My kid sister, Ariel, used to tease her. Can we trade names? You’re the real Little Mermaid.
Mack has the long hair and the narrow waist, but that’s where the similarities end. She hates swimming. She won’t sing. She’s closed off instead of curious.
Ariel, the protagonist of the animated film, is so passionate about the human world that she’s willing to give up everything for it.
Ariel, my little sister, lacks the Disney character’s grace and singing voice, but has that same drive and curiosity.
My sister froze after our mom’s death. I did what I could to bring her out of her shell, but I didn’t exactly lead by example.
I was too busy trying to keep everyone healthy, happy, functional.
It took Dad years to get over Mom’s death.
By then, I was in college. I was struggling to juggle school and family. I was tired, frustrated, scared all the time.
Mack was the only person who understood.
It was easy being with her. I didn’t have to explain it or discuss it or look for cracks in her armor.
She just got it.
Her mom is an alcoholic. She knows what it means to take care of family.
She has a lot of other flaws, sure, but they seemed so insignificant in comparison.
My mom was gone. My dad was too depressed to get out of bed. My sister was lost. My brother was acting out.
What did it matter that Mack got jealous of girls who were thinner, prettier, more stylish?
What did it matter that she hated my favorite band?
That she liked pretentious movies and couldn’t follow basketball?
I’d done the college experience. Hooked up with strangers, gotten drunk at frat parties, skipped class to get high.
It was empty. Pointless.
Don’t get me wrong. I didn’t exactly mind sleeping with hot women. But after it was over, it was over. I didn’t feel better, fuller, more understood.
Sure, I was satisfied physically. But emotionally?
It was nothing like when I met Mack.
She was the first person who cared about more than the dark hair and the tattoos.
She knew exactly where I hurt. Exactly where to apply salve to the bruise.
I didn’t realize she’d use that knowledge to rub salt in the wound.
“You, um, you still playing basketball?” She follows my gaze to her mom. Presses her red lips together.
“Yeah. Once a week with Chase. Once a week with Holden.”
“Holden plays?” She clears her throat please look at me. Please pretend my mom isn’t drinking. Please make this go away.
“He’s not bad.”
“But you kick his ass every time?”
“Chase’s too.” My eyes flit to the bar. Skye and Diego are sitting across from each other. Talking about something.
Her hand brushes his arm.
He laughs at her joke.
She clinks glasses with him. Laughs harder. Not that fake laugh of earlier. A real one.
I know all of Skye’s expressions. I know her better than I know anyone.
“I’m worried too.” Mack’s voice is soft. “She’s so pretty. Not that she’s out of your league.”
“Yeah.” I don’t know what she means by that, but I don’t like her tone. “But no one compares to Skye.”
Her brow furrows. “And he’s…”
“You must like him. You’re marrying him.”
Her eyes turn down. “Forest, I… I don’t know what to say. I didn’t do this to hurt you.”
Maybe. But I’m not about to tell her it’s okay.
“It’s not like I wanted to fall in love with him.” Her gaze shifts to the bar. She watches as Skye swallows her last sip of wine. As Diego refills her glass. Leans in to whisper in Skye’s ear. “I thought we were forever.”
“What’s it matter now, Mack?”
“I just… I thought maybe you’d identify.”
“With worrying my girlfriend is going to leave me for someone else?”
She swallows her glass in two gulps. “Forest, you know I wouldn’t have done that unless—”
“Seriously, Mack. Don’t.”
She sets her glass on the table. Taps the wood with her red fingernails. (Twenty bucks say she’s wearing red heels too). “How are you?”
“How am I?”
“Yeah. Can I not ask that? Is it too sensitive a subject?” She reaches for the bottle.
“How many is that?”
“You’re not my keeper anymore.”
I was never her keeper. I looked out for her. That was all.
She needed more. She needed someone to take care of her for once. But whenever I tried—
Fuck it. She’s right. It’s not my problem.
If Mack wants to get drunk, she can. If she wants to stew in envy, she can. If she wants to interrogate her fiancé on his feelings for another woman, she can.
It’s her life.
She’s the one in charge of it.
She’s the one who decided she was done with me.
“So…” Mack takes another sip. “How are you?”
“Good. Busy. We don’t have enough help at the new shop. I’ve got a full schedule.”
“Busy suits you.” She presses her lips into a smile. “What else are you doing? Besides basketball and tattoos?”
“The usual.”
She stares back at me, not at all following.