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Mom waltzes in and looks me over. “Ready?”
“Yeah,” I reply, and just then Art walks into the kitchen as well.
Dad grins at him. “Sounds like you and I will have a boys’ morning out.”
I swallow the last of the muffin I was chewing. “That’s not a thing.”
“We’ll make it our thing,” Art says and turns to my dad. “Have you ever heard of banya?”
Dad shakes his head.
“It’s something I like to do when I’m stressed or just want to unwind,” Art says. “A great way to start a big day like this.”
I wrinkle my nose. “You’re not going to take him to the taranka place, are you?”
Art looks disappointed. “Is the smell sensitivity genetic?”
“No,” Mom and Dad say in unison.
“In that case, yes,” Art says. “We’ll go to Easy Fume.”
Mom pulls me by my elbow. “We’re beyond late.”
As I let her lead me away, I wonder if Dad and Art will get to second base at the banya. It’s likely, but hey, it might just look socially acceptable there.
Once we’re outside, Mom pushes me into a cab, which takes us to appointment number one of a million.
The goal of all the primping and preening is for me to be the best-looking person with my face at the shindig. The good thing is, my mom chatters the entire time, which keeps me from dwelling on Art and what happened last night.
Hours later, Mom announces that our goal has been achieved.
I stare at myself in the mirror and whistle. I’m not sure if the time was worth it, but I look great—which is kind of a waste, given that the whole thing is a farce.
“Don’t worry,” Mom says, misreading my frown. “I warned your sisters not to wear white and, in general, to do their best to ensure you’re the prettiest sextuplet today.”
Good. I hope they look downright frumpy.
* * *
When Mom and I get to the Botanical Garden, our husbands—hers real (hopefully) and mine fake (sadly)—are already waiting for us.
Art scans me from updo to high heels, and the heat in his eyes gives me a spine-tingling flashback to last night.
“You look amazing, kislik,” he says huskily, and I don’t know if he means it or is just playing his part in making this look real.
Either way, I reply, “Thanks, dearest,” and check him out thoroughly as well. He’s wearing a bespoke tux, his hair is carefully groomed, and his face is cleanshaven. Trying not to drool, I murmur, “You look good enough to make my sisters jealous.”
Mom winks at me. “The single ones, for sure.”
“You’re late,” Dad says. “Everyone is already here.”
“Wait,” Art says. “Let’s take some pictures.”
I go into my purse to get my phone and realize it’s gone.
Skunk. In my rush to get here, I left it on the charger.
Oh, well. Art can take the pictures with his phone, and everyone who’s likely to call me is going to be at the reception.
