“True,” I say, but it still sits funny inside me, knowing that I can’t look out for them anymore. They’re on their own, with each other to look out for. I have to let them go, to trust they’ll make it on their own. They’re not my past, but they’re my childhood, my roots. Once I get married, my new family comes first. Whether or not I love her, or even like her, Eliza becomes top priority. Taking care of her is my most important job, and that means making sure I don’t fuck up and get myself killed. I can’t be worrying about my brothers and what they’re doing. I’ve got to watch my own back now.
“You’re getting married in two days,” Duke crows, turning to walk backwards until we catch up with them. “You ready for the last hurrah?”
“Yeah,” I say as we reach my car. I open the door and slide in behind the wheel of the Evija. I should probably get a bigger car, something safer, but I’ve held onto this for so long it’s like a part of me now. The one thing that never changed when I went from Manhattan to small-town Arkansas and back.
Royal slides into the passenger seat while the twins jump in the back, jostling for space.
“Strippers, here we come!”
“Show me the pussy,” Duke yells, like he’s repeating the “show me the money” line fromJerry Maguire.
I turn to Royal and squeeze his shoulder. “Take care of them, okay?”
He nods. “Take care of yourself.”
“What’s the holdup?” Baron asks. “I’ve got titties to see.”
I grin and shake my head, shifting into gear. Royal’s right, as usual. I need to focus on staying alive—for their sake, too. They don’t need to lose another sibling. And I love these idiots way too fucking much to live in the same state. If they were around here, I’d never stop worrying about them getting themselves killed, not by the mafia but by their own dumb decisions. In turn, that preoccupation could get me killed. I wouldn’t be sharp, and my life depends on staying sharp. They’ll always be my family, but it’s time to stop worrying about their future and look to my own.
three
Eliza Pomponio
“Girl, I can’t believe you didn’t invite me to your dress fitting,” Lizzie Salvatore says, swatting my arm to get my attention. I’m happy for the distraction as we linger on the beach behind my father’s Hamptons house, sipping champagne and chatting about my impending nuptials with our nearest and dearest. The rehearsal dinner was a giant snore, including my fiancé. I’ve never met a man more indifferent and unfeeling. If only he’ll be indifferent to me, not give a fuck what I do. I hope he’s gay, and he has no interest in women whatsoever.
“Bianca came with me,” I tell my occasional partying companion. She’s dressed in a red satin number that would be better suited for a street corner, and with the newly bleached blonde hair and the accent that comes out even stronger when she drinks, she screams Jersey Shore trash loud and clear. When I’m drunk, too, I don’t care. But at an event that’s supposed to be classy, she makes me cringe.
“Bianca?” she asks incredulously. “You know she told you to get the one that made you look like a tank, right? She can’t stand for anyone to look hotter than her.”
“Don’t worry,” I say. “I had a second opinion.”
Since I’m too classy to tell her what I really think, I hold back from saying that while it’s true that Bianca advised me to get the most unflattering choices available, Lizzie would have made me look like a prostitute.
These are my friends. The closest thing I have, anyway.
Not that I’m crying about it. I cultivated these friendships. If I’d tried, I might have been able to find more genuine ones. But I wanted to live big, not have quiet sob sessions on my bedroom floor every time I broke up with a boy. When things go wrong, you move on. Dwelling in the past is a recipe for disaster. I live in today. Not yesterday, and not tomorrow.
Tomorrow.
Oh, god. I have to swallow past the throb of nerves in my throat. Tomorrow is the wedding day. The first day of the rest of my life or whatever.
Maybe I do wish I had a friend, at least one real friend, who I could share these fears with.
I think of my mother, somewhere just across town, in the same city. I wonder what she’d do if I showed up on her doorstep asking for advice, for opinions about my dress.
I push the thought away, shoving it down deep into a box and slamming the lid. My mother isn’t here. We had an announcement in the papers, and if she wanted to read it, she could have. She could have come. She could have called.
But she lives her own life now, free from the ties that bind the rest of us, society and tradition and all that shit.
Which means I have Bianca, who would do anything to make me look bad, and Lizzie, who has slipped away. I spot her standing in front of my future husband, her bear claw nails lightly raking his forearm as she smiles up at him. He’s taken off his jacket now that the rehearsal is over, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows against the heat. His arms look tan and strong in the shadows of the evening as we stand around the back patio under twinkling strings of lights. Everyone is mingling and chatting while the workers remove the tables we had set up for an elegant dinner behind the house.
Lizzie lays a hand on King’s chest, pushing him backwards a step, into the shadows of the porch. Anger roils inside me. Not because I’m jealous. I don’t care about him or who he sticks his dick in.
I’m pissed because this is the kind of friend I have, one who tries to shovemyfiancé behindmyhouse and probably hike up her skirt and let him fuck her against the wall while I’m not a dozen steps away.
This is who I have to turn to, to confide my deepest fears, ones that go well beyond cold feet. I want to pretend I don’t care, but my throat tightens. I look around for someone to rage to, at least, but all I see are acquaintances, no one who would care what Lizzie is doing.
I spot King’s mother, giggling and flirting with his dad like they’re still a couple in love.