Page 3 of Sister of the Bride

“Holy shit, Toby!” I drop my ladle into the Bolognese, narrowly avoiding the splatter, and race across the kitchen, practically leaping onto him. He lets out a littleoofas I collide with his chest, his arms wrapping around my waist as he pulls me in for an epic hug. “What the hell are you doing here? I didn’t know you were visiting!”

“I’m not,” he says, pulling back with a wicked grin. A lock of his curls flops over his forehead, and he reaches up to tuck it away like a reflex. As always, it springs right back. “I live here now.”

I blink at him in shock. “Wait,what?”

“Pippin, inside voice,” he says with a wink.

“I’ll talk in any voice I please, are youserious?”

His grin widens, my best friend entirely too pleased with himself. “I absolutely am. You’re looking at the newest member of the emergency medicine residency program at Mass General. I start tomorrow!”

“Oh my god! I’m so happy!” I fling myself back into Toby’s arms, squeezing him with all the joy that comes from knowing my best friend has finally,finallycome home. Eight years ago, I bid Toby a tearful goodbye as he boarded a flight to California for undergrad at USC. Four years later, he was on to medical school at Stanford. It’s been eight years of sporadic visits, threaded together with FaceTime calls and text messages and a steady stream of the worst Dad jokes of all time. “But what happened to the PhD program? Medical research or something?”

Toby shrugs. “I changed my mind. And someone dropped out of the program here, so my advisor at the med school made a call. I wanted to surprise you. Surprised?”

“Absolutely! I had no clue. First because you’ve had your nine-step plan or whatever for as long as I’ve known you, and second because you forced that god-awful dad joke on me this morning. I was sure that thing had to be coming all the way from Palo Alto.”

He ignores the comment about the nine-step plan, which is definitely a first. “No, that one came to you live from the Silver Line. I just got in this morning.”

“You little shit!”

“It was worth it to see that look on your face,” he says. He squishes my cheeks between his large, warm hands. “It’s really hard to put one over on the great Pippin Marino.”

I stick my tongue out at him, and when he laughs, I turn my head and lick his hand.

“Pippin, you’re still here! You’re going to be late!” Mom bursts into the kitchen and yanks an apron off the rack by the wall. She has it tied on in two seconds and is midway through pulling her silver-streaked hair back beneath an orange floral bandana by the time she reaches the prep table.

“She doesn’t land for another half hour,” I say, because I’ve had this day planned down to the minute for weeks. Not that it matters, because I’m already being shoved toward the door before I can even open the schedule in my notes app.

“Delta says she’s arriving early,” Fernando says, holding up his phone on the other side of the kitchen. “Oh, and welcome back, Toby.”

“Good to see you, man,” Toby says with a little salute.

“Yes, good to see you as always, dear,” Mom says before turning her attention back to me. “You gotta go.”

“She landed!” Evie calls, poking her head into the pass-through. Because apparently the whole restaurant is tracking my sister’s trek across the Atlantic. Not surprising, since London, where Polly has spent six months doing research for her dissertation, is the farthest any of us Marinos have strayed from the nest in almost a hundred years. Even when Polly left for grad school, it was just to New Haven, a quick scoot down I-95. To say that I felt like a piece of me disappeared into the ether when she left is a massive understatement. Six months without a late night at J.P. Licks, trading stories over frappes with my womb-mate, has been the absolute worst.

And then my traitorous phone vibrates a full thirty seconds later to let me know that yes, my twin sister is indeed on American soil.

“You’re late,” Toby whispers, his eyes wide and teasing.

“I’m not late, she’s early,” I grumble. I take off my apron and hang it on my hook by the door, doing my best to brush the flour off my jeans. So much for time to swipe on lip gloss. I’m not even going to be able to change clothes.

“You’ve got a little right here,” Toby says, rubbing the tip of his nose.

I reach for a shiny new saucepan and peer at my reflection in the bottom to check for any other stray food particles. I pull my hair out of its stubby ponytail and try to shake my curls into what might charitably be described as “Doc Brown fromBack to the Futuregets a perm.”

“Before you go, is Everett coming for dinner tonight?” Mom calls. She’s already halfway through a lasagna and doesn’t even raise her eyes from her work. Her tone tells me she already knows the answer—she just wants to make me say it.

“Who’s Everett?” Toby asks, and I just wave him off.

“No. We’re not…” I trail off, trying to figure out a way to say it without, you know,sayingit. But I come up empty, and I don’t have time to get creative. “We broke up.”

A series of groans rises from the kitchen, including from Evie, who’s on her break by the sink slurping leftover gazpacho, and Emile, the dishwasher, who’s rinsing out his water bottle between loads.

“What didthisguy do?” Fernando asks, crossing his tattooed arms over his chest. “Wait, let me guess. He breathed too loud.”

“My money’s on him saying ‘that’s hilarious’ instead of actually laughing,” Evie tries. I shoot her a dirty look becausehello, girl code or something?

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