Leonard rattles on about how she embarrassed the family. My mother is in with the PR team as we speak, coming up with a spin for the situation and debating whether we can ruin Nash Rutherford's reputation or if he'll drag us down with him.
Calla is off cleaning up the pieces of the wedding, serving guests with NDAs as much as possible to prevent any leaks. But with the guest list that was here, many of them won't sign. We'll be lucky if we have until morning before the story runs.
Wren is helping my mother’s little blonde assistant, which is laughable, because my youngest brother has always done more damage than control.
Gabe sits in the corner, silent and observing, as he drinks his whiskey.
Upstairs, somewhere, is Dove. Grace has been sitting with her all afternoon while she teeters between crying and screaming at the top of her lungs.
I excuse myself silently, not wanting to interrupt the rants of the madman, but also not wanting to be around him any longer.
Inhaling a deep breath, I steady myself and regain control as I make my way to Dove's bedroom on the second floor. It's painted a pale blue, a color she chose in high school, fitted with cream bedding, white furniture, and a balcony with the best view of the ocean.
I find the two women sitting on the bed, a coffee mug in each of their hands but three bottles of champagne on the nightstand. I lift one, feeling how light and empty it is. One is sealed, and the other is half drunk.
Dove's replaced her wedding dress with a sweatsuit, something I'm not sure I've ever seen my perfect sister wear.
"Hey." Grace smiles, looking up at me. "How's everything downstairs?"
Dove sniffles, reaching for a tissue to wipe her nose. Grace must have talked her into washing her face because it’s clear of any makeup, just red and blotchy from crying. My mother would be disappointed if she saw her. Wallowing in alcohol and wearing sweats with no makeup. It's not very Caine-like of her.
It's in this moment that the pieces start to click for me. That I realize how much pressure my sister has been under her entire life. We all have. My parents have done an excellent job of making sure we felt its weight bearing down on us.
But Dove, as the only woman among us, has been held to an unreasonable standard with no bend in any of her expectations.
And for the first time, I actually feel bad for her.
"It's fine," I answer my wife.
"I'll give you two a minute." She stands, moving toward me, and like she knows I need her touch for support, she presses her lips against my cheek. The moment is fleeting, then she's patting my shoulder and closing the door behind her.
I sit on the edge of the bed and blow out a long breath.
"What happened?" I ask.
Dove laughs, the sound bitter and hollow. Pain etches its way into each of her words. "You mean, besides the fact that I just got left at the altar?" She takes a swig from the mug she's holding before slamming it too roughly onto the end table. "No, that's wrong. When there're hundreds of people sitting outside, waiting for me to promise myself to someone at that altar, I didn’t even make it there."
I've never actually seen my sister like this. I rack my brain for a time I've seen her cry. Not since we were kids, surely. I can picture her as a toddler, blonde hair tied up in two perfect pigtails, a pink dress on her small frame. She's crying because her lollipop fell on the floor and our nanny told her she couldn't have it back.
"What is that awful wailing?"That's what our mother asked when she walked into the room, her face twisted with disgust. I don't remember what our nanny told her, but I do recall my mother looking down at her daughter and telling her,"Big girls don't cry."
I wonder how many times she's heard that statement. How many times she's had to suck in her feelings to appease my mother. For a long time, I've resented Dove. The only daughter. Perfect in every sense of the word.
But what has that perfection got her?
"Dove…" I reach over to her, an attempt to provide some sort of comfort, but she slaps my hand away. Her head drops into her palms before she rubs her face.
I also can't remember the last time Dove and I spoke without calculating each move, weighing each word for its potential to wound or advance. It had to be early teens, before we learned that every confession became ammunition in our parents’ games.
They did that too, pitting us against each other with the promise of scraps of love.
And the love felt great. It was a rarity when my father would clap a hand on my shoulder, look me in the eye, and tell me he was proud of me. It came so sparingly, but I found myself wanting that affection, even if outwardly I told myself I didn't need it.
Guessing by Dove's current predicament, I'd say she does the same.
I lean forward, elbows on knees, the words sticking like gravel in my throat. I'm not sure I even know how to talk to her anymore, but I decide to try.
"Did you love him?" I ask softly.
