Nicole hummed. “I didn’t know you two were that serious.”
We weren’t. Hell, we hadn’t even slept together.
Something my self-reflection cursive swirls told me that I needed to change. I underlined the thought in my journal, and now it stared back at me accusingly.
“It’s an old-fashioned arrangement,” I clarified, forcing my voice to sound strong and breezy. “We would probably do it anyhow, but there are time sensitive matters that pushed the date closer.”
Good lord, even saying the truth out loud made it sound ridiculous.
“As in, an arranged marriage?” Nicole hedged.
“Kind of, but those sorts of things are pretty common,” I insisted. “People just don’t talk about it.”
“Yeah, I know. They do it all the time around here.” Nicole fell silent.
What she wouldn’t say, what we never spoke about, was that my sister was tied to the mob. She chose a forbidden relationship, cutting ties with our family to pursue her dreams and her love. She’d opened a bakery, was the biggest sensation in Boston, and had an art studio attached to it. Her social media made the bakery viral, and she’d franchised to several other locations, all while getting married, pregnant, and attending every single UFC fight her beast of a husband competed in. While Cristiano distanced himself from the criminal underworld for the sake of his public image, there was no denying that his family ruled a portion of Beantown.
“Can you come?” I hated the desperate note in my voice. “I could use a bridesmaid.”
Nicole let out a hollow laugh. “You have plenty of friends who would kill to be seen at your side.”
The guilt in my stomach doubled. When I went to Denver’s house and drank three too many cosmopolitans, I enlisted eight bridesmaids but luckily had the presence of mind not to name any of the socialites my maid of honor.
“You know Dad will have us escorted out,” Nicole added quietly.
She hadn’t seen him since she came home from Europe two years ago. He missed Christmas, and by the time January rolled around, Nicole threw in her lot with the underworld and was happily disowned from our family. Although she’d never confirmed it, her trust fund was dismantled courtesy of our father, and she wasn’t welcome at any social gatherings.
In a way, her success with her bakery was the biggest middle finger she could have thrown.
I shifted my gaze from the counter of customers—and the tempting suggestion of bagels—to the rainy, dreary street outside. People walked the sidewalk, huddled under hoodies, keeping umbrellas tucked low. Even Mother Nature couldn’t stop the fast pace of this city.
A flicker of black caught my eye, and a wave of nostalgia shot through my veins.
Just ask her….
“Nicole? What if the past can be changed?”
“Huh?” There was a thump through the cellular void. “What do you mean?”
That I’m insane.That I should be locked away, seeing a shrink, and sleeping in a padded room.
“Nothing,” I sighed.
“Well, I think it can’t be undone, but—” there was more thumping and bumping “—we canredo things. There’s always another day.”
That was the creative in her. It was like our parents shopped for us in a Sears catalogue. I was born first, the child of logic and reason. I couldn’t even draw stick people.
And then there was Nicole. The spitting image of our mother. Creative, artistic, and she embraced that part of herself, refusing to let Dad’s vision mold her into an unhappy art major curating a museum.
So optimistic, so happy. What would it be like if I chose that for myself? I would rather die than admit I was too scared to try.
I pulled the sweater tighter over my shoulder, wincing. There’d been a strange bruise I’d discovered on my upper arm. I didn’t remember running into anything, but it ached a little when I moved wrong.
The funny thing was, I swore it moved every morning. A new bruise, in a new spot.
“Well, send me a card or something.” I laughed. “I’ll send you pictures of the big day.”
“You realize I haven’t even met the guy who’s going to be my brother-in-law,” Nicole grumped.
