Chapter 1: My Sister’s Wedding

There are different types of people at weddings: those who cry, those who obsess over the couple—either to see if they’re truly right for each other or to judge the partner’s family dynamic—and then there are those who try to make sure nothing catastrophic happens. I’m usually the third type, thanks to my family’s talent for creating chaos.

Take my mother, for example—an alcoholic who becomes brutally honest after a few drinks. Then there’s my sister, who is high-maintenance and insists everything revolves around her. Honestly, this wedding feels like the perfect excuse for her to be even more narcissistic. And my dad? He’s well-educated and wealthy but acts like he has no money, which drives my sister absolutely insane with her eccentric personality.

Just imagine what could go wrong. Oh, did I mention? Today is my sister’s wedding.

Alright, time to get out of bed and start getting ready. I head to the bathroom and grab my brush to comb my hair, glancing at myself in the wide mirror with the black trim—it’s one of those fancy LED mirrors that somehow make you feel both glamorous and judged at the same time. I mean, I can see every pore.

Man, I cannot believe my younger sister is getting married. And before me, no less! She’s only nineteen. Why can’t I find anyone worth my time? These days, guys either just want… well, the nasty stuff, or they have serious mommy issues. Is there anyone out there who actually knows how to date seriously?

No use overthinking that now. I have so much to do to make sure my sister feels like the princess she is. Let me go check the scene and see what catastrophes need fixing.

I step out of my room and glance into the big, modern living area—one of those Airbnb-style rentals people book when they’re trying to save a few bucks. Another one of my father’s “brilliant” schemes.

Now, let’s see who will be the villain of today’s catastrophe. Oh, look—my pervy uncle is already making inappropriate jokes to the single bridesmaids. The cake hasn’t even arrived yet, and I can already see booze within arm’s reach.

Right, time to check on Mom and make sure she hasn’t already started on her second—or third—glass. Remember the mission: prevent a wedding disaster.

I start strolling through the house in search of Mom, careful not to let my big feet give me away. Ever since I was little, she’s always had the upper hand thanks to how loud I stomp. Every time, she’d scurry off with the wine before I could catch her. Not this time—this time, Mom will not hear me. Maybe if I tiptoe… or waddle like a penguin.

Wait… is someone watching me? I turn my head both ways. Um, I don’t see anyone, but I swear I feel someone sending death daggers straight into my face. Am I walking funny or something?

No worries—I have a mission to prevent a wedding disaster. I’ll just keep tiptoeing. Crap, my toes are actually starting to hurt. How do ballet dancers do this?

I have to keep going, almost to—FWOP! Did I just fall? I think I did. Thankfully… no one saw. I’ll just get up.

Wait… do I see a hand? It looks kind of huge. Is this guy Bigfoot or something? Uh… never mind. He just saw me fall.

I scramble to sit up, cheeks burning with embarrassment. That’s when I notice the hand—huge, steady, reaching out. I freeze, debating whether to accept it. Instead, I slap his hand away and whisper, “You saw nothing. You will not remember seeing me here.”

He looks at me with those cold, golden eyes, annoyance practically radiating off him. Great. First encounter and I’ve officially made an impression.

I quickly turn back to my mission: find Mom. Only… she’s already one step ahead. When I walk into her room, there’s a bottle of wine sitting empty on the dresser. Perfect. My sister is not going to be happy about this.

I finally spot Mom—and guess where she is? Right in the middle of a conversation with my sister. My sister already looks like she’s about to blow a corkscrew. Perfect. Let’s just… smooth the energy in this room.

“Hey, Mom!” I call out cheerfully. “Found you!”

Mom hears me, grips her wine bottle like it’s a lifeline, and makes a dramatic escape attempt. I step in just in time to block her, channeling all my strength and speed. Football player Mode: Activated.

My sister spins toward me, eyes wide and incredulous. “Annalise, what in the world are you doing? Are you trying to cause a commotion? Why can’t you just relax and not be… stranger than you already are? People might think you’re a nut. I don’t want my future husband to be ashamed of me.”

I freeze for a second, blinking. Did she just… call me a nut? And here I thought I was performing a public service. I bite my lip, suppress a snort, and reply, “Relax? Me? Oh, absolutely. Totally relaxed. Like a sloth hanging on a tree… very relaxed.”

Mom wriggles in my “containment bubble,” clutching her wine like I’m about to snatch it. Honestly? That is my actual plan. My sister mutters something about grace under pressure, but I’m already in full defensive stance, ready to intercept any further mom-sister collision.

Finally, Mom and I call a truce. I raise an imaginary white flag, and she nods, the wine bottle safely hidden (for now). Alliance formed. Our new mission? Help my sister finish her makeup and hair without any more incidents—or accidental hair-pulling, wine spills, or full-on meltdowns.

We approach her cautiously, like diplomats entering a very tense negotiation. Mom’s offering tips on eyeliner (somewhat questionable), while I silently guide her hands away from potential makeup disasters. My sister rolls her eyes, muttering something about not needing a personal army, but I can tell she’s secretly grateful.

Journal note: Truce achieved. Alliance formed. Sister’s vanity intact. Bigfoot is still lurking somewhere, probably judging my technique. Mission accomplished… and my sister said I do.