by Nic Stone
“The house?”
So he forgot too. That’s kind of a relief. (More smiling.) “Ethel Streeter’s house? Well, what might be her house.”
“Oh, duh. Sorry. Been a little distracted.” Throat clears. “What’d they say?”
“Well, the agent in charge is on vacation for the next two weeks, and they don’t want to let anyone else show it, so I set us an appointment for Sunday the twenty-fourth. Is that okay?”
Now he’s trying not to smile. And failing.
“Hopefully we can find out if Ethel does own the house, and maybe even where she currently lives.”
“Looking forward to it, Danger.”
We lapse into a few seconds of silence and I swallow. “You wanted to ask me something?”
“Right.” He runs a hand through his hair. “So I have an older sister?”
Tehlor, Anna-Maria said. “Is that a question, Macklin?”
“Shut up. Point is she’s getting married next weekend. Huge hullabaloo, super formal, yadda yadda. She’s the only girl in the family, so my mom and grandma went all out, even more than her quince. Don’t even wanna consider what they probably spent…”
In almost two months, I have never heard Zan Macklin ramble like this.
Also…her quince?
“Would you be willing to go with me?” he says.
Well, that certainly snaps me back to reality. “Say what now?”
“You can say no, obviously. It’s just that Ness and Jess will both be there, so I thought it’d be cool if you came too.” A pause and then: “Like…as my date.”
I grin. “I guess Jax ruined this date, huh?” Crap. “I mean…not that you ever said this was a date…Sorry. Ignore me.”
More cheesy, red-cheeked grinning from him.
This is a lot. “Sister’s wedding” means sister. Parents. Family. That’s not to mention stuff like attire, shoes, makeup.
He said it was “super formal.”…Doesn’t that mean fancy ball gown (that I can’t afford)? I glance down at my boots. Obviously can’t wear these guys—
“What do you think?” He’s staring at me now. “Ness and Jess are both coming, and she would love to have you there. She told me.”
Astonishingly difficult to hold eye contact when he looks so hopeful and said hope is directly linked to me. Because what is he really hoping for? And can I actually deliver? He’s used to the very best of everything….I’ve never even had an unworn pair of shoes.
What would make him want to take me?
Why does he even like me?
What could he possibly see?
I have no goals. No plans. No real dreams. Literally nothing going for m—
There’s a knock on the window, and I squawk like a tickled chicken.
The person on the other side is laughing her golden head off.
Zan shakes his head—smiling—and pushes the button to lower the glass so Jess can lean in.
“I’m a smidge disappointed these windows aren’t foggy. Are you two actually talking?” She shakes her head. “For shame.”
“Oh my God, Jess.”
“Byyyyye!” And she waves and walks away.
“So?” Zan says as the window rises.
I gulp and stare at the back of Jessica’s shrinking head.
I’m allowed to want this.
And hell, we can’t do anything about the ticket for the next two weeks anyway. Might as well kill some time.
“I’d be honored to, Zan.” Honored, Rico? Really?
“You would?”
“I mean, honored is kind of a strong word but—” Blah. “Whatever. Yes. I’d love to go with you to your sister’s wedding.”
Fireworks explode in his green eyes.
Turns out my dress worries are moot.
Señora Alvarez’s daughter owns a formal gown boutique called Belle’s Basics. (Like from Beauty and the Beast? Mama rolled her eyes—which was better than the way she narrowed them suspiciously when I asked if I could go to the wedding—but I secretly love it.)
Long story short, Jax overhears me telling Mama about my invite; Mama, who after a clear moment of hesitation, says I can go provided I find “appropriate attire without touching bill money.” Without telling us, Jax goes to Señora Alvarez about how my-sister-got-invited-to-this-fancy-wedding-by-the-boy-she-looooooves-and-I-really-want-her-to-go-but-she-doesn’t-have-the-“uh-pro-tee-ate uh-tired.” That’s what she tells us he said when she shows up to offer her daughter’s assistance.
I pull a double on Tuesday so Jess and I can go to the dress store after school on Wednesday. After three solid hours of sheer chaos, both of us walk out with gorgeous gowns, shoes, and jewelry, completely on the house.
(Wild.)
When Saturday rolls around, Jess and I hop into her car at 7:03 a.m. and drive over to Finesse’s house to get ready.
Thus commences the most amazing twelve-hour period of my life thus far.
The first six hours are one hundred and fifty percent thanks to Jessica Kirby Barlow. “Oh my God, I have to tell you…,” she says while we’re sitting on the floor, waiting for our toenails to dry.
“What?”
“So my dad, right?” she says. “He’s some married tech executive out in Silicon Valley with kids not much younger than my mom. I’ve known that since I was five, but yesterday I found out he sends Mom undocumented hush money every month so she’ll keep quiet about my existence.”
How does one respond to that?
“To think she’s constantly riding my ass about ‘contributing more,’ when this whole time she’s been getting paid by that douchebag,” she goes on. “I swear, I can’t wait to get out of here, Ree.”
So now I have a nickname. It makes me smile.
Also makes me okay with saying: “My dad’s married with kids too.”
“Yeah?” She sets her chin in her hand. “Tell me more.”
“I’ve never met him and probably never will. He lives in Spain.”
“Spain?”
I nod. “My mom had a fling while studying abroad.”
“Well damn.”
“Right.”
“So I take it you and your brother have different dads?”
“Yep. His dad, though single, was rich and shitty like yours.” Oops. “I mean, not that your dad is shitty—sorry, that was presumptuous.”
“Oh, he is absolutely shitty. Go on.”
It’s strange. I’m feeling things I’ve refused to acknowledge for a long time, but with Jess, it’s almost like I can’t help but open the cage. I tell her all about Jax’s dad and getting kicked out and being homeless for a while.
“Holy shit” is her response.
I swallow. “My mom worked really hard and we eventually moved here, but it was kind of a dark time. I literally never talk about it.”
“I had a sister who died as a baby,” she says. “That’s the reason we left Cali. Not even Ness knows.”
Brief pause, then we both sigh. “Thank you,” she says.
“For what?”
“I’ve been carrying that around for a long time. Felt good to like…release it into the ether.”
I smile. “Same.”
And it’s true. I feel lighter now that someone knows we were homeless but isn’t judging or repulsed or, worst of all, giving me pity-puppy eyes.
We smile at each other for a few seconds, having what I think is my first real friendship moment since…ever?
I take a deep breath. “Can I tell you something else?”
“Of course.”
“I’m a little bit…in awe, I guess, of your and Ness’s plans for the future.”
“What do you mean?”
“Just that you’re both going to college and have career goals and all that.”
She frowns. “You don’t?”
“Not really. My mom needs my help financially, so I don’t really have much of a choice but to keep working.”
“Hmm.”
Is she judging me? I hope she’s not judging me. “What does ‘hmm’ mean?”
Now she smiles. “Nothing bad. Just wondering what you’d do if you did have a choice.”
I shrug and look away. Feeling very exposed right now. “I’ve honestly never thought about it.”
“Well, maybe you should.”
“Should what?”
Jess rolls her eyes. “Think about it, Rico. You say you have no choices, but that’s not true. Everyone has choices. Are some of them hard? Yes. But if you want something bad enough…” Now she shrugs.
And I don’t respond. Because what if she’s right?
“You’ll figure it out,” she says, squeezing my shoulder. “For now, we have the wedding of the decade to get ready for.”
“Right.” Because I’m not letting this day be ruined. “Let’s do it.”
Over the next several hours, I pretend my other life doesn’t exist. Jess puts that old ’NSYNC album on, and we dance. We sing. We sip cans of Aranciata Rossa Sanpellegrino, and we put hot curlers in each other’s hair.
We eat pizza and then she teaches me how to put on foundation and powder (found a bag with the right colors beside my bed this morning with an unsigned Have fun! note in Mama’s handwriting), then how to make my eyelids sparkly and put mascara on without injuring my corneas.
Not once do I feel ashamed or embarrassed or afraid.
Apparently Ness and Zan are somehow involved in the wedding, so it’s actually a really good thing I agreed to come—if I hadn’t, Jess would’ve had to “brave the anxiety-inducing waters of expendable wealth” alone.
I know because she won’t stop thanking me.
“I seriously appreciate you being here,” she says for the umpteenth time today as we sit down on opposite sides of the expensive-looking desk in this bedroom full of her stuff. “You’re like the friend I didn’t know I needed.”
It’s the strangest thing. Never in a kabillionbajillionillion years would I have imagined prepping for Zan Macklin’s sister’s wedding inside Finesse Montgomery’s house with Jessica Barlow…who is currently polishing my fingernails royal blue to contrast with the coral color of my “keyhole-back” (read: backless) mermaid gown.
In truth, I don’t even know how to feel about it.
“So how did you and Finesse wind up together?” I ask, looking around.
“Ah, it was inevitable,” she says. “When I moved here in sixth grade, I got assigned to the desk right in front of his. He used to sit and play with my hair.”
Okay, that’s adorable. “Seriously?”
“Mm-hmm. First day of school, I sat down in front of him, and within thirty seconds, he’d picked up my braid and said, ‘Wow, it’s like golden silk!’ ”
I laugh.
“Needless to say, once I turned around and saw how cute he was, I started wearing it loose. We totally lost our virginity to each other in tenth grade, but it took until the beginning of eleventh for us to get together, together,” she says. “People can still be a little weird about the interracial thing.”
You didn’t tell me he was a white boy, Rico. “Yep.” Though is Zan actually white? I still don’t know….
She starts the second coat of blue on my right hand. “I’d ask how things are going with Zan,” she says, “but I have a feeling you’re not sure yet?”
I don’t respond. Because she’s right. And I know that despite just sharing my deepest, darkest secret, confessing the more-than-partners-in-quest stuff I’ve been feeling toward Zan will make it that much more real. Not sure I want to deal with that yet.
Then again, I guess I did admit it to him….
Why do I get such a strong feeling of impending doom when I start thinking about this?
Jess hasn’t said anything else—guess she’s waiting on me to respond. Man, I hope this doesn’t come back to bite me in the ass….“I mean, I definitely like him—”
“But money,” she says without looking up from my hand.
“Huh?”
“It’s the money thing, right?” She puts some quick-dry drops on each nail and then blows on my fingertips; it gives me a shiver. “Like you don’t really feel worthy?”
I’m instantly hot. “That’s one way to put it.”
“I get it, dude. I really do. Will you do my right hand?” She pulls a bottle of black polish from the desk drawer. “Remember how you asked me if I ever felt out of place around the people I hang out with?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“That was one of the reasons it took so long for me and Ness to get together,” she says. “I couldn’t fathom somebody with so much money wanting anything to do with my P.W.T. ass.”
“P.W.T.?”
“Poor white-trash.”
“Ah.”
Of course this makes perfect sense—hello, I’m living it (minus the white-trash part)—but it’s jarring to hear it put so bluntly. “How’d you get past it?”
“I didn’t,” she says. “Probably never will. Even if we wind up married and I make more money than he does—and I plan to, thank you very much—it won’t change the fact that when we visit his parents, we’ll be coming here.” She gestures around the room. “But visiting my mom will probably always involve some tiny apartment that reeks of booze and cigarette smoke.”
“Jess, if this is supposed to be a pep talk, you’re failing miserably.”
She laughs. “It’s true, though,” she says. “I still feel weird when he buys me stuff or pays for me when we go out on dates. I just choose not to let it rule me, you know? I know like…society or whatever suggests otherwise, but my value as a human being has nothing to do with money.”
This makes me giggle. “You sound like my mom’s self-help books.” That don’t seem to do much for her.
“Three and a half years of therapy for this shit. Bottom line, Ness couldn’t care less about the difference in our parents’ bank accounts, so if it comes between us, it’s on me.”
I sigh.
She has a point, but still. Zan’s on like a whole different level.
“It’d be pretty sad to miss out on a good thing because of a bunch of bullshit, wouldn’t it?”
She lifts her hand and blows on her nails.
To call Tehlor Macklin’s wedding to Chadwick Montgomery lavish would be understated to the point of absurdity. I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many fresh flowers or things that sparkle under one roof.
Finesse is a groomsman. King, as I hear multiple people refer to the groom, is his older cousin. But he (Ness) spends most of the ceremony sneaking glances at Jess, who looks beyond incredible in her low-cut maroon gown and elbow-length black gloves. Even I’m struggling not to stare at her.
Then there’s Alexander Gustavo Macklin, looking every bit the million-dollar magnate his name implies, in his ultra-debonair charcoal tux. It’s got the same bedazzling effect on his green eyes as Jess’s smoky-eye/vamp-lip makeup has on her blue ones, and when he smiles at me from across the aisle where he’s sitting with his family (so much money, good gracious), I thank whatever God is worshipped in this church for the fact that I’m already sitting.
I keep my focus forward during the entire exchange of nuptials, largely because I can feel him looking at me. I swear if we make eye contact, electricity is gonna shoot through the air between us. We’ll both die instantly, and this whole place will burn to the ground.
After the I dos and the most intense kiss I think I’ve ever witnessed, Zan gets whisked out for pictures. We all hop in cars. I wind up in the backseat of the Montgomery Tesla SUV, squeezed between Jess and Finesse’s little sister, who I swear at one point whis
pers, “I wish my brother would date someone like you, not Malibu Barbie.”
I don’t get to see Zan up close until we get to the reception site. And despite my being anxious and looking around for him with the focus of a bloodhound on a scent trail, he manages to sneak up on me. There’s the familiar fragrance of his cologne, then the sudden warmth of a large hand on the small of my (exposed) back. Which triggers an explosion of…I honestly don’t even know what to call it.
A couple years ago, Hurricane Irma ripped through Puerto Rico, and I became obsessed with destructive storms. The idea of something beyond human control having the power to wreak such havoc was utterly terrifying, so I latched on to the idea of an eye, that point of relative calm at the center.
That’s what Zan’s hand feels like. The eye of the storm. Every inch of skin outside of what he’s touching is raging with sensations I’ve never experienced before.
When I turn around, he takes a step back, looking me over in that way that makes me feel like he’s peeling my dress off with his eyes. Which isn’t entirely unpleasant.
But still. “My face is up here, Macklin.”
He coughs into his fist. “My bad.”
There’s an awkward pause where we’re just staring at each other. So I break it: “You like my dress?”
He laughs. Rich and deep. Full of the Macklin Magic. A fidget spinner has appeared—spin spin spin—in his right hand. “I have zero doubt you know I like your dress, Danger. Who’s the egomaniac now?”
“Shut up.”
Spinner vanishes into a pocket, and he interlaces our fingers. Tugs. “Come on. There’s somebody I want you to meet.”
“Umm…”
“Shit, I’m doing it again.” He lets my hand go. Takes a deep breath. “Lemme start over.”
Man, do I wanna kiss him right now. (Really, Rico?)
“Rico, there’s someone I’d like to introduce you to. Would you be interested in coming to meet her?”
Can’t say no, of course. “Sure. Thank you for asking.”
He smiles and extends an elbow this time. Once I take it, he leads me around and through what seem like piles of riches, jewels, and precious metals with opposable thumbs, and we approach the group of people surrounding an older, light-brown-skinned woman perched on a cushy chair like a queen on her throne.
