The Loyalty Complex

When I was eight years old, I attended my first wedding as the sister of the flower girl. I was too old to be a flower girl myself and too young to be a junior bridesmaid so I got stuck with the most unoriginal, boring title of them all: guest. I didn't even get a plus-one. Watching my five year old sister walk down the aisle in a pretty white dress and sparkly blue shoes made me extremely jealous. I wanted to be the one in all the pictures. I wanted to carry a basket filled with pink rose petals. Instead, I was sitting next to my mother with my arms crossed and a fowl look on my face. I didn't care. I didn't care that I was making the day about me when it rightfully belonged to my cousin Amy. I didn't care that my actions would cause me to lose dessert privileges for a week. I especially didn't care for the ugly maroon dress I was forced into wearing. I wanted their eyes to be on me, not on my immature little sister. I wanted the pre-wedding salon day complete with a mani-pedi. I wanted the petals and I wanted the sparkly blue shoes that my sister had taken from me. Above all else, I wanted to prove that I was the better sister, the one who deserved to hold such a high honor not just on Amy's wedding day, but every day afterwards.

Unfortunately, it's been twenty years and I still haven't been successful in doing so.

Just because I was born before Rebecca doesn't mean she's not the favorite in all aspects of everything. For example: I had to work my ass off to pay for my first car. The haggard Dodge Neon I ended up with needed more repairs than the car was worth but I bought it anyway because, let's face it, asking your parents to drive you and your boyfriend to the mall is embarrassing. It was an investment that cost me fifteen hundred dollars of “excuse me, can I get more sprinkles on this?” and other stupid questions at the stupid ice cream shop I worked at where I served stupid people their stupid ice cream. Rebecca, on the other hand, was given a brand new Jeep Grand Cherokee on her sixteenth birthday. Keep in mind that she hadn't worked a day in her life and got poorer grades than a blind squirrel would.

She totaled the Jeep two weeks after it was given to her. My parents bought her a Mustang to replace it.

Here's another reason why my sister is the devil: when I was ten, I walked to the store to buy my mom a Mother's Day card. The one I chose had a sweet and heartfelt poem in it about how much I loved her and how proud I was that she was my mom. I made the mistake of showing Rebecca the card and before I knew it that bitch had made a card of her own with almost the exact same poem hand written in it. It ended up on the refrigerator door for a week and mine was shoved in a drawer somewhere due to my mom claiming I “stole Rebecca's idea.” She still deserves a punch in the face for that one.

But I love my sister. Really, I do. And even though my family doesn't believe me and will probably never speak to me again (or at least for a good two years), I would never intentionally do anything to harm her.

Please keep that in mind as I share my story with you.


“Erin! You'll never believe it!”

“What do you want? I'm trying to sleep. Are you forgetting the time difference between you and I?”

“I'm getting married!”

“Awesome, Bec,” I managed to say through a yawn.

“Wake up, Erin! I'm getting married and I want to tell you all about him!”

“Becca, I want to sleep. Shut up and let me.”

“His name is...”

I hung up the phone before she could say anything else. Even from four hundred miles away my sister was the biggest pain in my ass.


The ice cold coffee made its way down the front of my blouse with ease, staining the once pristine white a murky caramel color. As soon as it happened I began laughing uncontrollably—it's what I've always done in hasty or confrontational situations. The man who spilled his drink on me kept repeating “sorry” over and over but all I was able to do was continue laughing. He handed me napkins to pat myself down with and after blotting up small amounts of liquid for a solid thirty seconds I was finally able to stop making myself look like I belonged in a loony bin.

“I'm so sorry,” he said again. I detected nerves in his tone, almost like he was afraid of my reaction. I can't say that I blame him—that day, I was wearing one of my more expensive outfits. The simple white blouse, now stained, was $917; the bright red boyfriend blazer cost $520; my absolute favorite pair of boots took a good $1,095 out of my last paycheck; I paid a whopping $3,600 in Manhattan for the insanely cute but definitely overpriced leopard print skirt; the accessories alone added another two grand to the outfit's price tag. “Let me buy you a new shirt.”

I could have been rude and laughed at that, too. I could have said something along the lines of this outfit cost me more than you make in six months but I didn't. Instead, I giggled like an eight year old girl.

“No, that's okay. I'll make a pitstop at home before I head to work.”

The benefits of being my own boss: I could make my own hours, pick my own clients, and hire and fire whoever I wanted. Take that, corporate America.

“Please, I insist,” the man said with a sweet smile. I shook my head and grinned back at him. “At least let me buy you your coffee, then, before you go?” He was actually pretty good looking for a guy at a local coffee shop. There was a Starbucks across the street where most young people hung out or went to get their morning coffee and that's where I would have expected someone like him to be. He was tall and built well with just the right amount of scruff on his face. His eyes were kind and gentle and his smile was too good to be true. I fell right into the trap with a nod and a playful roll of the eyes.

We walked to the counter together (due to the Starbucks there were rarely people in Annie's at seven a.m.) and I smiled at the owner's daughter, Meri. “Iced, three cream two sugar with hazelnut,” I ordered. The man ordered his coffee again and I began a conversation with Meri. “How did your finals go?”

“They went well, thank you for asking! I hope to have at least gotten a B-plus in my physics class but I won't know until next week.”

“I'm sure you did great,” I smiled at her. “Where's your mom?”

“In the back making pastries. Do you want me to go snag her for you?” Meri handed my coffee over the counter and handed the man his change at the same time. I noticed she gave him a once-over, probably trying to figure out why he was there and not across the street.

“Unnecessary. I only wanted to tell her good morning. Thank you for the coffee!”

When I walked to the napkin and extra goodies bar to enhance my beverage, the man followed behind at a comfortable distance, his own coffee gripped in his large hand.

“I take it you come here often,” he chuckled and poured a package of vanilla flavoring into his cup.

I shrugged. “I guess, it's cheaper than the Starbucks and better tasting. Plus it's less walking for me to do.” The thought that I may have shared too much crossed my mind but I brushed it off. It's not like I'd ever see this guy again.

“Less walking?”

Okay, so much for being subtle.

“I live half a block away. It's a one bedroom near Mia's, the Italian restaurant that likes to compete with RPM. Personally, I like Mia's better but my clients usually prefer RPM. Whatever, as long as I'm getting paid, right?” I joked with a wink. Leave it to me to not withhold any information ever.

My words got a laugh out of the man and he shook his head once, then ran his free hand through his hair.

“Listen,” he began. “Can I get your number? You seem like you know how to have fun and Lord knows I could use some fun right now.”

I started walking towards the front door after checking my watch and noticing I would be late if I didn't leave soon.

“Oh, I'm really bad with dating. Like, really bad. You don't want to hang out with me.”

“I really think I do. At least let me take you out to dinner.”

“You just bought me a coffee!”

“Hey Mystery Lady, I know I may not look like it but I know how to spot expensive clothing. The shirt you're wearing is silk and I know it cost you a lot more than four dollars. Let me at least attempt to make it up to you. Please?”

I glanced down at my watch again and with an early Autumn breeze surrounding me, I groaned dramatically. “Fine. Give me your phone,” I demanded. He did so quickly and I entered my name with a fake number.

Erin Grace
312-630-8470

“I'll see you around, Erin,” he smiled at me and I waved him off, heading for the direction of my apartment. I guess I've never been good at the whole dating thing.


You never really know someone until you've seen their bedroom. That's my motto, the one I've known and lived by since I started my first interior design job three years ago. I've seen horrendous rooms turn into Good Housekeeping-worthy rooms with a simple change of paint color and I've seen Good Housekeeping-worthy rooms become multimillion dollar rooms under my direction. I started interning for J&P Design Co. during my last semester of college and was offered a paid position after graduation. I took it not realizing how much more work an actual employee had to put into their job as compared to an intern. It's not that I'm lazy, I just prefer to be the one bossing people around rather than be the one bossed around. Because of that, I left J&P six months after becoming an employee and took one of their top clients with me.

What can I say? Donald Trump knew he wanted the best and knew he would get the best by sticking with me. I designed the three hundred and thirty six hotel rooms and am permanently his “go-to” for the nearly five hundred condo residents who might be thinking about redecorating in the highly prestigious Trump Tower Chicago. Although my bills are paid mainly by the “big guy,” I do hold other clients in other places in the city, however due to my connection to the Tower I'm usually only contacted by high-profile clientele.

I have no problem with this.

I am able to live more comfortably than I need to and have been provided a place to live at the Tower for twenty percent less per month than its average resident. I am my own boss and can make my own hours, avoiding stress and all the hoopla that comes with running around for other people and being someone's bitch. My clothes cost more than my rent and car payment combined and I still have enough money at the end of the month to take an impromptu trip to Paris whenever I feel like it. I never feel like it but the option is there.

Of course I get slack from my parents for living this way but why should I care? They've never taken interest in my career before—they shunned me for a week when I told them I wanted to move to Chicago for school—and starting to care now that I've become somebody in high demand shouldn't change that. Sometimes I think that maybe they're upset because while I'm living the good life in a big city filled to its brim with big people and big ideas, they're stuck in Ohio where there's nothing but cornfields and the smell of my grandmother's perfume that I swear won't leave town even though she's been dead for three years.

But even with all of my successes, I still found myself sad during that time in my life. I was alone in a big city (I was only surrounded by big people with bigger ideas) and had nobody to share my success with. I could have gotten a dog but it wouldn't have been able to give me the right kind of advice—because, let's face it, a tail wag doesn't count as advice—and I would have only been with it for a few hours a day. I wanted a human companion. A friend. Preferably a relationship that included sex. Hook-ups with Trump residents weren't cutting it anymore. And it figures that as soon as I got the chance to have a relationship I gave the guy a fake number.

How pathetic.


“Erin, there's a new resident on floor fifty three who has requested a meeting with you. When are you able to meet with them?” Dana, the director of resident affairs at Trump, asked me through the phone.

“Dana, you know my business hours are nine to four,” I joked with her. In all reality I never stopped working. I was always shopping online for the perfect bedskirt, calling somebody about a screwed up order, or at a hardware store looking at paint colors or wood finishes or flirting with teenage cashiers. That counts as work, right?

“Very funny. This guy is high profile and just purchased the place. Says he hates the color in the living room and it needs to go. His words, not mine,” she said and I could almost hear her eyes roll through the phone. All the apartments in the Tower were painted the same earthy beige to accommodate a range of styles and tastes dependent on gender. Dana picked the color due to me not being hired yet.

I glanced at my watch and noted the time. “I can be there at five. Is that okay?” It was three thirty and I was across town at (what else?) a hardware store.

“Sure, I'll let him know. Thanks Erin.”

Dana hung up the phone before I could say anything else. Clearing my throat, I glanced at the probably sixteen year old boy assisting me in the doorknob aisle. Like I really needed help with doorknobs.

“I'll take six of the black curl handles and three black simple knobs. Can you ring them up for me, please?” I batted my eyelashes and smiled at him politely. His cheeks turned a deep red and he nodded his head quickly, walking off in the direction of the storage room without saying a word.

Typical.


Deciding I looked decent enough for a short notice meeting with a client, I skipped the chance to go up a few floors to my apartment and instead chose to be early for the meeting. I took the elevator to floor fifty three and headed directly to the door with “Fifty&Eight” branded on the front of it. The numbering of the apartments was the one thing I didn't like about the Trump—it made them seem like street corners in Manhattan. Street corners in Manhattan, in case you've never been there, are the worst.

I could hear Jason Aldean's Dirt Road Anthem coming from inside the apartment and made my knocking loud enough to be heard by its tenant. When the door swung open, I almost laughed out loud from the irony. Standing in front of me was the guy from Annie's and if I thought he was cute before, I should have waited until that moment to pass judgement. He had clearly just gotten out of the shower because his hair was wet and the white tee shirt he wore was damp, clearly outlining his stellar ab muscles that were hidden in his clothing from a few days ago. The black basketball shorts didn't do much to distract me from his figure, either. I felt insanely overdressed and he picked up on it instantly.

“Wow, I definitely wasn't expecting to see you at my door. And looking so casual. I like it.” At least he didn't mention the phone number. “You know, I really appreciate you giving me a fake number. Playing hard-to-get is very classy of you.”

Dammit, I thought.

“Well what can I say? I don't want to make myself look easy,” I replied with a sheepish grin. I craned my neck to look behind him. “Mind if I come in so we can get started on mapping things out? I'm on a tight schedule.”

“Come on in,” he welcomed me inside by opening the door wider and stepping out of the way. When I was fully inside and he had shut the door, he walked over to his iHome that was on the kitchen island and turned the music off. “Sorry. I wasn't expecting you to be early.”

“That's okay. Jason's one of my favorites,” I said. It's the truth—country music is the best music regardless of what anybody tries to tell me.

The man's mouth quickly formed into a smile. “Let me guess, you're a Luke Bryan fan, too?” he asked. I knew where he was getting at.

“He can shake it for me any time he wants.”

A booming laugh erupted in the room and the man bent over clutching his stomach. He was probably exaggerating to make me feel like I was funny, I decided, and simply rolled my eyes at his behavior. As cute as he was, the reaction was ridiculous. And my joke wasn't even that funny. When he finally calmed down and stood up straight, the smile was still on his face when he looked into my eyes.

“Is your name really Erin?” he asked slyly.

“Yes.”

“Just checking. I mean, you did give me a fake number. I have every right to ask.”

“Yes, Erin is my real name. And I don't believe I know yours.”

“My name is Rick,” he stuck his hand out for me to shake. “Rick Nash. It's nice to meet you. Formally, I mean.”

I shook his hand firmly and in a professional manner. “Let's get started then, yeah? Like I said, I'm on a tight schedule.”

By the end of our meeting, Rick and I had agreed on two things. One, his bedroom would be a slate grey with dark blue accents and lime green “pops,” and two, the only kind of pizza is deep dish pizza. That conversation started thanks to my stomach growling—I hadn't gotten the chance to eat that day—and Rick laughing at me. I mentioned that maybe if I hadn't had an “emergency” meeting with a client than I would have been able to eat and he laughed some more, proposing that he order a pizza. I said it had to be deep dish or else I wouldn't eat it.

Really, I promise I'm an adult.

So over a dinner of deep dish and beer, we got to know each other.

“Where are you from?” he asked, reaching for a second slice.

“Ohio,” I replied. The word left a bitter taste in my mouth. “Columbus.” The color drained from Rick's face. “You've been there?” I asked. “It's not much, is it? At least compared to here.”

“I...um...you're from Columbus?” he questioned. “Columbus, Ohio?”

I raised my eyebrows. “Didn't I just say that?” It wasn't very professional of me but I think my professional credibility flew out the door the second I told Rick to eat shit (it's a long, irrelevant story).

“So you know who I am then.” It wasn't a question, it was a statement. And it confused the hell out of me.

“...No? Should I?”

“I'm kind of a big deal in Columbus.”

“Well, I'm kind of a big deal in this complex and you had no idea who I was until about an hour and a half ago.”

“Point taken,” he smiled and raised his beer to me. “Why did you move from Columbus to Chicago?”

“Wait, wait, wait. You can't bring up me 'knowing who you are' and then change the subject when I admit that I don't know. Who are you? Why are you so important to Columbus?”

Rick's demeanor changed as he sat further back on the recliner (we were eating in the living room due to him not having a table yet). He set his beer down on the coffee table and crossed his arms behind his head.

“I play hockey,” he said. “Professional. I was just traded from the Blue Jackets to the Blackhawks.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“That's it? Normally when I admit what I do for a living women ask me how much money I make.”

“Rick,” I laughed. “Do I look like the kind of person who cares how much money you make? I probably make the same that you do, give or take a few thousand. And, I'm just being honest here, I was kind of wondering how you could afford to live here. I mean, you don't look like the type of clientele I usually deal with.”

“Wow, insult my ego much?”

“Sorry,” I said with a shrug. “Just being honest.”

When the pizza was gone and the beer had made my brain fuzzy, I grabbed my heels from the ground and stood up, ready to head upstairs and go to bed.

“Well, Rick, it was a pleasure,” I told him with a smile on my face. It wasn't a lie, either. I had actually managed to have a good time with a guy without having sex with him: an A+ night in my book. “What are you doing tomorrow?”

“Good looking, funny, and forward? You are every guy's dream girl,” joked Rick as he walked with me to the apartment's door. “The only thing I have going on tomorrow is a morning workout with my trainer. Other than that, I'm all yours.”

“Oooh, and I'm the forward one,” I said with a wink. “I was going to suggest we meet somewhere and go over plans for the living room. After all, the color just has to go.” A blush rose to Rick's cheeks and he tried to cover it by turning his head. It didn't work and I laughed to tell him that I saw it. “Goodnight, Rick.”

As I walked down the hall, I heard him call for me.

“I still need your number!”

“I've got yours!” I replied, swinging my hips sassily for good measure. Fifty&Eight didn't close until I stepped into the elevator.


That night was the beginning of a friendship that I had so desperately needed. Since moving to Chicago from Ohio, the only friends I had gained were the wives of my employers, who only liked me because I knew how to dress, and the occasional tenant in their eighties who thought that moving downtown from the suburbs and blowing their retirement money on an extravagant apartment was living life in the fast lane.

Rick and I spent so much time together that we learned each other's quirks. I knew that if his socks weren't plain white it would drive him nuts, he knew that I couldn't pass Macy's without stopping in to look at their perfume sales. We even saw Jason Aldean together when he came through on his My Kinda Party tour with Luke Bryan. To say we had a great time would be the understatement of the century.

But, as with seemingly everything in my life, nothing can go that well for that long without something changing drastically.

The first time we had sex, we were both drunk. That sloppy, slurring your words kind of drunk. We'd gone out to celebrate the official signing of his contract and ended up at a bar. I kicked his ass at pool, deliberately teasing him by bending too far over in the tight skirt I wore, and before I could count to twenty we were back at the Trump and going at it like rabbits.

Nothing evolved from that night. We acted like it didn't happen. But then it happened again. And again. And again, until eventually I was coming to his door in the middle of the night wearing nothing but booty shorts and a tank top, looking to get my rocks off. As far as relationships go, ours was as dysfunctional as it could get. Neither of us wanted anything more than sex, and we continued to be friends during the day but fuck buddies at night.

So of course I wanted more after about three weeks of our stupid little game. Rick was the best lover I'd ever had, and trust and believe I'd had plenty of them. Tall guys, short guys, big guys, small guys—I'd had them all. Rick was the crème de le crème of sex. The guy knew his way around the female body and Jesus Christ was he not afraid to show it.

But this is my life we're talking about. And nothing in my life stays good for long. Because when I suggested steering out midnight fun into something more serious, something more suitable for the daytime, Rick threw out the biggest, most disgusting revelation I had ever heard from anyone.

He had a girlfriend. They'd been together for just under a year, and he said they were serious. Serious enough to go behind her back and fuck the interior designer of the place you live, I guess.

I stopped talking to him after I found out. I wasn't about the be the other woman and I definitely wasn't about to put myself in a situation to get hurt even worse. Because, let's face it here, any woman who sleeps with a guy more than once will eventually gain some sort of feelings for him. I'd be lying if I said that quitting him cold turkey didn't hurt and take a lot more persistence than I thought I possessed. The urge to go downstairs every night would come at around ten p.m but I ignored it, choosing to focus on work things and online shopping instead. If I couldn't satisfy the craving one way, I'd do it in another.

I also had a much needed distraction coming up towards the end of the summer: my sister's engagement party, scheduled for the first week in July, was being held back home in Ohio at some swanky country club I'm sure my parents were more than happy to foot the bill for. If it were me getting married, they would insist that my engagement party be at a Taco Bell in order for them to be able to pay for it. But since it was Rebecca, and Rebecca was their pride and joy, she got the country club. The only country club I would ever get from them would be a sandwich.

When I landed in Ohio, Rebecca met me at the airport with a smile on her face that was wide enough to use as a landing strip for an airplane. The rock on her left ring finger looked like it could have been used as a prop in Blood Diamond: obnoxious, tacky, and totally Rebecca's style. I complimented it immensely, telling her how gorgeous it looked on her finger all the while trying not to throw up from the smell of Bumfuck, Ohio mixing with the lingering stench of the two drunk guys at my baggage gate.

I spent my first day in Ohio with Rebecca, shopping for her wedding dress. The one she fell in love with was a Vera Wang gown, shipped in from New York the previous week specifically for Rebecca. The price tag was just over sixteen thousand dollars, surely something I could afford based on my own income but nothing near what Rebecca could pay for, what with her still being in college (senior year, regardless) and all.

“How are you paying for this?” I remember asking with a dropped jaw when she was told the price.

“Daddy said he would help me out because I'm the only daughter he'll live to see get married—his words, not mine—and Rick is going to eat the rest.”

The dig at my marital status was enough to make me ignore and Rick is going to eat the rest. I could always count on my father to use me as an excuse to spoil Rebecca. What I should have done was ask who Rick was and why he had no problem spending so much money on a wedding dress, but I wasn't thinking clearly. I was seeing red, as I usually do whenever I'm with a member of my family for more than thirty seconds.

We left the store, my Dad and “Rick” sixteen thousand dollars poorer, and I was then dragged to a boutique downtown (downtown Columbus is much like Wrigleyville in Chicago: everyone is low class but pretends to be high class because they're so “urban”) where my “superior taste in design” was needed to choose a color pallete for the engagement party the following night.

“You didn't do this a week ago?” I asked Rebecca, already feeling the headache that was bound to form within the hour.

“No. I knew you would take care of it for me today.”

And of course I would. I would never leave my baby sister hanging out to dry on such an important day in her life. So I picked out colors and flowers and fabrics and I woke my ass up at six a.m. the next morning, even though I was jet lagged and bitchy, to create cute centerpieces with tiny glass vases and pebbles I made Rebecca buy at Hobby Lobby. My darling sister was too busy waking up at her fiancee's house to help me.

I got to the country club two hours before everyone else, centerpieces and other decorations in tow. I should have noticed when I first walked in, but my mind was so focused on making things pretty and worthy of an engagement party that I completely blocked out the photo of Rebecca and Rick, my Rick, on the glass door that opened the banquet hall. I didn't take notice of it until after I had set everything up and was walking back into the room, trying to imagine what a “first look” would feel like from the guest's perspective. I use that tool a lot when designing rooms because first impressions are the most important impressions you can make. As much as my sister annoys me, I will always want the best for her.

Briefly, I considered high tailing it back to Chicago. With twenty minutes until everyone was expected to arrive, I had more than enough time to run back to my parents' house, pack what little things I brought with me, and catch the next flight out of Ohio.

I stayed. Whether it was because I wanted to see his face and make sure it was real or some other force compelling me not to leave, I'm still not sure. But I am sure of this: the look on Rick's face when he saw me, standing and laughing with my cousin Amy near the bar, is a look that will never leave my memory.

Forget all that you've heard about deers in headlights. They can't hold a candle to Rick Nash's look of surprise. A million times better, it is, because he saw me at the exact moment he entered the room, while he and Rebecca were being introduced as “Ohio's happiest couple.” He played it off well, and smiled like he was supposed to. I found out later, actually, that the Dispatch, Columbus' major newspaper, was covering their wedding and took pictures of the entire event.

I was walking out of the banquet room and to the bathroom when a hand wrapped around my wrist and pulled me into an empty hallway.

“What are you doing here?” Rick asked me in a whisper.

I pulled my arm away from him. “I'm here for my sister's engagement party, you asshole! What are you doing here?” Shaking my head, I told him not to answer. “Of course my sister is your girlfriend—no, your fiancee! Why wouldn't she be? My life is a cruel joke after all.”

“Erin, I—”

“Save it, Rick. How does it make you feel to know that you're going to be with someone like Rebecca—someone who has no problem spending your money—for the rest of your life?”

“I've wanted to talk to you every day since things ended with us. You don't know how many times I had to stop myself from going upstairs and being with you, but you wouldn't have wanted to see me. I'm a cheating asshole. I'm a disgusting, despicable human being and have no right to be with someone as incredible as you. I deserve Rebecca.”

Memories from my childhood came back to me at that moment. Rebecca stealing the words from the Mother's Day card I bought my mom. Rebecca's first car. Rebecca's second car. Rebecca at my cousin Amy's wedding. And despite the work I'd put in to the day being perfect for her with absolutely no “thank you” or recognition, despite the feeling in the pit of my stomach telling me not to do it, that I'm much too good of a person, I did it anyway. I looked Rick in the eyes and told him the biggest lie I could say.

“Rebecca deserves you.”


The next time I saw Rick was in the elevator at the Trump. It had been two weeks since the incident in Ohio and while I didn't tell my sister anything about our past, I got the feeling she knew something was up when she “introduced” us. Fake smiles and awkward handshakes have never really been able to make it past Rebecca's radar. In the elevator, we didn't speak; I pretended to be reading something on my phone in order to avoid it. He got off at Fifty&Eight and I got up to my floor before sighing, pressing a button on the door, and heading back downstairs.

I knocked three times. He opened the door and attached his mouth to mine. In a split second, we were back to the way it was before I found out about his girlfriend, before I found out it was Rebecca.

And I didn't feel bad about it.


“Your wedding invitation came in the mail today. A September wedding in Ohio. Cute. Original.”

“Do we have to do this?”

“Yep.”

“Let me go up there.”

“Nope. I think I'm going to take a photo of this and post it on Instagram for my thirteen followers to see.”

“Erin.”

“Rick.”

“She's sleeping. She'll never know.”

“No.”

“Please?”

“Go cuddle with my sister.”

“Wow, Erin.”


It was easy, really. Pretending that he wasn't getting married in less than a month, pretending she didn't exist. But the second I began to think about it, think about what I was doing not only to myself but to my sister, it was the furthest thing from easy. It was running a marathon in stilettos, watching a child cry. It was eating a dog, listening to One Direction. I had been thinking about it more and more as the wedding date approached, and Rick wasn't doing much to help me by leaving me cute notes around the complex and texting me silly things to make me laugh.

Maybe that's why on August 30, one week before the wedding, I lost it.

I knocked three times on his door and waited. Rick opened the door no doubt expecting a hug and a kiss but I shook my head, pushing past him and pacing on the hardwood.

“I don't think I can do this anymore,” I told him bluntly. My Jimmy Choos were no doubt going to damage his floor but I wasn't thinking about it, just as I hadn't been thinking about my sister every time I fucked her fiancee.

“Babe, what?” Rick closed the door and then backed up against it, keeping his distance from me.

“This. Us. Whatever we've been doing. I can't.”

“Is this about the wedding? Erin, we talked about it. It's going to be fine, we'll stop once the vows are said. No strings attached.”

My feet stopped and my brain went into over drive. I had an entire speech planned out before I went down there, complete with bullet points and evidential claims to use in my argument for why we needed to end this. Unfortunately, when my brain goes into over drive I lose the ability to think before speaking no matter how long I've been preparing for.

“You don't get it, do you?” I asked, dramatically pulling out a barstool from his island countertop and plopping into it with no grace. “This isn't about you and me, Rick. This is about my sister.”

“She's never going to know.”

“How can you be so sure? What if one day, years from now, we're at a family dinner—you with your kids, me with my eleven cats—and I accidentally slip up? Hey Rick, remember that time you and I used to bang? I'm sure that will go over well.”

“That won't happen and you know it.”

“But it could, Rick. It could. And I know I said my sister deserves you but she really doesn't. Nobody deserves this. Being lied to, being in love with someone who doesn't love you in the same way...it's the worst feeling, Rick.”

He stayed silent.

“I can't say this wasn't fun. You were a great friend and an even better lover, but I can't do this to Rebecca. I can't do this to myself.” I looked up at him through heavy eyelashes and burning eyes, ready to cry, but my pride would never allow me to do so. I don't cry in front of people. “I am so in love with you, Rick. That crazy can't eat, can't sleep, reach for the stars, over the fence, World Series kind of stuff. But it can't happen. You're marrying my sister and I'll be damned if something I'm at the core of was the reason for her life, however young and entitled it may be, being over. Besides, it's not like you feel the same way.”

The statement hung in the air like a cloud of smog hangs over a freeway in California. No words came out of Rick's mouth, but he moved away from the door and stepped to me. When he reached me, his lips brushed my forehead. I felt the words as he said them.

“I think you should go.”

Making sure my shoes left a mark, I pushed myself off of the stool and opened the door to his apartment. With a final look back at him, eyes still burning, I shook my head.

“Still doesn't deserve you.”


Rebecca had chosen pastel pink and lime green for her wedding colors. The flowers and candles lining the aisle were all white, held together with silver ribbon bows. The bridesmaids, of which I wasn't a part of because, even though I'm her only sister, I wasn't “important” enough to stand at the altar with her, wore strapless knee length numbers that looked like they had been bought at a prom dress store. Pairing them with zebra print shoes probably didn't help the case. I thought it was hideously tacky but hey, it wasn't my wedding. Groomsmen in sneakers has never been a favorite of mine, either.

It was an outdoor ceremony at a golf course that had more swank than Hilary. Two white tents were at the back of the ceremony space, each housing either the bride or the groom. There wasn't even an altar, really, just a weeping willow tree that hung like drapes over where Rebecca and Rick were to be married.

My designer's mind was redecorating the entire space when my dad tapped me on the shoulder.

“Rick wants to see you,” he whispered.

“What?”

“Rick. Says he needs to talk to you. Something about wanting to change the color of his pocket fabric but not knowing which one to choose, and since he can't ask Rebecca...”

Sighing, I stood from the wooden white chair I wasn't very comfortable in and headed towards the groom's tent. Rick was alone when I entered, his back facing me.

“Nice lie.”

At the sound of my voice, he swung around quicker than the speed of light. “Erin,” he breathed out. I hate that he did it at that moment. He used to do it when we were fucking and it always made me wet. “Thank God you're here.”

“Where else would I be? It's my sister's wedding.”

“Listen, Erin, the way you left things at my apartment—”

“The way I left things? Oh, that's rich.”

“The way you left things at my apartment...it shouldn't have ended that way. It should have...it should have ended with—”

“With what, Rick? Sex? That's all our relationship was to you, I know. Sorry if my love and respect for my sister became too much of an inconvenience for you. Sorry if my loving you more than I should, more than you deserve to be loved, made you uncomfortable.”

“No, Erin. Stop talking,” he demanded, taking three large strides to be directly in front of me. “It wasn't an inconvenience. I...I was feeling the same way. About your sister, I mean. She doesn't deserve me. Nobody deserves me. I'm an asshole. But Erin...Jesus Christ, Erin. I'm in love with you and I don't know how to go about it. You're everything I ever wanted in a woman. You can drink a beer and eat real food, you listen to country music. Your hockey knowledge is shit. You don't care about my money. You're the real deal, Erin. I love you. More than anyone in the world, I love you.”

Nervously, I cracked my knuckles. Always hating when I did that, Rick grabbed my hands and laced our fingers together. Instinctively I moved them so they rested on his sides, and before I knew it Rick had pressed his mouth to mine. I didn't kiss him back, and I tried to move away, pull against him, but it was too late.

“Rick, we've got two—”

My dad's voice filled the tent before I could detach myself from the man I was in love with, the man my sister was marrying in apparently two minutes.

We split like oil and water. My look was one of a deer in the headlights (or should I say Rick at an engagement party) and Rick's was calm, cool, and collected. The son of a bitch.

“What's going on, here?” asked my dad in the same voice he would use when I was a child doing something stupid. “Erin?”

“Steve, it—”

“Erin, I believe I asked you a question.” Not knowing what to do, and because I have never been able to face my dad when in trouble, I cowered beneath my capabilities, slumping my shoulders and avoiding eye contact. “I thought you were better than this. I know you've always been jealous of your sister but I didn't know you would go this far. Erin, I'm disappointed in you.”

The stinging behind my eyes came back, and for a moment I considered throwing my pride out the window. It was a short lived moment as I remembered that I am better than those fucking people and deserve to be treated as I am, not by my moments of failure.

Not that I would ever say any of this to my mother or father.

“Here's what we're going to do,” my father began, still talking to me and not Rick. Because Rick didn't kiss me, in the eyes of my dad. I kissed him. I guess it probably looked that way, what with the position of my hands and him not being able to see the look of utter shock on my face. “Erin, you're going to head back to the house, pack your things, and go back to Chicago. Right now. You've just gotten sick from dinner last night. Rick, you're going to marry Rebecca because you love her and Erin's actions have nothing to do with your feelings. You're a good man. You'll do the right thing.”

Finally, I lifted my head and met my dad's gaze.

“Do you understand me?” I nodded. “And Erin, don't ever show your face around this family again.” I nodded again and left the tent, not knowing why I thought Rick would stand up for me. My dad was right. He's a good man, he'll do the right thing.

As long as the right thing means looking out for himself.


Three knocks. I don't even know how he got up there, but he did it. In order to get to my floor you need either a passcode or a keypod, of which Rick had neither, but it didn't stop him from knocking three times on my door on September 9th, two days after the wedding.

“Erin, open the door.”

Three knocks.

“Erin, I know you're in there. Martin told me.”

So it was the front desk that got him to my floor. The bastards. Three knocks.

“I'm not leaving until you talk to me.”

Three knocks.

“I didn't marry her.”

It caught my attention, but I didn't open the door. I was too busy packing my life into brown boxes, bottling up everything I'd worked so hard for and getting ready to ship it to New York. I knew I couldn't stay in Chicago after what had happened, and after a little coaxing with the Donald I had secured a job in NYC working on his new high rise condo building. I would get to start from scratch and choose my own color to paint the living rooms. It would definitely not be an earthy beige.

Three knocks.

“Erin, I love you and I'm sorry for everything I did to you. Please open the door. Please talk to me. I...I don't know what I can do to make this better but I want to try, dammit. You deserve me trying. You deserve the world.”

He was right. I did deserve the world. I deserved a world where the guy I love doesn't put me on the back burner until the last possible two minutes. I deserved a family that didn't treat me like the mud on the bottom of their shoe. I deserved to be happy and carefree and everything that I was when I was with Rick before shit hit the fan.

And if it took a heartbreak, a wedding, and moving to the East Coast to prove that to me, well, I'm not going to argue.