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He laughed. “In spite of it all.”
I threw my arm around his shoulder. “Come on then. Let’s get this party started!”
Chapter Two: Gaby
“Ow!” I screeched as a needle pierced the sensitive skin above my breast. As I jerked away, my hand flew to rub my aching skin. “Are you trying to kill me?”
My tormentor and older sister, Bella, merely rolled her dark eyes at me. “Come on, Drama Queen, whoever heard of being offed by a sewing needle?”
“I’m sure it’s happened before. Maybe just one of the lesser-known true crime stories.”
Bella huffed out a frustrated breath. “Gaby, if you don’t get a grip and stand still, I’m never going to get the last of these jewels sewn on, and then we won’t make it to the rehearsal.”
Sweeping a hand to my hip, I countered, “Look, I’ll happily forgo the bling instead of you relentlessly stabbing me.”
“There you go being overdramatic again.”
“I’m not dramatic—I’m merely stating facts.”
Bella and her offending needle edged towards me. “Honestly, Gabs, if I put on the theatrics like you do, I’d never book another modeling job in my life.”
Some in the media loved to claim Bella’s rise in the modeling world was because she was a Nepo Baby. That was the nickname given to kids born to rich and famous families. Because our father was a member of the Grammy Award-winning band, Runaway Train, that meant Bella, my younger brother, Alex, and I had a leg up in certain circles.
But while most model daughters of rock stars were waifish thin, Bella’s frame was true to our Hispanic roots on our dad’s side as well as the Sicilian ancestors of our mother. Thanks to changing attitudes in the size zero modeling world, she and her ample curves had more than her fair share of work. Knowing how fickle fame was Bella wasn’t putting all her faith in the modeling world. Inspired by watching one of our dad’s bandmates’ wives, Allison, design clothes, Bella was following in her footsteps by getting a degree in Fashion Design and Marketing.
Achieving her degree was the main reason why she was poking me with the needle. For her capstone project, she had designed the Indian Saris she and I were wearing. Gazing down at the sumptuous purple and gold fabric glittering with hand-sewn jewels, I couldn’t help being so proud of Bella.
Bringing me out of my thoughts, Bella said, “You know, I wouldn’t have poked you if you were still.”
“Iwasbeing still,” I countered.
“No, you weren’t.” When I opened my mouth to protest, her dark eyes narrowed at me. “You’re doing that sway thing you always do when you’re really nervous.”
I merely huffed out a breath mixed with both frustration and anxiety. I seriously couldn’t imagine many people in my position not being on edge. Tomorrow I would stand beside my best friend as her maid of honor in a church with a guest list of over three hundred people. The thoughts of those three hundred pairs of eyes staring at me was beyond unnerving. While Bella had inherited our father’s outgoing personality, I was far more introverted like our mom. Just like our dad could work a stadium of thousands into a frenzy, Bella could charm the runway with just a smile and a swish of her jaunty walk. Meanwhile, Mom and I much preferred spending our time out of the limelight … and with as few people as possible.
The thought of all eyes trained on me made my stomach churn. It wasn’t so much that I lacked rhythm and was a shitty dancer. It was more about the curves that Bella and I both shared. For most of my childhood, I wasn’t just curvy like she was—I was chunky. I carried that chunkiness into my teens. One magazine had crushed my remaining confidence when they labeled me the “fat Resendiz sister” in a column about Bella and me. Years had passed since that comment and the weight had eventually all come off in my late teens, but I still carried the emotional scars and the unwillingness to ever be the center of attention. Most days, I still saw myself with my younger body, and I wondered if I’d ever lose that lens.
While the wedding ceremony itself had cranked up my anxiety, tonight’s party truly had me one step away from hyperventilating. Of course, I only had myself to blame since I’d been the one to bring the bride and groom together. After a little matchmaking during our Freshman year, my best friend from college, Laurel, was marrying one of my childhood best friends, Mason Nadeen.
Back in the day when my mother was in her nursing clinicals, she’d been supervised by Mason’s adopted father, Alpesh. A deep friendship grew that continued even after they married other people and had children. Along with Mason, his twin sisters, Maya and Sara, had been some of Bella’s and my closest friends growing up. As children of a touring rock star, it wasn’t always easy making friends outside of our world. Before van life became hip, we’d grown up on a tricked-out tour bus.
Whenever we came off the road and back to our house in the North Georgia mountains, it was almost considered a relief to be back with the Nadeens.Theyfelt like coming home. I’d always loved the differences in their family’s culture, too. The food, the sense of history, and of course the close connection our combined families had.
And as much as it was exciting to be part of tonight’s cultural mashup, it was the choreographed dances that were the most traumatic. For me anyway … as they were to be performed in front ofeveryone.
For someone who had never even heard the wordSangeetuntil a few months ago, it now ruled my life. The Sangeet was why I stood bedecked in a deep purple, jeweled sari enduring Bella’s stabbings. The Sangeet was also why as maid of honor I would be leading the rest of the bridal party in a special dance to honor the happy couple. The Sangeet was why I fought the rising bile in my throat.
I shook my head as a shudder ran through me. “I can’t help it. You know I hate performing.”
“Everyone who knows you is well aware you hate performing.”
“Do you remember what happened the last time I had to do anything choreographed?”
“When you tripped over your escort at my quinceañera and then mowed out one of the flower displays?”
With a groan, I started to bring my hands over my face to cover my humiliation when Bella grabbed them. “Stop! You’ll ruin your makeup.”
Since I didn’t dare want to face the wrath of our stylist, I grumbled, “Fine.”
