4.
It’s difficult to say what’s weighing my body down the most.
It could be the jet lag, the delayed and congested subway car that added four hours to my travel time, the bruises spotting my skin, or just my overall misery about my failure and bleak life options and cramping that I’m sure means my period is coming.
All those factors are kicking my ass, but the worst uppercut to the gut is the bright smile my sister has as she lets herself into the back entrance of her guest suite, where I’m moping on the couch. My little sister, younger by five years, drops a tray of desserts on the marble, crescent-shaped coffee table.
It takes extra effort to meet her gaze as she plops down on the opposite love seat.
“You’re in desperate need of a face mask.” She tucks some of her highlighted curls away from her golden face, sculpted by the gods—and Michelle Rajan, the best aesthetician in Connecticut. “I made a thousand
pastries for you to try.”
“Thanks.”
Taina looks around. “You haven’t unpacked. It looks like you’ve melted into the couch.”
“It’s been just a couple of days, Taina.”
“You never let me rot in bed more than two days in a row.”
“And I’m regretful for that at this moment.”
“I’m one hundred percent sure that’s not true.”
Perceptive little brat.
“Sadness doesn’t look too good on you,” she continues.
The insult is enough to combat my lack of desire to do anything more than lifting a finger. “Everything looks good on me.”
She stands, her blue baby-doll dress clinging to her curves as she saunters over and tosses my legs off the couch so she can sit directly beside me. It forces me to maneuver myself upright.
“Mathew is away for work, and I was bored.” She taps my leg. “So I thought I’d see what my pretty, sad sister was up to.”
“Well, I applied for more jobs and was rejected within hours. A new record, really.”
“Who rejected you? Give me a company name,” she says, smiling— her murderous one where she thinks if she looks sweet enough, nobody knows her intentions, but a threat glistens in her heavily mascaraed gaze.
The phrase if looks could kill doesn’t apply to Taina. Taina will kill. Taina, despite my best efforts, has a criminal record.
Not for murder, but I wouldn’t put it past her.
Neither of us is exactly the best law-abiding citizen, but when I was the head of the household, I did try to be a good influence. Not too much cursing, thinking before speaking, counting to ten before letting anger get the best of me—though it got the best of me more often than I liked. But Taina has always had a fiery temperament that I had to constantly smother, and I, quite literally, had to bail her out of jail. Twice. Though the men she clawed at the nightclubs did deserve it for trying to cop a feel.
Especially since Taina’s anemia was so bad when she was younger.
I’m convinced the more her blood pressure rose, the more frequently her fainting spells occurred. Having a calmer reaction to stressful environments would be helpful for everyone involved.
I close my eyes, and somehow even that hurts. “No hacking into company websites.”
Her gaze narrows. “You can’t tell me what to do.” Then, her gaze softens. “Well, okay, you can. You can tell me things, and I’ll do it. And if I tell you to do things, then you can do it too.”
“Taina.” I pinch the bridge of my nose, too tired to have this argument again. “I’m not moving in with you and your husband.”
“Oh, please,” Taina says, gesturing to the space around us. “This is your own floor. A private entrance, kitchen, and bath; it’s like your own apartment.”
Of course, this was Taina’s motive for coming here with treats and a smile. Offering the comfort of her $3.4 million Connecticut mansion. Since I started the Wreck a Wedding business five months ago, she’s been hounding me to move in with her.
Granted, I have also called her numerous times complaining about a faulty sink, a leaking shower, moldy walls—so this request has been a long time coming. But I chose my old apartment knowing it wasn’t the best. It was the lowest rate I could get in New York a short distance from my old
job. I could have gotten something better, but I wanted to save as much as I was able.
My dad always preached about how much better it was to live below your means—to always have a little extra stashed away for emergencies, like hospital bills or unexpected expenses. We saw that firsthand with Mom’s illness. Saving wasn’t just about being responsible; it was about survival.
Still, I’ve gotten better at allowing the people around me to care for me when they can. I wouldn’t deny Taina’s help if it were about anything else. If I needed a shoulder to lean on while whining about a date gone wrong, or help with an essay for my online university courses because I can never remember where an apostrophe is supposed to live, or company while cleaning up crap and dirt from the animal shelter. For anything else, I have no problem taking Taina’s often-extended hand.
Money is an entirely different story. A story I’ve yet to tell Taina, and am not sure I ever will—for her sake. “I’m looking for another place,” I get out, trying to ignore the sudden pinch in my chest.
“You lived in the equivalent of a dumpster. Actually, worse than that, dumpsters have roofs. You had a collection of holes vaguely connected by twenty-seven coats of paint. And you couldn’t even afford that. How will you afford anything back in the city?”
I jerk back, then soften my posture. I know Taina doesn’t mean it maliciously. It’s just, when she has a goal, she will do anything to reach it.
She’s driven like that. Her current goal? Keeping me in the safety of her home.
I completely understand because, for most of my life, my thoughts were all just fragments broken from my singular purpose: Take care of my sister.
When we were kids, and our parents gave up dinner so we could split a bowl of Avena, I would give her my share. I worked multiple jobs and did under-the-table work at a bar to get her through college. Stole clothes from rich neighborhoods’ trash so she would have brand names in class when the other kids would sneer at a knockoff. At my lowest, I “borrowed” books and supplies she needed from department stores.
And now her bank account looks like a phone number, while mine looks like the receipt for a hamburger.
“I just need to get through the slow season. Or actually get a call back for an interview somewhere. I’ve started applying outside of the city.”
These past months have felt like a yearlong slow season. It’s not like I can hang around wedding venues and hand out flyers. I don’t have a large pool of clients to draw from.
“What you need is help,” Taina says, softening. “The job market sucks right now and—”
“And after I was fired, I destroyed my supervisor’s desk and had to be escorted out of the building,” I finish for her.
That day is still fresh in my mind. My condescending, aging prick of a supervisor sat me down, called me the name of the only other woman in the department, and asked me to wear looser clothes because I was distracting my peers. If I was going to continue to dress that way, I was basically “asking for it.”
Taina was ready to sue the second I got fired—Mathew’s a lawyer, and she practically had the paperwork drafted before I’d even made it home.
But buried in the mountain of new-hire paperwork I signed on my first day was a clause that waived my right to sue the company. I didn’t catch it.
I was too busy feeling grateful—after years of juggling part-time jobs, night classes, and overdue bills, I would’ve signed a napkin if it came with health insurance and a 401(k).
“I’m sure they’ve warned every firm in the tristate about me. My resume is too impressive not even to get a callback.”
And yet, given the chance, I’d for sure say yes if they offered me my position back in the field rather than the high-risk, low-opportunity, anxiety-inducing trade of wedding wrecking.
I’ve always been happier with the ability to keep a roof over my head.
And when you try to live without it, you find that money does indeed buy happiness—something achievable with a stable, salaried job like my marketing role at a New York City tech firm.
“Clearly not impressive enough,” Taina points out.
“How I wish I shipped you off to military school to learn some manners.”
“Sorry.” Taina salutes. “Clearly, it’s not impressive enough, sir.”
I reel my arm back, ready to slap her. She dodges me, sticks out her tongue, then grabs my phone from the coffee table, flips it over, and points
to a Polaroid photo tucked beneath the clear case—my pit bull terrier gleefully demolishing my couch.
My heart lurches at the loss of her, still fresh even though it’s been a year. I’ve always thought photos held an impossible responsibility, carrying the weight of memory even if the people in them are gone. It keeps the moment alive, anyway.
“If you won’t officially move in with me,” Taina says, “or let me commit murder, let me help pay for your share of Save a Paw.”
Anxiety bites at me when she mentions the animal shelter.
Save a Paw is my real dream, not this wedding-wrecking mess I’m in.
A haven for dogs that provides services for homeless animals, like vet care and any necessary surgeries, nurturing and caring for them, and trying to house them where they can get all the love and care they deserve.
Since I was sixteen, the owner had promised me that once he retired, he’d sell the business to me. I was supposed to have years more time to be able to buy it from him. But a couple months ago, Joshua told me his wife wanted him to retire earlier, spend the rest of their years traveling the world, so he’d come to me first, like he promised. Save a Paw could be mine for $30,000.
I’d been putting aside small amounts for years and had already saved up $10,000 for it. I’m nowhere near the other $20,000. When I told him that, he said his wife gave him a year to get his affairs in order, therefore, I had a year (now three months left) to buy it off him.
A stressful fact made more anxiety inducing when he informed me that his partner, the other shareholder, already had someone interested in buying.
In a cruel and genius way, Taina goes into my photos app and starts playing videos of Storm and me. “Think of all the Stormys that need you to keep the business thriving. What would have happened to her if you hadn’t found her?” she asks, knowing damn well she probably would have died.
“Don’t you remember? How much pain she was in?”
Of course I do. How could I not? My dog was my everything. “Don’t be cruel,” I tell her.
“I’m just saying, Storm helped you realize your passion in life.
Animals. You can’t let the shelter go to some Wall Street, high-water, cufflink-wearing asshole.”
I rub my palms against my eyes. “I’m pretty sure it’s a former veterinarian wanting to take over.” But she’s right, Storm had helped me.
In every aspect of my life. In every relationship, platonic or otherwise.
It doesn’t matter how hard I work at being a good friend, an amazing girlfriend, or an incredible employee; it’s like I was specially created to be an extra in every main character’s life. It doesn’t matter how much I bend and twist and break to become a priority for the people around me, I’m always just an afterthought.
The first time I’d ever been needed was on my sixteenth birthday. My parents forgot—understandably—since Taina had the flu so horrendously, she had to be taken to the hospital, and I dragged myself on a ten-mile walk, hoping that each step would feel less miserable than the last.
And then I saw a dog limping across a road, under the drizzle becoming rain. Its leg buckled halfway through, and it dropped as the headlights of a car poured closer and closer toward it. Without thinking, I ran out, hands up, screaming for the car to stop. It swerved, barely avoiding us, but the near-death hardly shook me.
The poor silver thing was whining, its hind leg bent at a grotesque angle. Its eyes were blue and wide with pain, and they held such a familiar kind of heartache that I wrapped it up in my arms. A pit bull. Fifty pounds of dog that I somehow managed to drag to the nearest shelter.
Save a Paw—I’ll never forget walking through the building.
It was all a blur. The staff took the dog from me, questioning things I had few answers for, taking her away for hours, and returning with a declaration that she was recovering from surgery, but her leg had been purposely broken.
I spent the rest of the night waiting for any updates. I cried when they carried the wounded dog and placed her within a large cage at the shelter.
When I wouldn’t leave, the employees let me enter the room and lie with the dog to ease her cries as she tried to sleep through the pain. Each time she woke, her eyes met mine, like she was checking to make sure I was still there. Only when she confirmed it did she let herself drift back off to sleep.
She needed me.
It was work convincing my parents to let me adopt her, but once I brought in the tears, they couldn’t deny me. I buried her name tag and called her Storm, for the night I found her. Finally, I was a first choice.
Storm needed me, but I needed her more. We spent every day together; our walks got me outside and kept me healthy, and her company as I read or watched TV or studied or slept kept me sane.
She was my best friend and I was hers, but I often thought about the other cries I’d heard. The other animals crying out for love and having nobody reach out.
So our walks took us back to the shelter, where Storm made friends, and I volunteered to pass the time. I helped shower the dogs, distracted them when they were getting their shots, cleaned up the kennels, and worked out potential adoptions to see if families really wanted and could
care for a pet.
Save a Paw is mine.
“This wedding wrecking isn’t sustainable,” Taina says, pulling me from the memories. “I’ve been tracking the click-through on all the ads I’ve been running, hits on the site. It’s tanking. And the job market does suck.”
Anxiety bites at me when she says it. “I know, but it’s only temporary.
Once I save up for my share, I can start working on how to make the shelter financially sustainable. Make enough for it, and me, and then, no more wedding wrecking.”
Taina raises an eyebrow. “And how do you plan to do that? Bake sales?” When I open my mouth, she holds out a hand. “Just kidding, don’t be mad. I know you’ve been playing around with ideas, but you still haven’t told me exactly how you plan to get any revenue for it.”
Eager to remind my little sister I am a capable adult, I tell her,
“Multiple ways.”
“Keeping me in suspense here?”
I smile. “I want to restructure it. Keep the mission side nonprofit— adoptions, hospital costs, rescue costs—but add a couple for-profit arms.
The first, a boutique dog-grooming service in the front—spa treatments, high-end. Think about a sauna for dogs. People spend so much on their pets.”
She nods slowly, eyebrows coming together like her own wheels are turning—probably designing me a website in her head as I speak.
“Second—dog merch. Collars, leashes, raincoats, safe nail polish, whatever. All branded. Profits go back into the shelter.”
“And the third?” she asks, taking out her phone and typing what I
assume are notes.
“Dog parties.”
She pauses. “Huh?”
“Birthday parties. Engagement shoots for couples and their dogs. It’s a real market. I’ve done the research. I already know how to market emotionally charged events—weddings, breakups. Same psychology. Just rebranded for dogs instead of people. I’ve been building an email list from the weddings I’ve worked. Brides, grooms, jilted exes with rich friends.
They owe me—and my silence. A few of them are already interested in sponsoring fundraisers.”
Taina whistles. “You lost me a bit with the dog birthdays, but the rest I can get behind.”
“Tough crowd,” I say, “but, Taina, don’t worry too much about me. I can do this. I’m good at getting people to care. And I’m really good at getting them to pay attention. I’m good at most things, when I put the effort in.”
“I know you are,” she says, her eyes narrowing, “so let me just expedite the process. Let me invest in you.”
I peek over at her. We’re the same height and nearly twins, but she’s without freckles, and her face is sharper where mine is rounded. She is all I
have, and I would do anything for her.
Except this.
It’s for her own good. Her own marriage. She doesn’t know I know about the dozen couples’ therapy sessions she and her husband went through because she forced them to move from Vermont to Connecticut to be closer to me, and took money out of their joint account to pay off my student debt without me knowing. That she skipped a major trip—the first real vacation Mathew had planned for them in years—because it conflicted with my birthday.
But I do. Because Mathew told me. In a plea and a threat that let me know I was a rift between them, widening and ruining the one marriage I would never want to wreck. He didn’t yell. He didn’t demand. He just made a point. In that soft, careful way someone from HR would use when they want to sound reasonable while firing someone.
He never said go away forever. But it was in the way he thanked me when I missed a date Taina invited me to, or a networking event his job was running and Taina wanted me to join—like I’d done something good. Like I’d taken a step back on purpose.
It’s about Mathew watching every time she chooses me—and quietly resenting her for it. How he’s on his very last straw, and Taina thinks there
are dozens left.
At first, I thought Mathew was too rough, his love too conditional. But then the doubt crept in—what do I really know about love? After all the failed attempts I’ve seen and lived through, and watching so many couples around me who seem to get by without it, maybe love isn’t the grand thing I once believed. My experience with wedding wrecking should have made me immune to romance by now, yet here I am, still trying to unravel what love looks like, trying to decipher how something could look so vastly different depending on who wears it.
So, no, I can’t take her money; I can’t cross that line again. If I do, I’ll ruin my sister’s marriage. Taina told me every time they make it through a fight, she feels closer than ever to him. Feels convinced that she chose the right person: someone that she can confront anything with and make it to the other side.
“No.” I press a kiss to her cheek. I grab my laptop from the carpet.
“I’m going to convince my landlord to give me my apartment back. Maybe bring up the several building code violations as a blackmailing point.”
I mean, I should have gotten a discount from that crumbling building.
It would help tremendously, seeing as I have no way of paying at the moment. It’s not like I’m dead broke, but I definitely don’t have back-rent amounts of money.
Even the thought of going into my savings makes me nauseous— partly because that’s for Save a Paw, sure, but the most stressful fact of it all is that the money is locked away in a CD savings account.
I pitched damn near all of my paycheck into it, putting aside just enough for rent and noodles. I thought for sure I’d never need to pull from that money. I’ve always made do with very little; it made sense to continue to live that way. I signed the contract, locking myself into a three-year agreement without access to the funds. The penalty for drawing before then is six months’ interest. I’d lose nearly all I’ve gained just like that.
It would be like starting from scratch. Not an option. Not even a thought.
“Oh my God,” Taina mutters. “You’re too good for my money?”
If Taina had stuck to her tech career, I’m sure she would have acquired a nice lifestyle herself, regardless of whether she had met her renowned attorney husband. She just accelerated the process by marrying a well-off
man with two properties, a strictly Prada-filled closet, and a penchant for making sisters-in-law feel guilty for existing.
“I can’t take your money,” I say, wishing I could, at least, some of it. “I can figure things out on my own. I always have. I believe in myself, and honestly, each time you try to convince me to accept your help, it feels like you don’t.”
That’s the worst of all. Taina used to need me for everything, and now the most she’ll ask for is for me to remember to text her back. To go from someone who wasn’t just constantly needed but good at helping others to someone who can’t even pay their bills on time feels like karmic punishment from a past life where I kicked puppies and children or something.
Her face turns pink. “Well. That’s not my intention. But still, stop trying to run out. Consider this a temporary respite. Stay here as long as you
need. The door is always open.”
The door, in reality, is glued shut.
I start up my laptop, the only thing I own that’s brand new. I begin drafting an email to my old landlord, knowing in my gut it won’t get me anywhere, then shoot a text to my favorite employee at Save a Paw.
Sadness doesn’t look good on me, no, but it’s hard not to wrap it around me in this house I don’t belong in and with a sister who should be asking for advice instead of giving it.
I need space to breathe, so I send my email, gather what I need, and head out.
