Page 34 of Sister of the Bride

NOPE

Three days after my bridal salon meltdown, I still haven’t seen Polly. When I got back to the attic in Toby’s clothes, she was gone, along with her suitcase. Mom said she was at Mackenzie’s and that I should give her time, but I’ve never been a patient person. Three days has felt like an eternity, and on Tuesday morning I finally pull out my phone and tap out a text:

Pepperoni

I’m sorry. I was an enormous asshole. Please come home so I can apologize for real.

The three dots pop up almost immediately, and I suck in a breath, waiting to see what kind of response comes.

Pizza

The biggest asshole. Bigger than Tom Brady’s ego. Just massive.

Pepperoni

Let me make it up to you. Mani/pedi?

Pizza

But you hate when strangers touch your feet

Pepperoni

That’s how much I love you

* * *

Polly was right. I really do hate pedicures.

As the woman at my feet scrubs my heels with some kind of cheese grater, I grip the armrests on the chair until my knuckles are white, teeth gritted to keep from laughing. I cannot believe there are people who can sit through this without feeling on the verge of peeing their pants the whole time. Could never be me.

“You know you can ask them not to do that part, right?” My sister glances over from where she’s serenely having her feet tickled by an industrial feet-tickler, and she’s not even cracking a smile.

“It’s…fine…” I grind out, then huff out an enormous exhale when the woman lowers my foot back into the hot water. To be fair, my feet are probably in desperate need of attention. I haven’t had a pedicure since the last time Polly forced me, which was when she graduated from Harvard and told me nobody in the Yard wanted to see my “troll toes.” That was four years ago. Four years of being on my feet in the kitchen, four years of running off my stress, and four years of wearing flip-flops on city streets.

It goes without saying that I will tip this nail tech exorbitantly.

The woman at my feet raises my left leg and starts in on her next round, and this time I cannot manage to hold in the bark of laughter.

“You don’t have to torture yourself for me,” Polly says, rolling her eyes. Apparently sensitive feet aren’t genetic, because my carbon copy over there is perfectly calm.

And anyway, I think I do need to torture myself a little, because until this moment, Polly has barely said four words to me. This is one of those “shut up and relax” pedicures, with her scrolling on her phone and me stewing about how I’m going to fix things with her. And I guess now is the time to bite the bullet.

“I know,” I tell her, melting into the backrest when the cheese grater finally disappears. “But I thought if I got you in the pedicure chair, you’d be a captive audience for my apology.”

Polly puts her phone in her lap and turns to me, the corner of her lips quirking up. “I’m listening.”

I suck in a deep breath, deep enough to fuel the monstrous apology I owe my sister. “I’m so, so sorry, Polly. I took what should have been a special moment and ruined it by shouting at you. I never should have said that Dad wouldn’t want this for you. I was absolutely wrong, and that was next-level shitty.”

“Thank you,” Polly says, and the way her voice drops to a whisper is just a reminder that what I said to her was a cheap shot.

“Dad would have loved that dress on you,” I tell her.

“I think he would.” Polly smiles. “And I’m sorry that I wasn’t more sensitive in the moment. I know that Mom selling Marino’s is less jarring for me. Of course you melted down, what with everything changing in your life. Lord knows you’re not the most flexible member of our family.”

“Hey! In my defense, literally every part of my life is being uprooted. I’m losing my home, my job, and my sister all in one foul swoop.”

“It’s onefellswoop, Pepperoni,” Polly says. “And you’re not losing me. I’m getting married, not leaving the country. Nothing has to change between us.”

---