yaeatmeorels3—if you don’t have an SO, then why not? You can always become friends again, even if not BEST friends.
pinepinepine—what would go wrong? it’s not like marriage is irreversible and you’d be a ruined woman if you divorced him or had it annulled or whatever.
TealLightning—Just scared of ruining the little friendship I have left. This man used to mean the world to me, once upon a time.
pinepinepine—Just don’t sleep with him. And you’ll be fine.
HeroLemon701—No, DEFINITELY sleep with him. Because fake marriages are my favorite romance trope and this isn’t going to work unless you guys fall in love, imho.
TealLightning—Sleeping together is not a possibility. He’d have to be attracted to me first.
HeroLemon701—So you’re saying you’re attracted to him? lol?
TealLightning—He’s a good-looking guy but he said, and I quote, “I’m never going to sleep with you.” So yeah.
HeroLemon701—Wait a minute. What even is this conversation you had? I don’t randomly talk to my friends about whether or not we’re sleeping together. Which means, there’s some attraction both ways, right? Cause why else would you even talk about that?
HeroLemon701—You both have thought about it. Which means if you marry him, the chances of it happening are 100000000%. Add another 1903809820% to that if there’s only one bed.
TealLightning—That’s…not how percentages work. And life isn’t a romance novel, friend
HeroLemon701—Just don’t come crying to us when you marry your best friend and have the best sex of your life and you think you’ve fallen in love but you’re not sure how to proceed!!!
HeroLemon701—Just kidding. PLEASE come to us when that happens.
HeroLemon701—Seriously, please please update us on this real life romance trope
TealLightning—If that ridiculousness you just described even comes close to happening, I’ll literally tag you when I post about it, deal?
HeroLemon701—DEALLLLLL!!!! **cackles in romancelandia**
The Cranberry Craft Festival isalways peaceful until ten in the morning, when most church services have ended. The rows between the tents and the tables fill with foot traffic, and Lani and I greet everyone who passes by. We field the same questions, over and over again—Do you really make these yourselves?andWhy are these prices double what I can find at Target?Too many people here have never made anything by hand in their lives and it shows.
We each share the table, with my half covered in candles I dipped and poured myself. I was really into it about two years ago—infusing the beeswax with my own blend of essential oil fragrances, and sometimes I would forage in either one of the two state parks here in Cranberry for skeleton leaves to decorate the candles with. But to be honest, I’m burned out on candle making, pun unintended, and I have been for a while. It’s the fifth hobby in almost that many years I’ve put a lot of time and energy into, and I really thought this one would stick. The fact that it hasn’t makes me feel like even more of a loser than I already am, especially since Lani’s convinced it’s mycallingandpurposeandwhat separates us from the rest of the nine-to-five boring-job world.
“Got our drinks!” Leilani hands me a peach-hued papaya mimosa—our tradition—and we both sit behind our table, our backs to the sun.
“Did you have fun at the wedding reception?” she asks. She’s got her chestnut brown hair dyed with chunks of turquoise tucked under an Indiana Jones–type leather hat. Her maxi dress is navy with a pattern of forget-me-nots, and she has abalone and jade rings on all her fingers, even her thumbs.
“It was nice. Nate and Fern looked happy.” I give her a sideways look. “So, are you going to tell me your big news or what?”
“Hold on.” She grabs her bag, a patchwork tote she made from sari silks. “Let me show you a few of my new pieces first.”
Leilani sews her own bookmarks. I mean, really gorgeous work, made from scraps of fabric she finds at thrift stores. She takes apart old skirts and blouses and lace stockings and refigures them with her sewing machine, making the kind of markers you can slide on the corner of a book as well as the standard long rectangle you can just throw in.
Recently Lani’s made this whole new line of bookmarks in which she’s taken inspiration from all over the world, with a focus on patterns inspired by Indigenous textiles. I’ve never said this to her aloud, but I wish she would go back to her old whimsical, floral and spiral-pattern style. But if I actually voiced this opinion, then that means I would be admitting defeat to Sage, who I’m always defending Leilani against. Sage thinks Leilani is a cultural-appropriating spoiled brat. Which…sometimes I can see her point of view.
But unlike Sage, Lani was there the last eight years.
“Ta-da!” Leilani pulls out a set of bookmarks. They’re a huge departure from anything she’s ever made before—in shades of beige and white, with little scraps of gold illustrating symbols I don’t recognize. My first thought is that color-and-humor-hating Amá Sonya wouldlovethese.
“Wow,” I say.
“Aren’t they great?” She sighs and smiles. “These”—she lifts them up—“are my ticket out of this hellhole.” She gestures around with a grimace on her face, as though we were sitting in some kind of postapocalyptic wasteland rather than surroundedby people trying on knitted scarves and snacking on white-chocolate-drizzled popcorn. But Leilani’s always hated Cranberry. Or even all of Virginia, for that matter. I’ve never understood how anyone could judge an entire state based on their infinitesimally tiny viewpoint of the world, but Lani’s always been that way. Before Sage met Tenn, she had similar feelings about this area. I guess some people look at a place and can see nothing but their own bad memories reflected back to them in Technicolor.
“What do you mean, your ticket out?” I take one of the bookmarks in my hand, examining it. It’s beautiful. But again, it reminds me of Amá Sonya. Specifically, her house. So clean, you could eat off the floor. Perform surgery on the kitchen counter. Everything about it devoid of personality or character. Instead of returning to her old work, Leilani has gone further into the direction of creations distinctly nother.
“I mean, my mom’s friend in Napa saw these new designs, and guess what? She’s signing me on as creative director for her couture accessory company. It’s called The Beauty Martyr.”
