Girl. GIRL.
What’s wrong?
Don’t you mean what’s right? Klein is getting all kinds of traction. Likes, shares, comments, mentions. If this doesn’t get the attention of an editor, I will personally walk into their office wearing a sandwich board of his book cover and nothing underneath.
I’ll drive you. But let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.
How are things going on the island? Paloma said you’ve been incommunicado and she’s going to pour boiling water in your ear.
Toggling over to my long-running text conversation with Paloma, I type out a semi-serious threat.
I’m officially removing the tea kettle from the office.
I have a mini kettle in my desk.
FFS. How’s it going with the architect?
Very well, thank you. Architects’ desks are multi-purpose, did you know?
Very nice. Just stay off my desk.
How’s Word Daddy?
Very wordy. Very daddy.
I KNEW IT.
Don’t make it a thing.
Oh, but it is. It is a thing.
“I can’t believethe way Dad played cards with us last night,” Sienna says, stretching her legs out on the chaise lounge beside mine.
We’ve been at the spa for the last three hours. From head to toe, we are exfoliated, moisturized, massaged, and our nails are a neutral pinkish-taupe. The bridesmaids are finishing their last treatment. Sienna and I are alone in the nap room. So far we’ve pointedly ignored the topic of our interaction on the beach yesterday.
I push my sleep mask onto my eyes, and my view goes dark. “Weird, right? But good.”
“I’m not sure what I’m going to do if he starts being likable.”
“Hah,” I say. “I wouldn’t go that far. He managed to give Mom and Ben at least three stink eyes. Likability is still low.”
“True. They stayed far away from that card game.”
“Self-preservation,” I joke.
My dad had played four rounds of To Hell With Your Neighbor, a not-very-nice card game where each person is in it for themselves and invariably causes people to cry out in indignation. It was the most fun I’ve had with my dad in years.
We’ve been having a nice time today, so I decide to go out on a limb and ask, “How are you and Shane leading up to the wedding?”
My sister is quiet, and then says, “Fine. Why?” There’s a defensive edge to her tone.
“No reason.” I force breeziness into my tone. “It can be a stressful time for couples, that’s all.”
“Not us.” Her voice takes on a sharp, irritated edge. “We’re fine. Stress free.”
“Good.”
“By the way, I talked to Shane. I was wrong. He is not jealous.” She laughs, and though it’s melodic, it’s forced. “That was just me seeing something that’s not there and being dramatic.”
