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So, for the last four months, I’ve been working for Diego, and he promised that if I could stick it out for six months, he would help me get into Rhode Island Academy. I didn’t understand what he meant at the time, but I soon learned that not one of his PAs had lasted that long. He set a task in which he wanted me to fail.
So, I did what anyone else would do if they were trying to get into one of the best art schools in America. I could have got the grades to get in alone, but I don’t have the funds to do it. Diego has loads of funds, his whole family does, and seeing as I don’t have a husband waiting in line, working for Diego had to do.
“I overslept!” I shout as I burst into the room at the top of the damn library where my sister is getting changed for the wedding, but there’s no one here, just her and a flute of champagne in her hand.
“¿Qué pasa?5” I ask as I drop my gym bag. I have no idea why I brought it, just a force of habit. Whenever I leave my apartment, I always take it, and it’s so natural. It has everything from my purse to my passport.
Her mascara is running down her face, her eyes are bloodshot, and I still don’t understand why no one is here. Her dark eyes have turned black, and she looks a little freaky.
“I can’t marry Diego. I can’t.”
No, no and no!
This isn’t even an option.
“Yes, you can. We’ve discussed this. He smiles once in a while.”
On Mondays, and I assume it’s because my sister services him on Sundays.
“He can be kind.”
I’m trying to think of ways to sell Diego, but it’s difficult, near impossible when I spend nearly every day thinking of ways to incapacitate him, because he constantly reminds me that he'sonly letting me work for him because of my sister. He makes me feel as if I’m no good at my job, and refuses to address me by my first name, but my surname instead.
“You don’t like him. You constantly say he should have been calledDiablo6.”
Okay, so I may have mentioned that when he told me to pick up his dry cleaning and then I got to the office and he had the CFO’s secretary set out the meeting because I wasn’t around. Even though he picked up the dry cleaning an hour before he sent me to do it. And he had a big smirk on his face when I turned up to the office.
“Oh, how nice of you to join us,” he said. Yes, I could have at least had lunch if he hadn’t sent me on some wild goose chase.
I realized then that not only do I enjoy winding Diego up, but he loves winding me up too.
“I’m confused. Yesterday, you were happy and telling me all the things that will have to change between us once you got married, and now it’s as if you don’t want to marry him.”
She shoots up, avoiding eye contact. I walk up to her as she faces the window overlooking where they would say their wedding vows.
“You know he can’t stand you, Leticia.”
Well, I wouldn’t quite put it like that. There was a time when I was the one supposed to be marrying him. He smiled as he held my hand on our first date. He would laugh whenever I walked into the room. Then his brother disappeared, and you got him. And I realized in the midst of it all that I wasn’t right for him. You are, and my broken-hearted self ran to the next man, only to vow to stay single for the rest of my life.
“I know the feeling is mutual,” I lie. Or am I telling the truth? I don’t know why all these memories of the past are coming up in my head, it’s as if her marrying him just hits home. I need toerase any feelings or thoughts I had of him in the past, but the question is, can I?
She laughs, as she does whenever I talk about Diego, but then at times whenever I do talk to Belén, which isn’t often, she has a habit of saying things to hurt me. I dismiss it because we’re twins, but it still hurts.
She shakes her hair. I wish she hadn’t cut it. We’d always loved having long hair, or maybe I was the only one? I’ve maintained it, even if it is a bit hard to manage. Our abuela and ma have the same length hair, nearly down to our butts. We used to brush each other’s hair as kids. It’s been a family tradition for decades, but Diego loves short hair, so she cut hers to her shoulders.
“Do you regret cutting your hair?” I ask as I approach her, wanting to change the subject.
“You’re my twin, and I love you very much, but you’re too sentimental.”
“Not like you, Elsa!”
She sighs, hating when I call her that. But she is the only person I know who watchedFrozenand didn’t cry at the idea of Olaf dying. I’ve never seen her cry once. Not when our faithful dog died. Not even when she left Spain to come to America. But today, on her wedding day, she’s crying like a baby.
Why?
“Remember the pains I told you I’ve been getting, and you said it was wedding nerves?”
I nod, because I think it’s clear this has something to do with wedding nerves, she was one hundred percent up for this wedding only last night when I spoke to her on the phone.
