“I did not. I didn’t even know that was a thing.”
“It’s definitely a thing. Also, she’s pretty cool. I like her. Plus, her office is filled with pretty things. And she keeps lots of lists too.”
Freaking Piper. The woman from college, the woman from the weddings, the woman down the hall in the same office building who despises me. The woman who weirdly looked hot wearing an Easter bonnet for a dress. How the hell is that possible?
“And does she have a list about mini golf?”
“She has a list of all the best places to play in the city.”
It figures. Piper probably wants to teach anyone how to whack a ball hard enough to smack me in the head with it.
And she’d probably look good doing it too.
5
Piper
Deep in the heart of Queens is a musty old school that gives away every secret in its walls.
Everything in here echoes.
Voices carry from room to room.
Shoes sound on the next floor.
You have to whisper at ten decibels below the ambient noise level unless you want the gym class in the basement to hear.
Paige slumps on the green vinyl couch in her office, where she serves as the vice principal of this private high school.
I double-check to make sure the door is locked. We’re alone since it’s evening. But you never know. That might be even more reason to close up tight.
She heaves a sigh, grabs a tissue, and dabs at her eyes. “I don’t know how long I can do this,” she whispers.
I sit next to her and squeeze her shoulder. “For two and a half more months. That’s how long.”
She lowers her head, her shoulders sagging. “Every day, it’s something.”
“Well, it’s not really every day.” I flash a cheery grin. “It’s been more like every month. So look on the bright side: you only have ten more weeks of the biological mom trying to extract every single penny from you that she can.”
Paige groans. Another tear falls. “Ten more long weeks.”
I pat her thigh. “Have you told Lisa about this new request?”
Paige shakes her head. “No. She’s so stressed. She’s been wanting this for so long, and I don’t want to worry her. That’s why I called you.”
I wrap my arm around her shoulder. “It’s good that you called me. I’m like one of those fix-it chicks. Jodie Foster would play me in a movie—all badass and tough, taking no prisoners.”
“You’re totally the fixer. But Jodie Foster would wear a suit. Don’t wear a suit.”
I flub my lips and make the sign of the cross like I’m warding off vampires. “As if I’d ever wear a suit. Fixers like me? We wear trendy tops and cute skirts and sexy heels.”
Paige looks me over and smiles. “That’s definitely you.” She sighs again. “I’m sorry, Piper. I hate that I have to keep asking for your help.”
“Hey. I want to help. That’s what I do. That’s our deal.” I take a beat. “How much does she want this time?”
“She says she needs another three thousand dollars for maternity clothes,” Paige says, tugging on her blonde ponytail.
I whistle in shock. “Damn, maternity clothes aren’t cheap. Is she shopping for them in the Hamptons with the Kennedys?”
Paige laughs lightly. “And it’s for living expenses too.”
I shake my head, frustrated for her, but what can you do?
Paige and her wife, Lisa, are adopting a baby, and the biological mom has been draining them dry with her requests that border on emotional extortion. It stresses Lisa out, and it worries Paige.
Understandably.
It’s not their first time on the baby rodeo, but they’re hoping this time sticks.
They tried to have a baby through in vitro first, but it didn’t work, so they chose to go down the adoption path. The trouble is, they’re out of money after the in vitro attempts.
That’s where I’ve come in.
I’ve been paying for everything.
I offered. I’m glad to do it. I want my sister to have her heart’s desire, and she and Lisa want to be parents so badly that their want has its own weight.
But they’re stretched thin in their jobs, and adoption is insanely expensive. I dip my hand into my cavernous bag, grab my phone, and PayPal the money to her.
She sighs, clasps her hand to her chest, then yanks me in for a hug.
A wet hug.
Since she’s crying again.
On my shirt.
It’s silk, and one of my favorites.
Gently, I try to move her face away from the fabric as I stroke her hair.
“Thank you. I feel terrible asking.” She takes a deep breath and collects herself.
I shake a finger at her. “Don’t feel one bit bad. I offered to pay for it. That was the deal. Don’t you remember?”
“I do,” she whispers.
We sat down one afternoon more than a year ago, after their last failed attempt at in vitro, and I made the offer.
“We can take out a loan. Or put it on a credit card somehow,” Paige had said.
“Stop. Credit cards don’t work like that, and you know it. Plus, I’m doing fine. I’ve tucked plenty away. I’m like a squirrel with her nuts, only I remember where I left them. I have it, and I’m going to cover the costs. Every single penny.”
“Are you sure?” Paige had asked.
“Positive.”
It was the least I could do for the person I love most.
I smooth her hair. “I knew it was going to be like this. And you have enough to worry about. Don’t fret about me. But you do need to tell Lisa, okay?”
She nods, squares her shoulders, and nods again as if telling herself she’ll find the strength. “I know.”
“Now is not the time for secrets. Got it?”
She arches a brow, nudging me knowingly. “But some secrets are okay to keep?”
“Hey! I keep secrets about myself. Secrets no one needs to know. This is different. This is something you need to share with your wife.”
She nods. “You’re right. I just don’t want to stress her out more. And she gets stressed when she knows what you’re paying for.”
I brandish my claws. “Tell her never to stress. She’ll just owe me a life debt in her child. But hey, no big deal.”
“I’ll let her know you’re claiming your stake in the baby.”
“Hell yeah. I’m going to shower her in everything. Incidentally, your little girl is going to have the best wardrobe ever. I’m already buying her everything. It satisfies every desire I have to be an aunt.”
“You might want to be more than an aunt someday,” she says, her voice rising like she’s leading the witness.
I stare at her. “First, no partner. Second, have you seen my daily to-do list? It’s stuffed. Third, let me just focus on aunting for now. And getting you your baby. That’s my number one goal.”
“Thanks again, Piper. If I could ask anyone else, I would.”
I arch a brow. “Like Mom?”
She laughs heartily. “That’s a good one.”
“Why, thank you very much. I’ve been working on my comedy routine.”
“You know she’d want to though.”
I roll my eyes. “She’d want to. She’d dip her hand into the ceramic pig cookie jar, grab some rolls of quarters, and say, Here’s what I saved for you.”
“Mom and her cookie jars. She means well at least.”
“She does mean well. But she doesn't always do good. She doesn't always, how can I put this delicately, make the best choices.”
A laugh bursts from Paige at the callback to what one of our teachers said about our mom when she took us out of school for a week for her fourth wedding. We’ve since adopted it as our slogan. “So we make better ones.”
I knock fists with her. “Radcliffe sisters. Making better choices,” I say.
Paige and I made a vow to each other in high school: do better than Mom. And we don't
mean financially.
On that note, I say goodbye and grab a Lyft back to Manhattan. Along the way, I catch up on emails, hoping to reschedule the stationery shop appointment for tomorrow since it’s far too late now.
Tomorrow morning works, the owner replies quickly.
I sigh in relief, grateful for the easy switch. I need events to run smoothly and business to keep coming in. I have to be able to pay both my bills and any more unexpected costs for my sister.
That’s a promise I made her and it’s one I intend to keep. Fortunately, business is good, but I can’t rest on my laurels.
That means I must get back to work.
I settle into the back seat, check my phone, and find a text from someone who seems to have adopted me lately.
Lucy: I totally want to take you up on your offer!
She’s not a prospective bride, obviously. Spending time with her won’t net me more business.
But that’s not why I reply with a time and a date.
I don’t even do it because I knew her mom.
I do it because Lucy’s a cool kid.
Then I zoom in on work, work, work. I touch base with my brides and prospective brides, set appointments, schedule meetings, and see if I can help them with anything at all.
I need to be the best.
No.
I need to be even better.
6
Piper
The couch in my office is pink and plush. The space is half Martha Stewart, half Barbie Dream Home, and that makes it 100 percent delight. Brides love meeting me here, and I love meeting them here. It’s a win-win.
From my spot on the pink couch a few days later, I listen intently as Katya details her grand plans. I nod at the right moments, take notes at other times, and continue to work on my list of all the ways to make her wedding the most fabulous activity-strewn event in all the land.
Because that’s what she wants.
“So . . . what do you think?” Katya practically bounces on the cushion. With wide green eyes, she waits for my response.
I tap my purple pen against my chin, forming my answer. “There are some really terrific ways that we can weave in games,” I tell her, then detail some of the more successful strategies I’ve used. “Wedding Mad Libs are a blast. You leave them at each table and the guests give you marital advice. Often hilarious.”
Katya squeals. “I love Mad Libs.”
“Who doesn’t? Just expect a lot of advice about birthing monkeys and guidance about where to put a candlestick, as well as wisdom about all things slippery.”
Katya gives a confused blink. “Advice about slippery candlesticks? Is that supposed to mean . . .” She trails off, blushing as pink as the sofa cushions.
“I think that’s the idea. According to research, monkeys, candlestick, and slippery are some of the most popular words people use in Mad Libs.” I tap my list and continue. “You can also have board game centerpieces, bride and groom trivia, and a couple of crosswords for guests to play.”
Her magnetic smile returns, and she clearly loves those ideas. “And what about games at the rehearsal dinner and bachelorette party? Galen and I want to do that too.” She tucks her feet under her on the couch.
“If you’d like to initiate your guests into the games theme early, then go for it,” I say.
“You’re so good at this. How are you not married?”
I cringe internally. How does being skilled at planning a wedding equate to being wedded? But alas, this is an assumption I get regularly—if I’m helping a woman plan a wedding, I should be happily married.
I flash her a practiced smile. “Because I’m busy planning fabulous weddings. Don’t you spend a second worrying about my dating life. Someday it’ll be me walking down the aisle.”
She grins too—that was what she wanted to hear. That reaction wasn’t new to me either. People in love want everyone to be in love.
“Now, tell me more about the games you want to play,” I say, steering her back to why we’re here.
She nibbles on her lip, glances around as if she’s about to reveal a secret, then stage-whispers, “I thought we could also play Never Have I Ever.”
I die a little bit inside. Because I’m going to have to squash her dreams.
“You know,” she says, mistaking my expression for unfamiliarity with the game. “It’s that drinking game where one person says ‘Never have I ever . . .,’ then says something embarrassing. And everyone who’s done the embarrassing thing has to drink.”
“I know the game,” I say stone-faced, raising a stop-right-there palm.
There are certain hard limits in my business. That game is one of them. Every now and then, a bride wants to play that bad idea disguised as a pastime, and I must find a way to stop her. Katya is no different.
Fortunately, I’ve developed a preventative with a 100 percent success rate.
Here goes.
I look Katya straight in the eye. “I’m going to level with you, practice some tough love. That was what I told you the first time we met, right?”
She nods like a good girl. “You said you might have to give me tough love at some point, but it would be in my best interest if you did.”
“I meant it, and the time has come. Are you ready?”
“I’m ready.” She perches on the edge of her seat and reaches for my hands.
Oh, okay, this is how we’re doing it. We’re holding hands.
So be it.
I squeeze hers. “Katya, repeat after me.”
She nods. “I will repeat after you.”
“You will not . . .”
“I will not . . .”
“Ever play . . .”
“Ever play . . .”
“That game at your rehearsal dinner, your wedding, your bachelorette party, or at any time within a one-week window around your nuptials.”
She sighs morosely. “Really?”
“It’s the Never Have I Ever wedding pledge. You can play it on a girls’ night out one-month post-wedding. You can play a kid’s version with nieces and nephews. But you can’t play it with friends or your spouse or the wedding party. I need you to finish. You have to take the pledge.”
She repeats my final lines, and when she’s through, her shoulders sag and she fiddles with the cuffs of her white blouse. “But why? It’s such a fun game. Don’t you love that game?”
I choose a diplomatic answer. “It’s a fun game at times, especially with kids. But games have a time and a place. Halo, for instance, is great in a man cave. Trivial Pursuit belongs with your brainiac nerd friends who love to show off.” (Full disclosure: I do like Trivial Pursuit, and my friend Kristen in Florida kills at it.) “Monopoly is the granddaddy of family night bonding games. Even Would You Rather can be a fun game. But Never Have I Ever is what we in the trade call ‘a recipe for disaster.’”
“But we played it all the time in my sorority. We had the best time.”
I can only imagine that sort of “best time” resulted in one hell of a hangover the next day. “I’m sure it was fun, and I’m sure it’s tempting to play. But it’s not a wedding game.”
Katya keeps pressing. “Why would it be so bad at a wedding? It’s all my friends. I know all their business.”
And I’m going to have to set the table for her, soup by salad spoon. “Here’s why. Picture this: you’re at a lovely rehearsal dinner. Maybe it’s an after-party with just your friends so you let loose, you have a few tequila shots, and you decide to play Never Have I Ever with the guys and the girls in the wedding party. It starts to go like this.” I draw a deep breath and imitate a participant in the game. “‘Never have I ever blown the best man.’”
Katya’s eyes widen and she shakes her head. “I’ve never blown Benji.”
“Trust me. Someone in the wedding party will have blown Benji, and you’ll all find out who has had his dick in her mouth.”
“Oh my.”
I adopt a manly voice. “‘Never have I ever sent a d
ick pic to the maid of honor.’”
She clasps her hand over her mouth and giggles. “Oh my God. I bet Tristan did send one to Haley. Galen told me Tristan loves to send dick pics.”
“My point exactly. And the last one.” I pause dramatically to clear my throat, adopt my most intensely serious expression, and bring it home with my never-fail Never Have I Ever killer. “‘Never have I ever had sex up the butt.’”
She cringes, and perhaps that’s her hard limit. “But Galen and I have talked about all this. We’re not interested in butt stuff.”
I point at her. “Exactly. And if you play that game, do you want to know that maybe he has done butt stuff? Or Tristan has? Or Haley?”
She covers her ears. Monkey hears no evil. Then she uncovers them. “Haley says it’s a no-fly zone.”
“But what if it’s not for Tristan? Or Benji? Or your bridesmaids? Do you really want to know that about all of your friends? Do you want to know who likes butt stuff and who doesn’t? Do you really want to have the image in your head of who likes butt stuff when everyone’s walking down the aisle?”
She sighs. “Maybe I don’t.”
I lean forward and pat her knee. “Personally, there are just some things that belong between God, me, and the lamppost.”
She laughs and agrees, then checks her watch and gathers her purse. “You’re right. I’ve never done butt stuff, and I never want anyone to know. Butt stuff is between God, me, and the lamppost.”
I rise and walk her to the door. “Butt stuff is definitely in that, and only that, three-way.”
Laughing, she tells me she’ll see me in a few days at her fitting and heads down the hall. I return to my favorite place on the pink couch, sending off some emails about Katya’s wedding to-do list. A few minutes later, there’s a knock at my door.
“Yes?” I say without looking up.
“So your butt stuff is between you, the lamppost, and your Maker?”
I grab a bridal magazine from my coffee table and do my best to fling it straight at Zach’s head.
He dodges my effort easily, and the magazine wings its way to the hall. He turns around and grabs it, then sets it on my glass coffee table. “I mean, I’m just curious. I didn’t realize this room operated as a confessional.”
Never Have I Ever Page 5
