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“The honeymoon.”
The suggestion is so exceedingly random that I ignore her and grab a pillow to put under her head instead. It is at least two minutes before she speaks again.
“Take it, Olive.”
“Ami, no way.” Her honeymoon is an all-inclusive ten-day trip to Maui that she won by filling out over a thousand entry forms. I know because I helped her put the stamps on at least half of them.
“It’s nonrefundable. We’re supposed to leave tomorrow and . . .” She has to take a break to dry-heave. “There’s no way.”
“I’ll call them. I’m sure they’ll work around this situation, come on.”
She shakes her head and then hurls up the water I made her sip. When she speaks, she sounds froggy, like she’s the victim of a demon possession. “They won’t.”
My poor sister has turned into a swamp creature; I’ve never seen anyone this shade of gray before.
“They don’t care about illness or injury, it’s in the contract.” She falls back onto the floor and stares up at the ceiling.
“Why are you even worried about this right now?” I ask, though in reality I know the answer. I adore my sister, but even viol
ent illness won’t get between her and redeeming a prize fairly won.
“You can use my ID to check in,” she says. “Just pretend you’re me.”
“Ami Torres, that’s illegal!”
Rolling her head so she can see me, she gives me a look so comically blank, I have to stifle a laugh.
“Okay, I realize it isn’t your priority right now,” I say.
“It is, though.” She struggles to sit up. “I will be so stressed out about this if you don’t take it.”
I stare at her, and conflict makes my words come out tangled and thick. “I don’t want to leave you. And I also don’t want to be arrested for fraud.” I can tell she isn’t going to let this go. Finally, I give in. “Okay. Just let me call them and see what I can do.”
Twenty minutes later, and I know she’s right: the customer service representative for Aline Voyage Vacations gives zero damns about my sister’s bowels or esophagus. According to Google and a physician the hotel called in who is slowly making the rounds to each guest room, Ami is unlikely to recover by next week, let alone tomorrow.
If she or her designated guest doesn’t take the trip, it’s gone.
“I’m sorry, Ami. This feels monumentally unfair,” I say.
“Look,” she begins, and then dry-heaves a few times, “consider this the moment your luck changes.”
“Two hundred people threw up during Olive’s speech,” Diego reminds us all from the floor.
Ami manages to push herself up, supporting herself against the couch. “I’m serious. You should go, Ollie. You didn’t get sick. You need to celebrate that.”
Something inside me, a tiny kernel of sunshine, peeks out from behind a cloud, and then disappears again.
“I like the idea of good luck better when it isn’t at someone else’s expense,” I tell her.
“Unfortunately,” Ami says, “you don’t get to choose the circumstances. That’s the point of luck: it happens when and where it happens.”
I fetch her a new cup of water and a fresh washcloth and then crouch down beside her. “I’ll think about it,” I say.
But in truth, when I look at her like this—green, clammy, helpless—I know that not only am I not taking her dream vacation, I’m not leaving her side.
• • •
I STEP OUT INTO THE hall before remembering that my dress has an enormous tear all down the back. My ass is literally hanging out. On the plus side, it’s suddenly loose enough that I can cover my boobs. Turning back to the suite, I swipe the key card against the door, but the lock flashes red.
