Page 7 of Sister of the Bride

“It’s a mystery,” I reply, waving off the receipt and grabbing my purchase before he can launch into an explanation of the pros and cons of bagging the hot nuts. Oh god, the unintentional innuendos. “Thanks, Mr. Harrison!”

“Tell Polly to come by and say hello,” he says, and before I can bolt, he slides two caramel apple pops across the counter. “Good seeing you, Pippin.”

I smile, suddenly wishing I could hop up on the stool by the counter and chat about the Stanley Cup finals. I make a mental note to come back by on a day when I’m not on such a tight schedule. Dad would want me to.

“Bye, Mr. Harrison,” I say before stepping through the door, the ding of the old brass bell announcing my departure.

Chapter3

Toby

What’s the best thing about Switzerland?

Pippin

That no one there tells me jokes like this

Toby

I don’t know, but the flag is a big plus

Pippin

Gross

Polly and I are identical twins.

Allegedly.

But as Polly exits customs pulling a pale pink suitcase, a vintage leather tote over her shoulder, it’s hard to see. Polly’s sun-streaked brown hair falls in beachy waves around her shoulders, while mine (markedly less sun-streaked and curled from the steam of boiling vats of pasta) still has a kink in it from the hair elastic I used to keep it out of the lasagna. If you put us next to each other and asked a hundred people which one of us just got off a transatlantic flight, ninety-nine would pick me, and one would be lying. And I wouldn’t blame them! The international traveler is wearing an airy maxi dress with delicate straps and a pattern that looks like the waves off the Amalfi Coast. I’m wearing an old tomato-stained Universal Hub shirt and jeans with flour on the butt.

At the sight of Polly, I rise up on my toes and hold up the sign I made last night.pizza, it reads in bright red Sharpie with a cheesy little illustration at the bottom. I can tell the moment Polly spots it, because she tips her head back in a deep and familiar laugh before digging into her tote bag for a wrinkled, folded piece of paper. She stops on the linoleum and grins, holding it high above her head. It reads, in Polly’s trademark artfully messy scrawl,pepperoni, invoking our dad’s favorite twin nicknames. A business bro in a rumpled suit who is too busy staring at his phone to notice Polly’s Norma Rae moment stops just short of smashing into her back. He starts to flash her the stink eye, but after one look at her sparkling blue eyes and bright smile, it seems like he’s suddenly about to ask for her number instead. But Polly isn’t paying attention to him at all.

“Pepperoni!” she cries as she launches herself through the crowd, the sign crinkling against my back as she envelops me in a hug so forceful that I stumble back four steps.

“Good to see you too, Pizza.” I breathe in the familiar scent of green tea and citrus. Polly calls it her signature scent. I remember the summer sophomore year when she discovered it at the Nordstrom perfume counter and worked double shifts at the restaurant to afford it. She’s worn it ever since. Because Polly is the kind of person whohasa signature scent and looks flawless after stepping off a transatlantic flight, and somehow you still don’t want to push her down the nearest flight of stairs.

“You’re lucky I love you, because it should be a crime to look that good after seven hours on an airplane,” I say, pulling back to give Polly a good once-over. “Seriously, did British Airways have some kind of organic spa on board? And was it staffed by acolytes of Gwyneth Paltrow?”

“This look is brought to you by an upgrade to first class and no seat mate,” Polly replies. She strikes an Instagram influencer pose, arms over her head, one hip popped out, her smile pointed up toward the fluorescent lights as if they’re a sunbeam. Then she crosses her eyes and sticks out her tongue. “It’s amazing what ample leg room and complimentary champagne will do for you when sky-bound.”

“Lucky bitch,” I say before pulling her into another hug. As a person who’s usually not much of a hugger, my touch-meter is off the charts today. But to get to hug my two very favorite people in the world upon their return to me? Worth it.

Polly takes a deep breath, inhaling the ambient smells of Dunkin’ Donuts and Sbarro. “I missed this place,” she says, and I know she doesn’t mean Logan Airport.

“This place missed you,” I reply, smiling. I take her suitcase and pull it around next to my thigh. “Now, let’s go get the rest of your luggage. Mom’s making tuna noodle, and you know if it sits too long it turns the consistency of kindergarten paste.”

“Yesssss, my favorite.”

“Weknow. You can be sure that Nonna missed you since she’s agreed to eat it without complaint.”

Polly’s love of our mother’s Midwestern casseroles has long been a subject of great consternation in the family. Well, amongst everyone except Mom, who is just happy to have someone to share her love of the “cream of” creations from her Minnesota childhood. She has a collection written on notecards in a little metal box in our tiny apartment kitchen. It was the same rotation for a while, but then the Pioneer Woman burst onto the scene, and we had to start limiting her to one casserole a month.

“Hush, you,” Polly says. She hikes her leather tote higher onto her freckled shoulder. “Let’s go to baggage claim.”

“Okay, and on the way I can tell you all about Mr. Harrison’s hot nuts.”

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