Page 15 of Sister of the Bride

“I’m saying your greatest weakness is that whatever you’re thinking is written all over your face. You can never play cards or watch bad improv, nor can youeverbe in the audience for any kind of slam poetry event.”

“Maybe it’s just that you know me too well to let me get anything past you,” I say.

Toby drops his chin with a laugh. “Yeah, that’s definitely it, Pip.”

Chapter7

Toby

I don’t trust stairs. They’re always up to something.

Pippin

How long are you going to do this?

Toby

For as long as we’re friends. So … forever?

Later that night, the bedroom door creaks open, and Polly creeps in, her sandals in her hand.

“Hey,” I say from my bed, where I’m tucked up with my iPad watching an old episode ofGrey’s Anatomy. I pause the show, freezing a particularly gruesome heart surgery on the screen.

At the sound of my voice, Polly yelps, her hand flying to her chest, her shoes smacking her square in the face.

“I appreciate the attempt at stealth, Pizza, but it’s not even eleven.” I tuck the iPad under my pillow. Despite my reassuring chat with Toby, I’m still full of adrenaline from dinner earlier. I was hoping an episode of doctor drama would lull me to sleep, but it hasn’t yet worked. “What kind of late-stage spinster do you think I am?”

She grimaces. “Sorry. I wasn’t sure if you had to work in the morning.”

I stifle a sigh and flip on the lamp for her. Polly does have one thing right: my entire life revolves around whether or not I have to be at the restaurant. That’s usually the difference between one episode ofGrey’sand a solid binge of four. And since I have to be at the restaurant more often than not, Polly was probably right to assume I was tucked in for an early night. Not that I haven’t been trying to pull back.

Sort of.

A little bit.

“Evie’s opening up, and Fernando’s got a new kid doing prep,” I say. I pull out my phone and add an item to my to-do list: check in with my head chef to be sure the new kid—Jacob? Joseph?—is working out. “I won’t go in until after lunch.”

Polly nods, slipping out of her dress and digging through her suitcase, which has exploded on the floor next to her bed, stray shoes and tank tops starting to creep over and disappearing under my bed. She emerges with a fistful of silk that is apparently meant to be pajamas. “I can help out while I’m here,” she says as she pads into the tiny bathroom Dad built into the corner of the attic when we were in third grade. “I still remember how to make the lasagna.”

I laugh quietly to myself, because even when Polly used to help out full-time during summers, her lasagnas always came out lumpy with questionable layers and pockets of too much sauce or not enough cheese. I can only imagine that now, after so many years out of practice, they’d best be described as “abstract.”

Even in the dim light, Polly can read the skepticism all over my face. “What? You don’t have to do everything yourself, Pippin.”

Don’t I?The retort is on the tip of my tongue, but I swallow it. “I know. That’s why Fernando’s got the new kid,” I reply.Josh—I’m pretty sure his name is Josh. “I almost never work lunch anymore.” I don’t mention that it’s because I had to lay off our bookkeeper and now I spend lunch filing and categorizing expenses myself.

“That’s good to hear.” Polly pops her head out of the bathroom, her face covered in some kind of tangerine-colored oil that she massages into her cheeks. I swear, if art history wasn’t her passion, Polly could have become a chemist with all the concoctions she puts on her face. “You spend too much time in the kitchen. Mom told me about Everett.”

“How do you even know Everett existed?” I realized pretty quickly that he wasn’t a keeper, so I didn’t waste my time bringing him up in any of our texts or calls while Polly was in London. We only had sex once, and he didn’t ask me one single time what I liked or if it was good. I faked it, and it wasn’t even a strong performance, but he wasn’t paying a bit of attention. “He was barely around to begin with.”

Polly emerges from the bathroom, her skin dewy and pink, and climbs into bed before tossing me a heaping helping of side-eye. “My point exactly. You need to spend less time in the restaurant and more time onextracurriculars.” She waggles her eyebrows.

“I get laid plenty,” I reply, tossing a pillow that Nonna embroidered at my sister’s head. Even though I’m out of practice, I score a direct hit.

“Okay, but are you actually finding anything in all that sex? Or is it just an endless string of first through third dates and some uninspired banging and then you serve them their walking papers?”

Ugh, I hate how close she’s stumbled to the truth.

“First of all, they’re not all boyfriend material, but some of them put theextrainextracurricular, as you say. And second of all, excuse me, but when did you go all family values on me? You took enough gender studies classes to know not to shame me for dating.” Polly rolls her eyes, but I shoot her a look, and suddenly, despite Toby’s warning, I can’t hold back. “Seriously, Polly. Why do you have to getmarried?This isn’t 1950. Move in together! Get to know each other! What’s the rush?”

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