1
DEAN
"Liz, you're twenty-seven, and the only guy you've ever introduced to us is Dean, your best friend. So please, tell me more about this imaginary boyfriend you have."
Maura's voice slices across the terrace, and every muscle in my body locks.
The champagne tray nearly slips from my grip. Ten feet away, Liz sits frozen while her sister eviscerates her in front of a table full of wedding guests, and Rochelle—her own mother—laughs.
Jesus Christ, not again.
My vision tunnels. A roar builds beneath my skin. The glasses rattle because I'm strangling the tray handles.
Sunlight glints off the ocean beyond the terrace railing, the perfect backdrop for this public humiliation, as I stand frozen between the bar and their table. I promised Liz I'd be here for moral support during her sister's wedding weekend, but I never imagined walking into this.
Liz sits wedged between two women she most likely doesn't know, eyes darting to the nearest exit. That pale green sundress from our New York trip last summer makes her skin glow, even as she shrinks into herself. Her chestnut bob is tucked behind both ears, head slightly bowed.
Maura holds court at the table center because where else would she sit with her strawberry blonde hair in an updo, oversized sunglasses pushed up at the top of her head, and the too-big engagement ring on her finger. That fiancé of hers—Ted something—scrolls his phone, the very embodiment of a man excited to marry the woman of his dreams. And Rochelle sits there sipping her drink, a smile on her face, while her younger daughter gets torn apart.
What the hell is wrong with this family?
Eight years of this. Every family gathering, every holiday, Maura finds new ways to remind Liz she's not enough. Usually, Liz grabs my hand before I can say anything—squeezes hard enough to hurt, her silent way of begging me not to make it worse.
Well, she's not grabbing my hand now.
She doesn't even know I'm here yet.
Her hands twist a napkin in her lap, the fabric mangled beyond recognition. She plasters on a fake smile, the one where the corners of her mouth twitch.
Liz can't fool me with that smile. Her chest rises and falls too quickly, and her breaths are shallow. Even all the way from here, her eyes glisten.
Fucking hell. She's on the verge of tears, and that's the last thing she wants to happen—lose it in front of her family and her sister's guests.
"Liz, honey." Rochelle sets down her wineglass, which, judging by her glazed look, isn't her first. "You don't need to be defensive. We just want you to be happy."
I roll my eyes so hard, I can see my brain matter. Another lie. She never made it a secret who her favorite daughter is or how much she wants Liz to be like Maura.
Maura waves a hand because God forbid people forget her expensive diamond ring."You've never brought anyone home, so we all know you don't have a boyfriend. Why are you lying now?"
First of all, Liz had two boyfriends—a hockey jock in college who kept reminding Liz who his father was, what his father did for a living, and how much his father's net worth was. The other one was a finance bro who spent more time watching his reflection on their dates than talking to her.
Yes, Liz had boyfriends. And yes, she's had terrible taste in men.
And yes, despite their meanness, Maura and Rochelle, no doubt, do wish to see Liz settled. I cannot believe they can be as shallow and spiky as they appear. They must have their redeeming features. I haven't seen them yet. My hunch is they are overly protective —like cacti—wanting Liz to find the right man and, above all else, be happy. Fulfilled.
Second, she brought someone home. That someone is me. Maura conveniently forgot I was there every holiday since Liz and I met because Liz cannot stomach being in the same room as them.
The table shifts uncomfortably. One of the women smirks, and another studies her cocktail drink with sudden fascination.
Maura's inability to read the room really needs to be studied.
Liz sits up straighter for a bit. "Actually, I really do have a boyfriend."
I groan so loudly I'm surprised they can't hear it. Oh, no, Liz.
Liz can't lie. Not even a little. Not even to save her life. She apologizes when she's bluffing in poker, gets restless when she's holding aces. I once cooked butter chicken for her, and her eye twitched for ten straight minutes while she claimed she loved it and forced herself to swallow every bite.
So, what the hell is she doing?
