Page 11 of Sister of the Bride

“What’s the thing with the laundromat?” Mom asks.

“You know, the time Polly mixed up the detergent amounts because she didn’t convert to metric—”

“And the suds! Oh, I remember that story,” Mom says, laughing. “Wait, is she the one in the photo of you eating haggis in Edinburgh?”

“It was Glasgow,” Polly says. She sucks in a breath, her eyes firmly planted on her plate, which I suddenly notice she’s barely touched despite her love of Mom’s casseroles and their six-month absence from her life. “But yes. That’s her. We’ve been dating. And we sort of…well, we fell in love, and she’s beautiful and brilliant—she has an MBA from Harvard and is, like, this financial computing wunderkind, and—”

Polly nervously rambles on about Mackenzie’s resume and vital statistics, but I stop listening afterwunderkindbecause I’m busy watching my sister slip something onto her finger that was definitelynotthere when we all sat down to this meal. But that sparkly something is big enough to drown out the sound of Polly’s voice and make the entire room disappear except for the light glinting off that…thatrock.

“Are you fuckingengaged?” The words come flying out of my mouth at a volume I usually reserve for scaring pigeons away from Nonna’s terrace tomato plants. It’s so loud that Mom’s fork clatters to the floor and Nonna gasps, clutching her hands to her heart.

And then everyone’s eyes swing to Polly and her left hand and thering, which she is now gazing down at like it’s a golden retriever puppy.

“Yes,” she says finally. And when she looks up, her cheeks are flushed, her eyes are shining, and she looks for all the world like she’s just won an Oscaranda Pulitzer. She laughs, this sort of hysterical, joy-filled noise that only makes the shock smack me harder in the back of the head. “It happened really fast, obviously, but when you know, you know. You know?”

No, I definitely donotknow.

“You’re getting married?” Mom whispers, and I wait for the meltdown. Because one of the Marino women has just announced her plan to marry someone none of us has met. Hell,Pollyjust met her six months ago. How can this be real? Polly was never one to play wedding growing up. She wasn’t obsessed with being a bride. She was more likely to hang her finger paintings on the wall and lead everyone around, pretending to be a curator.

Polly as abride? She just turned twenty-six! On the ladder that leads to Mount Bad Decision, this is one of the top rungs for sure—just above asking your stylist to help you bring back mall bangs, but below eating raw oysters at a discount buffet in Las Vegas. What could possibly have possessed her?

“Are you pregnant?” I bark out. The words, I swear—they just come tumbling out of my mouth independent of my brain, and Polly sort of half yelps in indignation.

“Pippin! Jesus,” she says by way of an answer, and I’m glad she doesn’t actually dignify that with a response. Instead she turns to Mom and Nonna, who appear to be a much more receptive audience. “Don’t worry, you’re going to meet her in about”—she glances down at her phone—“twenty minutes. Because I invited her over for dessert and coffee.”

A layer of silence hangs over the table like a wet flannel blanket. I glance from Nonna to Mom and back again. They’re both staring at Polly with their mouths open. I imagine they’re starting to formulate all the same arguments I am:You’re gettingmarriedto a person you’ve known forfive minuteswhom none of us has evermet? Are you out of yourmind?

But instead Mom pushes her chair back and stands, leaning over to throw her arms around Polly, muttering, “My baby” into Polly’s hair. Nonna throws up her arms and exclaims, “More like dessert andchampagne! Splendido, cuore mio!”

Which leaves me, sitting across from my sister with the list of summer plans I had for us. Plans forus, and now there’s someone else. Once again, Polly is skipping ahead, but this time I can’t even trail behind, because I don’t even recognize the path.

Chapter5

Toby

I don’t trust those trees. They seem kind of shady.

Pippin

I see we’re vastly expanding the definition of “joke”

I had twenty minutes to imagine what this financial wunderkind who’s swept my sister off her feet might be like, and in none of those minutes did I imaginethis.

Sure, Mackenzie Bryan is beautiful, with dark tan skin and chocolate-brown eyes, her shiny black hair pulled back in a sleek low bun. But she looks like she just finished giving a boardroom presentation in her navy pantsuit. Underneath is a sleeveless white linen blouse that’s so crisp it looks like she pulled it out of the dry cleaner’s bag just before knocking on the door. I can’t remember the last time I wore white, much less anything that needed to be ironed. I spend way too much time around tomato sauce and olive oil for something like that to be in my closet. My free-spirit sister is still in her flowy dress, and sitting side by side, Polly and Mackenzie look like two beautiful dolls from very different play sets.

Mackenzie’s only fault seems to be that she’s wracked with nerves. She’s sitting ramrod straight on the couch, her shoulders trying to migrate up to the gold hoops in her ears, and thus far most of her answers have been of the one-word variety. It feels more like a very terse interrogation than a joyful family meeting.

And honestly? Good. Sheshouldbe nervous meeting her future in-laws (a word that turns my mouth sour) for the first time. We’re Polly’s family, and we’reclose. Our opinions matter, and I like to think that if Mackenzie walks out of this room having disappointed us, this whole ridiculous engagement thing will be over before it even begins.

We’re all gathered in the living room, with Polly and Mackenzie both perched on the edge of the couch, their knees brushing together. Polly has Mackenzie’s hand clasped in hers, their fingers threaded together, and I can’t stop watching as Mackenzie’s thumb traces a soft circle on the inside of my sister’s wrist. It’s the only part of her that appears the slightest bit relaxed. It’s the only indication that they’ve even met before.

Polly, meanwhile, looks absolutely radiant, and when she spots me staring at Mackenzie’s thumb, she clears her throat and gives me a patented twin look that I read immediately asDon’t be weird, Pippin.

I’m trying, I reply with my eyes.This is a massive shock, and I’m still catching up to the fact that you’re marrying an absolute stranger, much less the supermodel businessbot sitting across from me. I don’t know if Polly gets all of that, though. I’m not sure I have the facial dexterity to convey the entire message accurately.

It’s so bananas to me to watch my sister sit next to someone she’s calling her fiancée. We’re not at this stage in our lives yet, are we? This feels like playing dress-up, like a very in-depth game of pretend. Polly’s always been a romantic, but marriage? Seriously? This can’t be real.

“I’ve heard so much about you,” Mackenzie says. She seems to be directing it nonspecifically at the lot of us.

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