"How was he?" Her voice came out of nowhere.
What … ?
"I … uh … excuse me?"
"Was he any good?" It was Millie's turn to scurry up and sit beside me. She flung one leg over the other, tapping her lips. "I was only with him one time. Between you and me, he barely touched me. Half the time we were just kissing between me doing his homework." She giggled, and hell, hearing this made me feel good.
"He was … " I narrowed my eyes, inspecting my sister closely. Was she drunk? High? Couldn't be, as she had a bun in the oven. But it didn't look like she cared one bit. I knew that she was over him. Knew that they were never in love in the first place. After Millie had run to New York, I monitored her every move from afar, making sure her heart wasn't broken. She felt regret and sorrow for the way she ended things with Dean, but never longing. So I knew she wasn't going to feel the sting of heartbreak. But this … this was weird, too.
"He was … ?" my sister prompted, tilting her chin down.
Dirty-hot. Filthy-rough. Mind-blowingly hard. The best I've ever had.
"Well," I coughed into my fist, "let's just say that while I have a lot of criticism when it comes to his personality, you will not hear me complain about him in the sack. So, are you really not mad?"
She shrugged. "He's a HotHole, Rosie. They're so bad they can't even spell the word 'good', but I think you already know that. As long as you protect your heart." She placed her palm over the left side of my Anti-Flag shirt. "I'm supportive of this, whatever this is. I just want what's best for you. Does he make you happy?"
Did Dean make me happy? I couldn't answer that honestly. When we were together, I was either drunk or angry. Sometimes both. And I always left him feeling so guilty, there was a pinch of salt to every sexual encounter. To every heart-to-heart moment. Even when I held him close to me the night we found out Val left Trent, I couldn't let my heart beat for Dean. It had to have Millie's permission first.
"I think I could be," I answered, feeling excitement and awe swirling in the pit of my stomach.
"Then it's settled. You have my blessing." She clapped once, smiling.
With this blessing-which I did not take lightly, it was my ticket to happiness, after all-I also made a promise. I was going to be the best bridesmaid in the history of bridesmaids on Sunday. The opposite of Annie. The prospect of redeeming myself made my heart beat faster.
"Thank you, Millie." I exhaled the air I'd been holding since we started this conversation, and my lungs winced in relief.
"Don't thank me. Thank love. It conquers all."
"Even Dean 'Manslut' Cole?" I joked.
My sister slapped my thigh, laughing.
"Oh, I have a feeling especially him."
FUCK, I HATED WEDDINGS.
I almost forgot about this little fact-almost-but then Vicious and Millie's collision of prissy food, bright colors, and sweaty, dressed-up guests had reminded me that if I were ever to get hitched, it was going to be in Vegas.
It was a good thing Rosie and I had plane tickets to New York first thing tomorrow morning, because I was desperate to get the hell out of Todos Santos and begin my relentless pursuit after her. I called it: Operation: The Right LeBlanc Sister. And I was going to start by breaking the fucking news on national television so she'd stop feeling so goddamn guilty every time we slept together. That was one of the roots of our problem, and I was eager to tear it from its base and kill the shame and prejudice I saw when she looked me in the eyes.
Baby LeBlanc and I haven't had much time for each other between Thursday and Sunday. I passed her in the hall a few times, and every time I did, our fingers laced, or our shoulders brushed, or she would give me that smile. The one that she invented especially for me and didn't give anyone else.
She was busy. Running back and forth with her sister to salons, spas, and final fittings was time-consuming. She looked so tired all the time, but held her head up. I tried to sneak into her room the night she came back to Todos Santos, on Thursday, but found Millie sleeping next to her.
Fucking Millie. Denying me from Rosie, even eleven years later.
I dutifully played my part at the wedding. Stood in a symmetric line with Trent, Jaime, Vicious, and my dad, Eli, who was a huge part of Vicious's support system, to welcome the guests. The air was humid and the sun as angry as a PMSing teenage girl who'd just caught her boyfriend jerking off to a Demi Lovato photo. I sweated inside my five-grand, tailor-made tux and itched to grab a glass of champagne and toss it down my throat, but I wanted to keep my promise to Rosie. No more booze, at least until I conquered the need to drink to forget. I still smoked weed, but no more than one blunt a day.