Chapter 15 - Second Engagement
Two years passed before Marissa fell in love again.
She did not tell me immediately.
That was probably wise.
His name was Evan Brooks.
He was a public-school architect with a small firm, a terrible habit of leaving coffee cups everywhere, and absolutely no interest in my bank account.
The first time he visited my house, he stood in the entryway looking at the limestone.
Then he said,
“This drainage transition must have been a nightmare.”
I liked him immediately.
Not because he was impressed by the house.
Because he was interested in how it had been built.
Marissa watched me carefully throughout dinner.
I knew why.
She wanted approval.
Old Marissa would have demanded it.
New Marissa waited.
After dessert, she followed me into the kitchen.
“Well?”
I smiled.
“Well what?”
“Claire.”
“He seems kind.”
She exhaled.
“That’s all?”
“What do you want, a credit report?”
She stared at me.
Then we both laughed.
“No.”
She leaned against the counter.
“I already have one.”
I nearly dropped a plate.
“You did not.”
“I’m kidding.”
“Marissa.”
“Mostly.”
I pointed at her.
“Therapy has failed.”
She laughed.
Then became serious.
“He knows everything.”
“The wedding?”
“Yes.”
“Blake?”
“Yes.”
“The house?”
“Yes.”
“The bowl?”
She winced.
“Yes.”
“And?”
“He asked why you still speak to me.”
I stopped.
“What did you say?”
“That you didn’t forgive me because I deserved it.”
My throat tightened.
“You forgave me because you wanted a relationship with the person I was trying to become.”
I looked away.
“That’s annoyingly accurate.”
“Therapy.”
“Expensive vocabulary.”
A year later, Evan proposed.
Quietly.
No sponsors.
No photographer hiding behind a tree.
No giant engagement party.
Just the two of them on a hiking trail in Vermont.
Marissa called me afterward.
She sounded happy.
Not manic.
Not performative.
Happy.
“I said yes.”
“I assumed from the screaming voicemail.”
She laughed.
Then there was a pause.
I knew what was coming before she asked.
“Claire.”
“Yes?”
“I need to ask you something.”
My body reacted before my mind did.
Shoulders tense.
Breath shallow.
Old wiring.
Marissa heard the silence.
“It’s not the house.”
I laughed unexpectedly.
“Thank God.”
She laughed too.
“I wanted to ask if you’ll be my maid of honor.”
I stopped.
For a second, I could not speak.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“What about your friends?”
“I have bridesmaids.”
“Mom?”
“She’s mother of the bride.”
“Obviously.”
“Claire.”
“Yes.”
“You’re my sister.”
Once, that sentence had been used as a weapon.
Now it sounded different.
Not obligation.
Relationship.
“I’d love to.”
She began crying.
I rolled my eyes even though she could not see me.
“You’re crying already?”
“Shut up.”
The wedding was scheduled for the following September.
One hundred guests.
A rented vineyard.
A signed contract.
Insurance.
Professional venue staff.
Every invoice in Marissa and Evan’s names.
The first planning meeting included an actual budget.
Marissa showed it to me proudly.
“Look.”
I scanned the spreadsheet.
No Claire column.
I smiled.
“Beautiful.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“No.”
I pointed toward the page.
“This is the healthiest spreadsheet I’ve ever seen.”
She laughed.
Later, Mom asked whether I planned to contribute.
The question did not offend me.
Because she asked.
Not assumed.
“I might.”
Mom nodded.
“How much?”
“I’ll decide.”
“Fair.”
No guilt.
No argument.
No sentence about what I could afford.
I eventually offered to pay for the photographer.
Marissa refused.
I blinked.
“You want me to repeat that?”
“No.”
She smiled.
“Evan’s parents offered.”
“I’m wealthier.”
“I know.”
“You like their money better?”
She threw a napkin at me.
“We already accepted.”
“Fine.”
Then she hesitated.
“If you really want to do something…”
I raised an eyebrow.
“Danger.”
“Could you pay for Grandma’s old church choir to sing one song?”
I stared at her.
Our grandmother had sung in that choir for thirty years.
Most original members were gone, but the church still existed.
“I can ask.”
“That’s all I want.”
May you like
The request cost less than the flowers on one table at her first planned wedding.
And somehow it meant more.
