A smile ghosts across her lips. “I know. But please don’t. I’d like tomorrow to be drama-free, please.”
We fall silent again. The TV’s still loud, someone’s still screaming about betrayal and extensions, but it all feels very far away.
I stare at the ceiling.
I’m thinking about Nico. About how good it felt to be safe with someone and still fully myself.
And I’m thinking about May. About how maybe I’ve spent so long protecting her that I never gave her the space to learn what she really wants. Maybe she thinks love is what happens when no one yells. Maybe she thinks respectability is the same thing as happiness.
She deserves more than that. We both do.
But it’s not my place anymore. I don’t need to protect her. She can make her own choices. Even if they’re ones I wouldn’t make.
Even if they break her heart.
Even if they break mine.
We wake up to room service knocking on the door. Yes, I ordered us room service in advance, because I am the most honorific ofall maid of honors ever. I hop out of bed before May even opens her eyes and let the woman in.
She rolls in a cart full of all of May’s favorite breakfast foods.
May sits up in the bed, only for me to tackle her right back into it. “It’s your big day, you big, beautiful bride, you. Congratulations.”
There is a minor scuffle while she attempts to shove me off of her, but I latch onto her waist, pull open her robe, and blow a raspberry right on her belly.
She screams. “Get off me,” she shrieks, but she’s smiling.
The day is gorgeous outside our window. The sun is shining bright, and the sky is blue with a smattering of clouds. It’s really not a bad day for a wedding. I start popping lids off of the platters and uncover a tiny jar of honey that makes my insides feel like gooey warmth. Or honey, I guess.
“Tom’s okay,” May announces from the bed, looking at her phone. “He and the other groomsmen will come down to the big suite after they’re done getting ready.”
“What constitutes getting ready?” I ask, unable to resist dipping a finger in the honey pot and taking a lick. “Drinking from matching flasks? Smoking illegal cigars?”
She shrugs. “I don’t really want to think about it.”
“Then don’t think about it,” I tell her. “It’s your perfect day, Plum.”
Getting Ready isfun. Even if it’s hours of hair and makeup andgiggling, I’m having fun. Even if my mom is here, wearing her fake maternal smile that tricks everyone into thinking she’s an adorable little old Asian woman. Even if May’s bitchy friend Elodie keeps making snide remarks about every tiny little detail.But Izzy’s here, and the rest of the bridal party are great, so loving, and a hilarious bunch to be around. I’m so happy for May, to have found her people. Her girls.
There’s an energy, a camaraderie that exists in the air. A little bit of nerves, a lotta bit of love and excitement. It only increases after five hours of Getting Ready. I could be into this. I take some notes. For no reason, and for no person at all.
But I do text that person to come up to the suite with Tom and the groomsmen and the rest of our family for pictures.
“Annie, sit down for a second,” May calls from across the room, while I’m checking her hangingqi paofor wrinkles and texting with the wedding planner for the eighteenth time to make sure everything’s okay andis she sure she doesn’t need any helpandyou’re sure the string quartet has arrived to the hotel?“Relax,” she laughs, consummately calm.
I take deep, centering breaths and force myself to look at my sister.
Immediately, I begin to bawl my eyes out—huge, dramatic crocodile tears. “You look so beautiful,” I sob. “I can’t believe it. You’re so perfect and amazing. Look at you.” She’s so radiantly gorgeous I can barely breathe. Her hair in soft waves framing her face just right, makeup impeccable. Her dress makes her look like the Goddess of all the Sparkly Princesses.
May just grins at me.
“Annie,” my mom says in Cantonese, “stop making a scene.” She says this in a bright tone, with a smile, so no one else realizes she’s shitting on me.
May and I ignore her. “Watch your makeup,” May tells me.
“This shit isn’t going anywhere,” I assure her, dabbing at my face. “It’s like permanent marker has been shellacked onto my face, but it still manages to look naturally effortless. This bitch right here is a queen.Kuh-ween.” I point to one of the makeup artists, Vanessa, who smirks.
I squint at her. “Do you do weddings in New York City? Or maybe Durham? North Carolina? Never mind.”
