Lovewrecked

We couldn’t be more different. I don’t think she’s ever worn makeup, her hair is a long and frizzy grey, always held back in a ponytail. She has an ever-present ball cap on her head and glasses. She must look at me sometimes and wonder where the hell I came from.

She’s giving me that look right now, as she eyes me up and down. She’s not the type of mom to give some snotty or passive aggressive remark, instead she keeps things to herself and looks at me as if I’m an alien.

Right now I feel like one. It’s weird to see my parents here, in a foreign land, not surrounded by mounds of work and apples.

I go to hug my mom, and she pats me lightly on the shoulder. She’s never been very good with hugs or physical affection, which has probably rubbed off on me in some way. Still, I’ll take what I can get.

“I’m glad you’re here,” she says, then pulls back. “Are you okay? Jet-lagged? Did you sleep on the plane?”

“Kind of,” I tell her. “I’m just tired from the drive. And a bit confused as to why we’re all here. I thought I was staying at a hotel.”

“That was the original plan,” my dad says. “But everybody has been so easy-going, they decided that since the wedding is being held on the beach out back, might just be easier for everyone to stay here.”

“Easy going?” I repeat. “I’m guessing you’re not talking about Lacey.”

“My ears are burning,” Lacey’s quiet voice sounds from behind my mom and we turn to see her stepping out of the house.

Wow. It’s weird to see her after so long, even though I see her on social media all the time.

Lacey is five inches taller than me, getting the “height” from dad, though she got the skinny physique from my mother. Her style hasn’t changed much either, sensible sandals, jeans even though it’s fairly hot out, a black blouse that looks a little too stuffy on her. Her bright blonde hair is in a long bob and to my surprise she’s wearing magenta lip gloss, perhaps her attempt at dressing up. She’s always worn glasses but these new ones are a little more cat-eyed, like a sexy secretary.

Lacey is beautiful. She would fit every guy’s fantasy of a blonde bombshell, except her resting bitch face is some pretty powerful stuff and I was witness to a lot of guys in high school being scared of her. They’d confide in me that they thought she was hot but too smart for them, too intimidating, too serious. Add in the fact that my parents were super strict with her, and she grew up never really knowing how pretty she was.

That, or she didn’t care. All she cared about was school.

It’s worked out well for her.

“Hey,” I say to her brightly. “I made it!”

She scurries over to me—that’s Lacey’s thing, always spry, never has time to lose—and brings me into a quick hug. She smells like Pantene Pro-V, and I’m immediately transported back in time to when I used to share a bathroom with her. Feels like another life.

“You made it,” she says. Her voice is still quiet, controlled, but there’s a hint of accent now. “I was worried, but now I can see I had no reason to. You always land on your feet, don’t you Daisy? Like a cat.”

I give her a stiff smile. There is a hint of resentment in her words. I glance at my parents to see if they’ve noticed, but they both look happy (or maybe just in shock) to have us here all together.

“So, I met Tai,” I tell her, skirting over her tone. “Did you purposefully send me the grumpiest man in New Zealand?”

Her lips pinch together and I notice her lip gloss is feathering a little. She should have worn lipliner. Beginners makeup 101.

“It was Tai or the bus.”

“I would have rather taken the bus,” I tell her.

She folds her arms, the ring on her finger flashing. “Well had you told me the right date, I would have arranged for someone more suitable to pick you up.”

“Holy crap, is that your engagement ring?” I ask, reaching down and picking up her hand.

She stiffens. The ring is much bigger and more sparkly in person.

“Richard did well,” I tell her. She blushes and looks away, taking her hand out of mine.

“He’s been great,” my father says. “When Lacey has her little meltdowns, Richard is there to rein her in.”

“I don’t have meltdowns,” Lacey snaps, and my father and I chuckle in unison, because Lacey always has to be in control, and if she’s not, a meltdown ensues. “Weddings are stressful for anyone. I would have rather eloped.”

“Don’t say that,” my mother scolds her. “This was a great excuse for all of us to get together.”