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ChapterTwenty-Three
Chaos ensues.People shout questions over each other, insults along the lines of “shut the fuck up” are issued, and there are even threats of bodily harm.
When they calm down a little, I say, “For those of you who don’t know, I’ve liked Art—that’s my husband’s name, by the way—for a while now.”
Gia, Honey, Blue, Fabio, and Olive look smug—they already knew about my obsession. Holly seems to be in her own world—no doubt gleeful that we’ve got eleven people on this call, a prime number. Mom and Dad look ecstatic—probably picturing a baby boy growing in my womb or something equally gross. Pixie and Pearl look pissed, as expected—none of us sextuplets like to be left out of juicy gossip.
“Art’s full name is Artjoms Skulme,” I continue. “He’s a ballet dancer. At least for now.”
Some people look distracted, probably googling my new husband’s name.
“You know, I just got a text from someone with that name,” Olive says. “I didn’t read it fully because I was joining this.”
“Oh, yeah, he’s organizing a reception for us.” I look pointedly at Mom and Dad. “Attendance is optional, so those of you not in New York don’t have to come.”
“Oh, we’ll be there,” Mom says.
Yikes. Well, whatever comes of that, Art can’t annul the marriage now.
Olive moves closer to the camera. “I will also be there.”
Great. I just hope she leaves her pet octopus back in Florida. That thing’s beyond creepy.
“I think Lemon is trying to change the subject,” Honey says. “Tell us how you ended up married.”
I drag in a calming breath. It sucks to have to lie to them, but there’s no choice. And like this, over Zoom, is easier.
I start by telling them about the banya, then launch into our Vegas shenanigans, sans the sexathon. “If you want to see more pics of it all, add Art on social,” I say in conclusion.
An avalanche of questions follows, and I do my best to field them. Then the next wave comes, and I’m a little less enthusiastic in my replies. By the tenth wave, I start demonstratively yawning. “Guys, I didn’t get much sleep last night. When you meet Art at the reception, you can ask him anything you want.”
Mom waggles her eyebrows. “Did you hear that, everyone? She didn’t get any sleep last night. All night long.”
My sisters look on in sympathy as I cover my eyes with my palms. Strictly speaking, I said I didn’t get “much sleep,” but correcting Mom would just make it worse.
“That’s Thing Four for you,” Dad says proudly. “She had boundless energy even when she was a tyke.”
Oh, no. More feedback like that is forthcoming. I need to put a stop to it, so I can leave this conversation with some dignity.
I make a funny face, then hold the expression to simulate a streaming glitch. Next, in my best ventriloquist impersonation, I throw my voice far away as I say, “Oh… no… my Wi-Fi… is cutting out.”
With that, I hang up.
A text from Blue arrives instantly, and it’s chilling:
I know.
What does she know? About the fake marriage? Or that I just faked the disconnect? Or she could just be bluffing, as a way of fishing for information.
I type out my reply:
What I did last summer?
No reply back, which means she was probably bluffing after all.
I return to my unsent text to Bella.
Nope. Still not ready to send that. Instead, I decide to do a little work.
