favorite celebrity coupling has always been Goldie Hawn and Kurt Russell, because they had “the good sense to keep the state of California out of their relationship.” When I told her Rich proposed, she first responded, “We’re too young to get married.” Then, oncethe shock wore off, she opted for the more pragmatic “You know that you’re much more likely to be murdered by your husband than anyone else. Statistically speaking.”
But as commitment averse as Laurel is, she’s just as passionate and impulsive.
“Elopement. Wow,” is all I can bring myself to say. It’s an abysmal recovery. I remind myself to breathe—in, out, in, out—until my thoughts slow enough to put a sentence together. “You don’t think this is a little sudden?”
Laurel’s face twitches with tiny glimpses of sadness and hurt that disappear with Petey’s kiss to her cheek.
“It took fifteen years to get us here,” he tells us. “I don’t want to wait anymore. And with Lo and I camping this week before the next Timber Creek session, it feels like we’re supposed to get married right now. Here.” He gestures around them at their secluded spot surrounded by forest where no one would hear them scream.
Ethan nudges me with his shoulder. “We’re so happy for you guys.”
I feel each second tick by as time slips away from me.She’ll be married by the end of the day, I think. I debate how effectively I’ll be able to talk her out of this via FaceTime against other possible options: A well-timed heart attack? Interdimensional time travel? A light kidnapping? I’m still ruling out the gross misdemeanors when I stall by asking, “Have you told Mom and Dad?”
“Uh, no,” she answers slowly, as though the very notion of calling our parents is insane, which makes sense because I’m not sure she’s so much as texted our parents since I reminded her to last Christmas. “I don’t think Derek or Mia needs to be part of this.”
ButIcould be, I think. The idea tunnels into my brain, burrowing deeper with each passing second.
“Where are we meeting you for the ceremony?” The question pours out of my mouth in a verbal deluge.
Ethan eyes me because we both heard how they didn’t invite us. It was very clear that my sister was simply delivering information andnotinviting me to her elopement, but if I want to slam the brakes on this wedding, this might be my only way.
By the look in her eyes, she knows I’m up to something stupid. Reckless impulsivity might be a Beekman family trait.
Lucky for me, Petey is one of those people who foolishly believes humans to be innately honest and well-intentioned creatures. “That’d be perfect, Char!” Petey responds, a smile erupting across his face.
Laurel’s eyes dart between her fiancé and the screen. “Are you sure? It’s like five hours of driving, one hour of canoeing—”
“Onehourof canoeing?” I can’t help but object to that part.
“—and you’ve literally never taken a vacation. Ever.”
“And what better reason is there to play hooky from work than you? My beloved sister,” I ad-lib, anxiety jiggling my leg. “Come on, Laur. You need a…witness…”
She purses her lips. This is so unlike me. She knows it. I know it. But Petey—that sweet, sweet, hot dummy—doesn’t. “Couldn’t agree more!” he cheers.
Ethan peers at me in the FaceTime window, no doubt detecting the odd, manic vibrations bouncing off my skin. “But if you’re looking for an intimate thing, we totally get it…” He trails off, providing them a much-deserved out.
“It’ll still be intimate,” I slide in, desperate to make this happen as the sweat pools in the palms of my hands.
“You really don’t—” she starts to hedge, but I cut her off.
“Laurel, you walked me down the aisle. You can’tget marriedwithout me.”
The sentence sounds simple enough, but I watch my words smack her between the eyes. Try as I might to remain wry and self-deprecating, there’s no denying that I drag my marital disappointments around like a three-piece luggage set, and now I’ve dropped them between us. I’ve made my divorce an obstacle, an anxious flyer staking out the boarding gate.
My sister’s expression melts from guarded to guilty and lands somewhere near pitying. Which is fine. She can pity me all she wants. So long as she doesn’t get married before I get there.
Because this isn’t her. And if I can talk to her, face-to-face, I know she’ll rethink things. She’ll see sense. She’ll have to.
