“Yeah?” Wendy is Daphne’s youngest sister. She puts the “B” in “bitch,” also in “barely tolerable.” Her whole family babies Wendy because she wasn’t supposed to be born and instead of taking this graciously, it’s made Wendy into a spoiled, petulant brat. Take this wedding, for example. It’s costing a fortune, which the Davidsons don’t have. Worse, every idea for the wedding was stolen from Daphne’s college Pinterest board. I know this because I followed that board when Daphne used it a decade ago. Wendy even took Daphne’s month. Daphne always talked about marrying in May because it was the best time to go on vacation everywhere in the world. The perfect month for honeymoons, she’d once told me—back when she believed in weddings and shit.
“Mom called this morning asking me for a firm head count. Aunt Cathy wants to know if her daughter can bring a date and Mom’s been telling her no. When I said that I was thinking of going stag, Mom started asking me why I couldn’t keep a man, so I panicked and said that I had a date. But I don’t.” She makes a face and pokes one of the pink slivers of fish on the plate.
“What about Wilson?”
“Your favorite guy and I broke up last month, Jack. Keep up.”
My brows crash together. “Last month and you’re just telling me now? Who brought you ice cream?” At the end of each of her failed relationships, I’ve always brought her rocky road ice cream. I like to call it our celebratory feast although she probably refers to it as her consolation treat.
“I didn’t need ice cream,” she admits. “I wasn’t heartbroken when we broke up.”
That’s a relief. She never seemed real invested in him anyway. “Good. Because he wasn’t worth your time.”
“More like I wasn’t worth his time,” she mumbles quietly. Before I can correct that statement, she continues, “The problem is that I need a date to Wendy’s wedding or Mom will be spending the whole time asking me where Wilson is and why I’m not seeing anyone and how I’m losing all my eggs and that I’m going to die a spinster and while she thinks men and women should be equal, feminism that makes you die alone is a sickness.”
As these are all things I’ve heard Daphne’s mom say at one point, I don’t argue with the poor girl. Instead, I hit on a brilliant idea. “I’ll come with you, and we can pretend to be dating.”
“No.”
“No?” How like Daphne not to see the genius in this. Bracing an elbow on the table, I say, “It’s perfect. Your mom will die with happiness. She’s always wanted me to be her real son.”
Daphne flicks her eyes heavenward. “I know. We all know, which is precisely why you’re not coming as my pretend boyfriend. Mom would probably disown me after our fake breakup. No,” she sighs. “I’m going to go alone and suffer for three hours.”
Like hell you are. Daphne’s family is kind of a horror show. They favor Wendy because Mrs. D wasn’t supposed to have any kids after Daphne. When Daphne turned seven, out popped Wendy. She’s been treated as if she’s this fragile, delicate flower ever since her birth and because the Davidsons’ suck at multi-tasking, Daphne was pretty much forgotten. They’d hold a week-long event to celebrate Wendy’s birthday and then forget Daphne’s big day a few days later. If Wendy even so much as stubbed her toe, their household stopped functioning.
One year, when Daphne was thirteen, she was stuck on the front porch of her house for three hours because Wendy had gotten a cough so Mrs. D took the youngest to the pediatrician, forgetting to leave the door unlocked for her eldest. A neighbor finally came home and made Daphne sit in their house until Mrs. D returned. What makes this all worse is that when the Davidsons’ do turn their eyes toward Daphne, it’s always a critical one even though Daphne’s a kick-ass attorney making bank at the age of thirty while Wendy’s claim to success is getting knocked up by the mayor’s son.
Every family event I’ve gone to—which admittedly hasn’t been many this past year since I spent the summer tracking down the murderer of two Uni students—Daphne’s being ragged on by her family for not fitting into their idea of what women should be, which is essentially homemakers with kids.
Daphne might have kids some day. She might not. It doesn’t make her less of a person. She’s fricking amazing and I wish she’d just tell her family to go suck eggs. But Daphne says she gets enough confrontation in the courtroom and she doesn’t like arguing with anyone while she’s “off duty.” Except for me. She doesn’t mind challenging me. If I voice my thought that she needs to stick up for herself, we’ll end up bickering while my steak gets cold.