Page 39 of Conflict
“No, we didn’t. But we do now. Get dressed, girl. I need a night out, away from Benjamin, away from Mother, and away from everything,” Ariana says, pushing past me and into my living room.
She flops onto the couch and rests an arm over her eyes. One glance at her and I’m on my way to the kitchen, grabbing two wine glasses, and pouring us each healthy glasses of my favorite sauvignon blanc. Ariana’s still dramatically sprawled out when I return, so I set our wine down and place my hands on my hips.
“What have they done now?” I ask, silently wondering when the hell she’s going to leave the jackass.
The closer it gets to her wedding, which is now only two months away, the more anxious I get that she’s indeed going to go through with it.
Benjamin Cunningham III—or whatever his place in succession—is a royal dick. And not even the kind that actually has a kingdom behind him. Instead, he’s the son of our father’s business partner, and the man to whom Ariana was practically betrothed since they were children.
Ariana, the elder of us two Covington girls, was—is, actually—the quintessential Southern blue-blood daughter. She excels at everything she sets her mind to, be it school, extracurriculars, or, most of all, pleasing our parents.
I, on the other hand, was never the good little girl. Sure, I stayed out of trouble for the most part, never landing in jail or the hospital due to my devil-may-care attitude, but when it came to my being that perfect little debutante, my parents were sorely disappointed with their younger daughter.
Because the moment my father brought home Michael McFadden, an up-and-coming banker who had the personality of a doorknob, it was clear he was looking for another match like he’d made with Ari and Benjamin. The man may have been nice enough, but knowing that my father had chosen him to be my life mate? Well, that took him out of the running before he could even start the race.
Why can’t you be reasonable, Alyssa?
Why can’t you be more like your sister, Alyssa?
If you want to continue this lifestyle we’ve given you, Alyssa, then you’ll have to marry a man of means, like Benjamin.
Little did my parents know, every single time they pushed, they were driving me further away from their visions of a future for me.
So, unlike my sister, who’d lived at home through her undergraduate program, I moved out just before my first semester began. The move was much to my parents’ chagrin, but truth be told, I think they were happy for a little more peace and quiet in the house.
You’d think, while living in a mansion with two wings, you’d be able to rock out to Korn as loud as you wanted, but somehow, Mother always complained she could “hear the wretched music” and it caused her head to “ache.”
Here’s the thing my parents never understood about me: I don’t care about the money. I don’t care about the lifestyle. I don’t care about how large—or small—my house is. I don’t need a man to take care of me. I don’t want that. I grew up with a mother whose only skill was throwing parties for various charities she championed. Not that it’s a bad thing, but that wasn’t my dream.
My dreams are to establish a career I love. I don’t want just another job, working nine to five, staring at the clock, eager to get out of there. That one, so far with my time at Wellsley-Callahan, is coming true. My next dream is to marry for love. Call me foolish, but I want that heart-squeezing, belly-flopping, can’t-look-at-him-without-sighing, nearly-bursting-to-the-brim-with-joy kind of love.
Sure, I didn’t have the best example with my parents growing up: two people compatible enough to settle and raise a family while seemingly living separate lives. But I’ve seen it with both of my cousins, and watching them, the way their respective husbands look at them? I want that.
Jace watches Lexi from the moment she appears and doesn’t take his eyes off her until long after she’s departed. As if he’s afraid to lose her all over again, like he did the first time.
And Jeremy? Don’t even get me started. He and Sierra are the ultimate definition of soul mates and the inspiration for my dream of love and happiness. If only I’d been so lucky to have my perfect match move in right next door at the tender, young age of eight.
Heck, even their parents. Aunt Vicky and Uncle Nick are still so in love after – years of marriage. Incredible, the differences between the two sisters. One marrying for love, the other for money.
The thought gives me pause, and I look to my sister, who is now sitting up and gulping down the wine.
Two sisters making such different life decisions.
Holy hell. I decide right here and now to make it my mission. Ariana Covington will marry Benjamin Cunningham over my dead body.
“Why do they call it white wine?” Ariana asks, her nose wrinkling. She’s swirling the transparent liquid in her glass, tilting her head to the side as she inspects it. “I mean, it’s not white. If it was white, you wouldn’t be able to see through it. Right?”
She turns her head to me, her expression earnest, as if she’s asking me one of life’s most significant questions. And since I’m practically par for the course on her level of buzzdom, I find myself contemplating the answer. I open my mouth to respond, but I’m actually stumped. Drunk Ariana makes a good point.
After we’d polished off half a bottle at my apartment and finished two episodes ofBelow Deck, I called us an Uber and forced Ariana out of the house. I felt that it was my duty to both take her mind off wedding planning and get her drunk enough to try and talk some sense into her. I know that sounds bad. It’s just that I know my sister, and sober Ari isn’t going to listen to me. But drunk Ari? She can be feisty.
As good as a night dancing at the club sounded, I knew we needed a place where we could continue our buzz while actually being able to have a conversation. Cheyenne had told me about a new winery in the area, so I gave the driver the address and we were on our way.
Two wine flights in, I’m ready to pounce. Except she still has me pondering her question. But then a gorgeous Australian accent comes from an equally gorgeous, apparently Australian man.
“We couldn’t quite call it clear wine, now could we, ladies?”
“You’re pretty,” Ari sighs dreamily, placing her chin in her hand and practically making moon eyes at him. She reads his name tag. “Oliver. What a cute name. Does anyone ever call you Ollie?”
