Dad said when they brought you home from the hospital. ‘Here’s your sister, Rossie! Isn’t she adorable?’ Honestly, I thought you looked like a wrinkly old man, but look at you now!”
Her lips don’t so much as twitch. “I know you and Abi are hiding something from me. What is it? It’s about the wedding, isn’t it? This about-face with Violet out of nowhere . . . I just don’t get it.”
“I love her, Court. That’s it.”
She doesn’t look convinced, but I don’t care at this point. Fact is, three days ago I struggled to even say the ‘L-word.’ I’d say married, committed, together, or some other poetic dance-around.
Now, though . . . even I’m not sure if my feelings are true or fake. I just know my feelings for Violet have grown.
“Dad is furious with you,” Courtney finally says. “And I feel like I’m being ripped in half. Because I understand his point. This is so out of character for you, and the timing is just too fucking convenient, Ross.”
Her turn of phrase is an obvious kindness, a softening of Dad’s version of ‘immature brat’.
“So, what’s the ripped in half part?”
Courtney blushes a little, and she looks down before meeting my eyes once again. “Because I want to believe that my brother cannot seriously be pulling everyone’s chain and playing with a nice girl like Violet’s feelings. So I’m trying to give you the benefit of the doubt. But it’s damn hard.”
I consider telling her the truth for a moment, wanting to trust that in the same way I’ve grown up, she has too. And that she wouldn’t go running to Mom and Dad the same way she once would.
But I can’t take the risk. Not with Violet at stake.
So I just repeat my earlier words. “I love her, Courtney.”
She smiles. “Okay, then yes. I’ll be your groomsperson.” She tilts her head. “Is that even a word?”
I shrug. “No idea. Thanks, though.”
Chapter 20
Violet—Monday—5 Days Until the Wedding
“Hey, Honey, did you see the news?”
I groan, wishing there was a way to not see the news. “Yes, Mom. Archie made sure that I got a full-on replay of it in stereo as soon as I got to work this morning.”
Maybe it’s the phone connection, maybe it’s just Mom’s excitement, but she doesn’t hear the frustration in my voice. Instead, I wince as she squeals like she did at her first Marky Mark concert way back in the day, which she demonstrates every time his songs come on the radio, much to the displeasure of my ears and any surrounding dogs’ hearing. “My baby’s having a dream wedding! Like the princess I always knew you were.”
I don’t bother correcting her that I’m so far from a princess, it’s comical. We grew up struggling, and even now that we’re all comfortable financially, I’m not a fussy, prissy type. Nope, not a princess, Mom.
But she’s still talking as I’m having a mental dissection of Princess vs. Violet. I don’t compare to Diana, Caroline, Kate, Cinderella . . . wait, that last one’s not real. “I’m so happy for you, and I gotta say, the triplets are furiously practicing their asses off. They know this’ll be huge exposure for them!”
“Mom, about that. With the orchestra and all—”
“Oh, don’t worry, honey. Vanessa called the orchestra this morning,” Mom says gleefully. “She explained it all to them, and get this . . . the director’s really big into cross-genre stuff. His comment to ‘Nessa was that if Guns N’ Roses, Queen, and Toni Braxton can do songs with symphonies, then why not do the same for your wedding? The girls are already over there talking songs and arrangements. It’s going to be great!”
Shit . . . what next, pyro and laser lights?
I pinch myself as punishment for even thinking that, not wanting to tempt the universe into delivering that level of craziness.
I hear a commotion outside the office, and I look out to see a small group of paparazzi surrounding a man who’s marching with a purpose as he pushes a rack of garment bags. Seems my next dress appointment is here.
I open the door and yell out, “Please leave him alone.” Thankfully, I managed to hold the phone away from my ear so I didn’t deafen my mother with my shout.
The paps turn toward my voice and I think, for one second, that they’re going to comply. Instead, their cameras all point at me and start clicking away as they call out questions.
“Where are you going