Kelsey Idrag my suitcase up to rec eption, hoping to es cape to my room and do a quick change-aroo from harried, rumpled, sweaty Kelsey— fresh off a packed Long Island Railroad car, hair doing something I probably don’t want to know about—to breezy, polished, wedding-perfect Kelsey. I hand over my ID with a gracious and carefree smile, because that is the attitude I plan to have this weekend. I’m confident. Optimistic. A fun relative who people want to be around. Yes, I was wrongly accused and shunned, but I don’t arrive bitter and defensive about it, because that’s not me, and also, I have nothing to hide, and I never did. I picture myself walking up to my mother with that energy—inhabiting it so completely that she remembers that she knows me, that she knows my heart, realizes I never was the kind of person to make off with a family heirloom. As she SHOULD! Because seriously, what the hell? And I have a beautiful hotel room waiting. According to the hotel website, there are French doors and ocean views in every room. My view back home in the city is the brick building behind ours and some really rusty drainpipes, so I’m hugely looking forward to this. There seems to be some confusion at the desk. Some consultation. Finally a staffer takes my bag and beckons me to follow him. “Wow. Do you always personally lead guests to their hotel rooms?” I ask. “No, not usually...” he says she epishly. My heart begins to pound. Was there some kind of notation next to my name? Known thief? “So I’m getting the celeb treatment?” I joke hopefully. “Well, so nobody said anything to you?” “About what?” “There was an overbooking problem, and it’s not a usual guest room.” He gives me a wince and then starts down some stairs. Wait. Are we going into a basement? “So I’m getting bumped from the room I booked?” Make that the very expensive room I booked. I pretty much drained my savings to make this whole thing happen. “Your sister said you were aware of the situation...” “She must’ve forgotten to tell me,” I say. “It’s fine.” How bad can it be? This hotel caters to the wealthy elite, so I’m sure even their worst room is awesome. Maybe it’s a garden-level room. Maybe it has its own wee terrace. My heart sinks as we go through a staff-only door, and down a service corridor that smells like cleaning products. We pass a young man sitting on an upturned bucket, scratching his chest while he looks at his phone. Finally, my guide unlocks a door, and I st ep into a room that is furnished with mismatched hotel furniture, probably yesteryear castoffs from upstairs, a window that looks out onto a giant dumpster, and a suspicious stain on the wall that I will myself to believe is water damage. “We put staff here in a pinch, but it’s just been cleaned and you have the whole hall to yourself. No noise from wedding revelers.”
I turn to him. “But on the upside, it’s free, right?” I say hopefully. “We’ll be extending a twenty percent discount,” he announces. “I’m sorry, what? A twenty percent discount puts this in line with some of the best hotels in Manhattan.” “I’m so sorry, it’s out of my hands. Of course, you’ll still have access to all of the amenities.” He begins to list off the amenities. “No, no, I get it. I know you didn’t make this decision. It just seems a little bit... unfortunate. For me.” “I can give you contact information for management...” “That would be good,” I say despondently. I’ll try to get more of a discount, but they have me over a barrel. No way will I make some big kerfuffle at my sister’s wedding. That’s the last thing I’d want to do. He leaves me and I sink onto my very soft and lumpy bed, trying not to think of the reel I saw on Instagram of the photographer’s assistant’s room with its French doors opening to a balcony with postcard views of the ocean. She’s the photographer’s assistant. And I’m Danielle’s sister. Literal sister of the bride. Maybe their contract specifies getting nice rooms. I’ll be going with that thought. And it’s not like I’ll be spending all my time in here. I’ll be out and about, enjoying seeing my family. And enjoying the wedding! I love weddings. I’m always excited when I see brides and grooms doing wedding shoots in Central Park or the subway or Times Square or up on the High Line. And this is my sister. And I’m back with my family! Back-ish. My family who are choosing to believe me. Which is certainly a st ep in the right direction, though “knowing I’d never do such a thing” would be vastly preferable. I crack the window, then immediately close it. Dumpster smellsville. I pull out my garment bag and wince. My outfit for today had seemed so chic at the thrift store, what with its vintage, understated elegance à la Grace Kelly, a fashion icon of Danielle’s. But now that I’m here in this Hamptons world of breezy whites and pastels, it seems a little shabby. Also, it’s practically a winter dress. A shabby winter dress. And not really very Grace Kelly-ish at all. I used to know how to dress for this kind of thing. Even as the artsy weirdo of the family, I knew how to fit in. But that was a long time ago. My wardrobe in the city is big earrings and fun boots and bright colors. Awesome amazing clothes that my family would never approve of. Did I just completely lose the muscle of fitting in with them? And I landed on a brown wool dress in June. And are those moth holes? How did I not notice moth holes? I dig through my suitcase for tomorrow’s dress, hoping to swap. It’s an off-the-shoulder mod-print maxi I’d been so proud of. But looking at it now, in this hotel, in this light—I can practically hear my mother’s voice. What was she thinking? I pull everything else out. Lay it all on the bed. It’s bad. So bad. I dig to the bottom for my post-wedding breakfast dress—navy, simple, seen better days. The hem is slightly uneven, and the fabric has that shine that comes from too many washes. This, too, was supposed to be understated elegance à la Grace Kelly.
It’s certainly understated. That’s the most I can say for it. It will have to do. The welcome cocktail party is in full swing by the time I make it up to the terrace. I spot Mom immediately near the fountain with Aunt Mae and think about beelining over there, but I force myself to look away. Not yet. Let it happen naturally. My grandmother Ernestine, a. k. a. Granny Ernie, rushes over and clasps my hands inside hers. “My sweet girl. I’m so happy you came.” I hug her without holding back. De ep down, I always felt like she was the only one who questioned the family groupthink on my supposedly thieving ways, though in the end, she did go along with the group cold shoulder. Still. Right now she feels like an ally. I’ll take it. Over her shoulder, I catch sight of Dad, working his way through the crowd, enduring air kisses. My face warms with feeling when I see him. “Dad got tortoiseshell glasses,” I say stupidly. Like that’s the most surprising, noteworthy thing that’s happening here. Oh my goodness. “Come on, then.” Granny Ernie hooks her arm through mine and pulls me toward him. “Look who I found!” Dad turns around. “Kelsey!” There’s a tiny hesitation in his smile, but that’s just paranoia, because no way would Danielle have invited me without Dad’s blessing. “Happy wedding,” I chirp. I go in for a hug because I’m thinking positive. I quickly let him go. “This is wonderful. Loving the new glasses!” Dad launches into a monologue of how the glasses look a little too professorial for his tastes, like everything is just totally normal and the past three years didn’t happen. I grin. “Can you even believe Danielle is getting married? Ol’ Tyler finally came through!” “Took him a while, but he finally saw his way clear,” Granny Ernie says. Dad agrees enthusiastically. Granny Ernie purses her lips. “I just heard about the room situation. I could try to put you somewhere off-site I—” “No, no, it’s fine! You know me, I roll with the punches.” Dad frowns. Did that sound like I accused the family of metaphorically punching me? “We dancers are resourceful and flexible,” I add, “and all I care about is for Danielle and Tyler to have an amazing weekend.” He studies me for a moment too long. Is he wondering what’s up with the dress? I force myself to smile. Progress, not perfection; isn’t that what they say? “Kelsey!” My cousin Meredith wraps me in a long, relaxed hug. Dad and his professorial glasses take this moment to ramble elsewhere. “God, I’ve missed you!” Meredith says. “No one makes fun of Aunt Mae’s hats like you do.” “Meredith!” Granny Ernie scolds. But Granny Ernie is just as big of an offender as anyone. “Oh that’s all I’m good for?” I joke. “It’s all about the hats?” Meredith does this fun little thing we used to do where you poke the other person with alternating pointer fingers. I laugh and do it back, and
suddenly I’m transported back to a world of inside jokes, and us collapsing in giggles during family events. I’ve missed all this so much, my chest aches. A waiter glides over and the three of us take champagnes. “Bottoms up!” Meredith says. “That’s for a whiskey and shots,” Granny Ernie scolds. Our Burlington cousins, Sara and Ben, wander up. “Have you been doing shots, Granny Ernie?” Granny Ernie holds a pointer finger to her lips. “I’m so glad you’re here. It’s been too long!” Sara says. Does she really mean it? Is she actually glad? I need to stop second- guessing this situation ASAP. And as long as you hang in there with people, anything is possible. “Act as if,” my friend Mia says. We all catch up. After Granny Ernie drifts away, Cousin Ben lowers his voice. “Jesus Christ, did they finally get their heads out of their asses?” I paste on a bright smile. “Well, I’m here, aren’t I?” “Back in black!” Meredith clicks her glass to mine. I get filled in on everybody’s lives, and I tell them what’s happening with me. I’ve glanced over at Mom a few times. She’s working the room. She’ll make her way over. My cousins are excited and interested in the whole Broadway experience and I could talk about it for hours. Mom is over by the fountain, clapping loudly. “Group photo time!” I find myself sw ept into the center of the family cluster, wedged between my cousins like old times. Mom ends up just a few people over. After this, she’ll drift over—it’ll just happen. The photographer gets us arranged, and for a few seconds it feels genuinely okay. Real. The way my shoulder presses against Sara’s, the way Granny Ernie squeezes in front insisting she doesn’t need to be in back, Danielle taking center stage. When we break up into smaller groups, I hang back, giving Mom the opening. She heads toward the bar with Aunt Mae. I finish my champagne. “Kelsey!” Danielle glides over, radiant in her flowing sundress. We compliment each other’s dresses, though I’m putting a lot more heart into admiring hers than she is into admiring mine. “Hey, I have the perfect job for you. The kids are dying to learn a dance routine for the rec eption. What do you think?” I think it’s babysitting duty, but in truth, I’m a little relieved. Things still feel awkward, especially with my own mother not saying hi to me, and it’s been a little exhausting ke eping up my positive front. “What do I think?” I say. “I think little kids are my jam.” Danielle smiles. I head across the beautifully manicured yard to the kids tent, where a couple of weary looking babysitters clearly need a break. “I got this! Go get some food or something!” I tell them. They grab their phones and head off. This is a perfect way to make people remember why they used to appreciate me... and hopefully make them appreciate me anew. In no time, I’ve got a two-year-old on my hip and ten kids lined up two de ep, already picking up the simple hip-hop moves I’ve adapted from the studio’s most popular routine. “Arms strong!” I demonstrate the wave again. “Like you’re painting the sky!” A little girl in red, who was shy at first, is now front and center, hitting every beat. Some of the boys who were too cool for dance are getting into it on an athletic competitive level.
“That’s it! Now add the attitude!” I give them an attitude demo. They’re all wide eyes and giggles and then they go for it. Adults can sometimes get sick of my energy... It’s a thing with me. Especially guys. I’m “a lot,” apparently. “Extra.” Lucky for me, kids love it when you’re “a lot.” And these kids are actually good. They are going to kill it out there. The babysitters wander back, hanging out in the shade with their phones, randomly shouting encouragement. Danielle drifts by the far tent pole. Even she looks impressed. I wander over. “They’re doing pretty well,” she says. “Just wait until you see the finale. Janey, show our fabulous bride that spin I—” Just then the music gets drowned out by a whump-whump-whump. The kids stop dancing. The tent top flutters. The boys run out from under the tent. “Helicopter!” All of the kids are out of the tent suddenly, followed by the babysitters. It’s a full-on dance routine mutiny as a sleek black helicopter touches down on the far lawn. Napkins go flying. One of my cousins grabs her hat, shrieking. “What the hell?” Danielle says. The door opens and a man in a tuxedo st eps out, hair flashing like burnished brass in the sun. Wide shoulders. Brows like de ep golden slashes. Bruno Blackwood. Is this a dream? A nightmare? An alternative timeline where the worst possible thing happens? Bruno Blackwood, reclusive watchmaker. Hater of all he sees, subject of feverish Reddit threads, and recipient of a joke wedding invitation I sent because I thought it would be funny if his people sent a present. Well, he is carrying a very large gift wrapped in silver and white. He has a designer duffel slung over one shoulder, and he starts out toward us, like arriving to a stranger’s wedding in a helicopter is an everyday thing for him. He’s bigger than I’d remembered from photos. And somehow more there. My whole family’s watching. Confused. Danielle’s future sister-in-law, Cara, comes over and grabs her arm. “Is that one of your people?” “No way,” Danielle says. “He’s not one of yours? He’s somebody’s. He’s heading this way with a wedding gift.” Cara frowns. “Is he an actor of some sort?” Danielle turns a suspicious gaze to me. I can hear the words screaming in her brain: What did you do? My heart bongos in my ears. Bruno Blackwood has arrived just in time to make me look like a screw-up when my entire mission here is to remind my family that I’m a trustworthy person who belongs here. How could I have sent those stupid invitations to rando celebs? And why oh why did he come? Luckily, everybody is too stunned to go out and greet him. This is my chance. Or more like, my Hail Mary. I put my hand over my chest. “He came! I didn’t think he’d make it.” Danielle frowns. “This is your plus-one? You didn’t RSVP for a plus- one.”
“He must’ve had a last-minute change of plans or something and decided to surprise me.” “We gave the caterer certain numbers,” Danielle is saying, even though I happen to know people dropped out at the last minute. “I’m sure he won’t eat much!” I’m off there like a shot, weaving around stunned guests with their little plates of hors d’oeuvres, and then bolting across the expanse of green grass to interc ept him. Bruno Blackwood stops when he sees me bulleting toward him. I’m sure I’m a scary sight, running at him in my sad blue dress. Behind him, another man is climbing out of the helicopter. He has the same burnished brass hair as Bruno—light brown with plenty of gold, like the fixtures on a really high-end farmhouse renovation. “Bruno.” I touch his sleeve and lower my voice. “I just want to profusely apologize for sending you that wedding invitation. It was a stupid joke sort of thing trying to impress my sister, a. k. a. the bride. I swear to bejesus, I didn’t mean to fool you or make you think you knew us and like you had to drop everything and come to this wedding. Clearly, I wasted your valuable time, and for that I am so sorry. Like so, so sorry! And I’ll explain everything later and I’ll find a way to make things right—I swear I will I—” Is that an annoyed expression on his face? I can’t tell. I can’t read him. It’s like his intense handsomeness is blocking my brainwaves. “But right now, I’m begging you, like I will literally owe you my firstborn, if you would just, for the next few minutes, play along like we know each other in front of my family. You’re my plus-one, okay?” Then, in a low voice, he says, “Can we carry out this ruse without my having anything whatsoever to do with your firstborn?” I stiffen. “Is that a ‘yes’?” “Yes.” The other man is catching up. Bruno flicks his gaze to him and then back to me. “I’m your plus-one?” “If only you would do that, I would be so de eply in your debt. And I get it; you probably have everything a person could ever need...” Before I can finish my desperate plea, Bruno’s arm slides around my waist and pulls me against him. He kisses my hair. I nearly go catatonic. What? He’s actually playing along? I feel like I’m in a dream. “Name,” he growls into my head. “Um... Kelsey?” “Was that a question? Are you sure or do you need a second to decide? Because you sound like you might not be sure what your own goddamn name is.” He is annoyed. Well, why wouldn’t he be? “Kelsey Winters.” I pull back and gaze up into his eyes. “Thank you, thank you thank you thank you I—” He settles a warm hand on my cheek. All words fall out of my brain as he gives me a smile that’s beautiful as the sun and all the stars. “I’ve missed you, baby.” The man who shares Bruno’s hair color and excellent bone structure stands a few feet away, blinking at us uncertainly, as though we’ve just shapeshifted into Care Bears or something.
Bruno turns to him. “Thanks for the ride, Russell.” Russell eyes me, incomprehension all over his face. Is it my catatonic state showing on my face? Is it my sadface dress? “You’re not going to introduce us?” Russell asks. Bruno sets a hand on the small of my back. “This is Kelsey. Kelsey, allow me to present my brother Russell. Russell is now leaving.” Russell’s eyes flick to Bruno. “Oh, come on. Come on,” he adds, emphasizing the “on.” Bruno frowns. “Come on... what?” Russell looks me up and down. “You expect me to buy this?” Bruno lowers his voice to a growl. “Take that insulting tone with Kelsey one more time and we’ll have a problem. Understood?” Russell’s suspicious gaze suggests that nothing is understood. Bruno lifts my hand and kisses my knuckles. My heart nearly pounds out of my throat. “And you met where?” Russell asks. Bruno grumbles something that sounds like “none of your business” at the exact same time I blurt out, “He saw me in my Broadway show. Anything Goes.” “Bruno doesn’t like musical theater,” Russell says. “And you’re an expert on my taste since when?” Bruno asks. “Since I happen to know you don’t like anything fun. Or lively or funny.” I can see at this point that Bruno’s “none of your business” was the superior answer, but it’s too late. I smile up at Bruno. “Well, he liked Anything Goes. He was waiting outside the theater door to meet me.” “Kelsey?” I spin around. It’s Danielle, coming up with Cara and some of the cousins. Hopefully the babysitters have gotten back on the job. “Behold my sister, Danielle, a. k. a. our beautiful bride-to-be.” I try to say it jokey and not like I’m giving him critical information for our ruse. “This is my friend Bruno and his brother Russell.” Danielle looks at the helicopter. At Bruno. At Russell. At me. “His brother’s not actually staying. He just gave him a ride.” Bruno puts out his hand. “I’ve heard so much about you, Danielle.” The way he says it, so sexy and rumbly, I nearly melt. So does Danielle, judging from her dumbfounded expression. What have I done? I have to get him out of here.