Mia Sosa

She’s not joking. With that scathing soliloquy

nose and puts her hand out in a so-so

ld my arms over my chest and hover near the threshold

the center of the garden are inviting, but I’m drawn to the ornate wrought-iron

Ian peers at the vial more closely, then gapes at me. “My hair’s brown. That’s blond.”
“Yes, well, grooms whose buddies shave off their eyebrows the night before their wedding don’t get to choose from an array of hair color options. It’s either this stuff or a Sharpie. I can cover the blond with brow powder closer to your natural hair color afterward. We don’t have much time, though. What’ll it be?”

“What about a jumpsuit? It’s simple yet elegant. You’d be comfortable, too. And if you want a showstopping element, you can choose a design with a train.” I lean forward to make my final point. “Best of all, you could add P-O-C-K-E-T-S.”
“Don’t spell shit out this early in the morning, Lina. I can’t deal.”
I purse my lips at her. It’s eleven o’clock. “Pockets, bitch. Pockets.”
“Ooh, ooh,” Jaslene says, waving her hand. “I need that on a dress. With. Pockets.”

“That’s why I’ve always hated the term bridezilla. For one thing, it’s sexist. Women under immense pressure who speak up for what they want? Monsters. But also, it erases part of my identity. My true friends know I’m like this all the time.”

“I have a job to land and a business to run. Playing games is a luxury I can’t afford.”
Natalia rolls her eyes and neck as though she’s doing her best impression of a bobblehead. “I’m disappointed in you, Lina. Especially given what you do for a living. Haven’t you ever heard of multitasking? You can impress this Rebecca person and make the Brothers Karafuckoff suffer.”
I shake my head. “Dostoevsky, Natalia? Seriously?”

A woman jumps in between us, looking up at me with venom in her eyes. “Don’t answer her question with a question, creep.” She takes off an earring, then another, whips out a hair tie, and pulls her long, curly honey-brown hair into a ponytail. She’s getting ready for something, and given the way she’s cracking her knuckles, I don’t think it’s a tea party.

Frowning, I squish my eyebrows together and pretend to be confused. “I think I might have missed the moment when I left you at the altar.” Then I rest a hand on my hip and tap my chin. “Oh, wait a minute. That was my brother. Sorry. I get us confused sometimes. You do too, apparently.”