by T Gephart
Published by T Gephart
Copyright 2021 T Gephart
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This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and scenarios are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales, or organizations is entirely coincidental.
Cover by Hang Le
Editing by Insight Editing Services
Formatting by Elaine York, Allusion Publishing
Proofread by Rebecca, Fairest Reviews and Editing Services
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Connect with T
For Sally, who told me I could when I thought I couldn’t, and read each chapter as I wrote it.
And for the amazing Aerial and Pole Divas. I was so mentally broken this year and your passion, support, and community gave me wings. #PDREZ #PADR I’m going to twirl and spin forever.
THEN
Zara
Coney Island, Brooklyn, New York
“C’mon, Zara, I want to go to the fortune teller lady and find out if Taylor is the man I’m going to marry. We can ride the rollercoaster later,” Belle whined, her bright blue eyes full of wonder.
The smell of popcorn and cotton candy peppered the air as excited squeals and screams competed against the noise of music and motorized rides. It was sensory overload—lights, sounds and smells coming at you from every angle as you got jostled in the crowd.
It was summer, Belle’s pale skin pinked from the afternoon’s sun even though I reminded her a million times to reapply sunscreen. She was so much smaller than me, and not just because of the two-year age difference. Her pixie-like features were so little and dainty, she looked almost breakable. Unlike me, who was taller than some of the boys in my class. I wasn’t dainty either, nor did I aspire to be, inheriting our dad’s booming personality as well as his height, brown hair and brown eyes.
I sighed, shaking my head as I pulled her through the crowd. “Belle, we have one hour of freedom. Sixty-minutes. I don’t want to waste them sitting in a chair while some crazy lady tells us stuff that isn’t even true. And you’re twelve, why are you even worried about getting married anyway?”
Mom and Dad had—begrudgingly—agreed to let us explore unsupervised for an hour. Oh, they were still around, probably tracking us via our cellphones from a safe distance, but that was as good as we were going to get when our dad was a criminal prosecutor. Honestly, it was a wonder he’d agreed, giving us the statistics on child abductions and warning us not to split up. He’d know if we even thought about it, somehow, he always did.
She pouted like she usually did when she didn’t get her way, folding her arms across her chest in an exaggerated protest. “But I love him, Zara. He’s the first boy I’ve ever really liked. And he likes me too. It’s fate and I want to see if we end up together forever.”
It was worse than I thought.
My sister had always been an idealist, believing in fairy tales, happily-ever-afters, and everyone’s good intentions. If I wasn’t so sure she’d probably end up heartbroken and jaded sometime later in life, it might’ve been endearing. But I was her older sister, and while there was a better-than-average chance she wasn’t going to end up with her sixth-grade crush, I didn’t want to be responsible for breaking her spirit any sooner than necessary.
“You need to stop stealing Mom’s romance novels, Belle.”
It wasn’t a mystery where Belle got her whimsical, rosy outlook; our mom believing the glass was always half-full. Guess you kinda needed to be when you were a social worker in New York, while also being married to an attorney who was allergic to penicillin and injustice. Our parents were the perfect yin-yang, both hard and soft in all the right measures, and while they were probably more paranoid with us than most of the parents I knew, they loved us, and each other, fiercely.
Belle’s lips hid her grin, plastering the doe-eyed who-me? look that constantly got her out of trouble. It was a talent for sure, her ability to get her way with virtually anything, something I couldn’t help but admire. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Zara. But, if I did read Mom’s books, I’d know that you can take over the world, be a badass annnnnnnnnd still have the man of your dreams.”
Well, at least there was that.
“Pllllleeeeeeeeeeaseeeeeee.” She blinked, doubling down on the charm as her clasped hands nestled under her chin. “We’ll use my money, and I’ll ride anything you want right after. I won’t even complain that my hair is getting messed up.”
It was a tempting offer, and a negotiation that was hard to walk away from. Five minutes listening to some woman spout bullshit for the remaining balance of time for me to spend totally however I see fit.
“Deal!” I held out my hand, our father drumming into us the importance of formalizing the closing of any agreement. “But it needs to be quick, and don’t even think about dragging me into it. She tells you what you want to hear and then we go straight to the rollercoaster.”
Belle waved me off, her smile at getting her way—again—widening as she led us to the tent. “Sure, sure, we won’t ask about how you end up as the Attorney General or whatever.”
“Supreme Court Justice, kid. Get it right.” I laughed, following her against my better judgment.
It was no surprise there wasn’t a wait, the faded canvas of the tent looking like it had seen better days as we stepped inside. Belle didn’t even wait, barging in with enough energy and enthusiasm for the both of us.
“Hi!” Belle waved, the dark-haired woman sitting behind the table not looking old enough to fit the stereotypical description. She was maybe a college kid? The painted-on wrinkles and cheap wig doing their best to make her look like “Madame Delia” even though I was fairly sure she wasn’t.
“Come in, come in,” Madame Delia beckoned, perking up at the sight of customers and possibly a payday. “Let’s see what the magic stones have in store for you.”
Belle clapped her hands in excitement, not even noticing my eyeroll as I sat down beside her.
Magic stones.
What kind of fake bullshit was this? She wasn’t even going to flip over some Tarot cards or gaze into a crystal ball like all the other fraudsters? God, I hoped Belle was going to be satisfied even if her “experience” wasn’t as advertised; regardless, it still counted, we had a deal.
“I want to know if me and Taylor are going to get marrie
d.” She barely took a breath. “Also, if I’m going to be famous. I can sing and dance, I just haven’t worked out which one I like better.”
Madame Delia made a show of picking up the stones, waving her hands around like it would convince us—it didn’t—like it was somehow more legitimate. “Let’s see, little girl, the stones know all.”
I was about to correct Madame Fake-ster that while Belle looked like she was eight, she was days away from her thirteenth birthday, when Belle threw out her hand and made me stop. She knew me as well as I knew her, and while there’d be a cold day in hell before I’d let a scam-artist call me a “little girl” she was fine with it if it meant she got her way.
“Don’t ruin it,” Belle whispered. “I need to know.”
Inwardly I cringed, praying the stones and their magic didn’t take long as my hands balled into fists by my sides. I’d be quiet, but only because Belle had been the one to ask, waiting not so patiently as non-remarkable colored rocks dropped onto the table in an uncoordinated heap.
“Ahhh, yes, I see your future,” Madame Delia said, studying the rocks like they were actually spelling it out. “But love, love will be a long and difficult road for you. It will be a long time before you find your special someone. If at all.”
“What?” Both Belle and I responded at the same time, not expecting such a harsh dose of reality.
I mean, sure, Taylor wasn’t my sister’s soulmate.
And relationships were hard work and if she eventually got married and had a family, it was going to have to be with a really special guy. Preferably someone with a backbone too or Belle was going to walk all over them.
But that wasn’t what we were paying for, only putting up with the charade, because unlike me, my sister liked to hear stories that probably weren’t true. She even believed in fortune cookies and horoscopes, and that hotdogs weren’t filled with all kinds of extra bits no one would even consider eating if they weren’t slathered in ketchup.
No one wanted to hear bad news. That was what the internet was for, not to be provided by a drama major with a superiority complex.
“No.” Belle shook her head, tears welling in her eyes. “Check the stones again. There’s been a mistake.” Her emotions bubbled to the surface, always having been overly dramatic. “You can’t tell me that I’m not going to find love ever. Take it back.”
Even though I knew it was a scam, and that nothing the woman told us was true, I hated she’d upset Belle. And while, yes, my sister could give a daytime actress a run for an Emmy, intentionally making someone upset wasn’t a good service model.
“Tell her,” I insisted. “Tell her you made a mistake.”
“I don’t control the stones. I can only read them as they fall.”
Madame Delia was playing the part until the end, refusing to budge or modify her so-called reading even if it meant making someone cry.
“The stones?” Irritation bit at my voice, annoyed we’d wasted precious time only to have Belle get upset. “These are nothing but colored rocks.” My fingers reached down picking up the offending pebbles and tossing them aside.
It was childish, throwing rocks, but tossing Madame Delia wouldn’t be acceptable and I wasn’t sure I had the arm strength. She took a step back, anticipating she might be my next target before her eyes fell down to where they’d collected on the floor.
“You find love!” She pointed accusingly at the scattered stones. “You find love, and he’s a good man, and you’re together forever.”
I turned, still irritated but glad that she’d finally given us what Belle had wanted. “See, Belle. She made a mistake and it’s fine now. She said so herself. You find love, it’s forever, he’s a good man.”
At no point had I bought into it, knowing the whole charade was horseshit. But if it meant my sister’s happiness, then I’d play along. At least until we could get out of there and onto a rollercoaster.
Madame Delia cleared her throat, shaking her head as our gazes connected. “Not her. You. His name is . . .” She snapped her fingers, expanding on the theatrics. “Edwin. Edwin Carlisle. He’s the one.”
It was tempting to argue, to tell her she’d gotten the wrong sister. I didn’t give a rat’s ass about my potential true love, too worried about getting a solid GPA so I could get into a decent college and then law school.
And Edwin, really? She couldn’t think of any other name? Possibly something popular from the last three decades? Or maybe it was her safety net, building in a clause so I couldn’t come back later and accuse her of lying. The “well, it’s not my fault you didn’t meet Edwin Carlisle. I just told you he was the man of your dreams and would love you forever, not where to find him.”
A loophole.
Which just made it worse.
“We’re leaving,” I announced to Belle, not willing to give Madame Delia any more attention than she had already received. And with a firm and definite tug, I pulled Belle from the tent, leaving the stones, the reading, and hopefully the bad memories as we left.
Belle was uncharacteristically quiet, her small hand grasping mine tightly as we silently navigated the crowd. I didn’t need to see her face to know she was probably fighting back tears, worried that if she did cry, I’d yell at her for being silly and dramatic.
“Hey.” I pulled us to a stop, angry at the stupid woman who’d upset my sister in the first place, and at myself for obviously being so hard on her. “I’m sorry.”
“Why are you apologizing?” Belle hiccupped, her eyes glassy as her head tilted back.
“Because sometimes, I’m an asshole, and make fun of the fact you care about this stuff. It was insensitive of me. It’s okay to want love and a relationship. And just because I think you’re too young to worry about that or don’t see that as important, I shouldn’t make you feel like you can’t want it.”
Belle’s head nodded, a single tear trailing down her cheek as she wiped it away. “You’re right. It is silly.”
“No, no it’s not. And you know what, it’s ridiculous what she said,” I insisted, doubling down on my efforts to cheer her up. “Belle, everyone loves you. You’ve got more friends than I’ve ever had and anytime you meet someone, they can’t help but smile at you. You’re so talented and funny, and you constantly make people happy. Any guy would be lucky to have you. And if there’s a reason that bitch couldn’t see it, it’s because there’s going to be hundreds of them vying for your affection. You’re going to have your pick. Like The Bachelor, but less sexist and with waaaaay better options.”
Belle laughed, knowing that even her idealistic, romantic heart could see what a train wreck that show was. “Yeah, and they all have to bring me roses, not the other way around.”
“Whatever you want,” I agreed, glad to see the smile back on her face. “Whole bunches. The poor bastards are going to go broke.”
She laughed again, sucking in a breath. “And I want to be your maid of honor when you marry Edwin.”
God.
Really?
“Belle, there is no Edwin. He doesn’t exist.”
“If you’re so sure, why don’t you just agree then.” Bell folded her arms across her chest, the sadness from earlier having disappeared and in its place smugness.
And she did have me on a technicality. If I was as convinced as I said, it would be a fairly easy promise to make, right? It was like promising if you became an astronaut and went to the moon, she could have my room. And I got airsick.
“Fine,” I conceded. “If I marry a man named Edwin Carlisle, you can be the maid of honor.” It might as well have been a trip to the moon, because they had the same probability.
“In writing,” Belle insisted, pulling out a flyer she had advertising Madame Delia tucked away in her pocket.
For all her doe-eyed naivety, she wasn’t an idiot. Then again, it had been drilled into us by our father that nothing was more ironclad than a contractual agreement. Hell, he’d even drawn one up for our allowance, stipulating the terms and
conditions to guarantee our payout.
“Okay, okay. In writing.” I looked around us, spying a small stall selling oversized novelty pens.
Begrudgingly, I parted with the few dollars it took to secure the ridiculous writing instrument, trying to balance it in my hand as I wrote very clearly on the back of the flyer.
I, Zara Mathews, of sound mind and body, legally assure that Belle Mathews will hereby be my maid of honor should I marry Edwin Carlisle.
It was signed, handing it over to Belle who inspected it and put it in her pocket with a satisfied grin. “Now it’s a done deal.” She threw her arms around me, looking at the pen still in my hand. “Can I have that too?”
“Fine.” I rolled my eyes, thinking it would not only be better appreciated but it was more suited for her anyway. It was pink with unicorns—enough said.
“Now can we go ride the coasters?” I asked, looking at the time display on my phone and knowing it was going to be down to the wire. Maybe we could ask Mom and Dad for an extra hour. Surely once they’d seen we hadn’t been kidnapped or gotten into trouble—no one had to know about the Madame Delia mess—they’d cave. Especially if Belle did the asking, everyone had a really, really hard time saying no to her.
Belle nodded, the earlier shitshow obviously forgotten. “Yep, we can go now. And when we’re done, milkshakes!”
“Sounds good,” I agreed, looping my arm around hers. “Let’s go scream until we lose our voices.”
Her eyes brightened, always up for anything that was extreme. “You’re the best sister ever, Zara.”
“You’re not so bad yourself, Belle.”
NOW
Zara
“See, I told you this was a bad idea.”
While I appreciated Belle’s enthusiasm for celebrating my new promotion, a special dinner in my honor had been unnecessary. We could have easily ordered takeout, gotten it delivered to the apartment we shared, and toasted my success from the comfort of our living room in our pjs.
