“Hold still, you little shit. If you keep moving, I might end up poking you in the eye,” I warn my little sister as she fidgets in her chair.
“I’ll stop moving once you stop digging your nails into my face,” she complains. She brings a hand up to her mouth and swallows uncomfortably. Something pulls on my thoughts but I dismiss it to continue preparing Emi for her wedding.
I survey her face, pleased with my work. And then I looked down… love bites all over her throat and chest, some fresh purple and red, others yellowing as they heal. “Oh for the love of – couldn’t you have told him to hold off on that until after the wedding? Puta madre! On your back, too? Is he a fucking shark?!”
“Lala’s cursing in church!” Manny sing-songs in that annoying tone he used to do whenever they’d gang up and tattle on me or Javier. Lenny snickers and I suck the air through my teeth in frustration, I’d forgotten how much of a pain in the ass those three could be.
“I can fix this. I can fix this, don’t worry,” I say, though it’s more for my benefit than Emi’s – who’s lazily smiling at my shock at the state of her neck.
“I’m not worried. It kind of turns me on he left them where they’re seen.”
“You could have waited,” I whine. Couldn’t she have thought about the pictures, at least?! Those get passed around for generations and there she’d be, looking like she just stepped out from a bar bathroom straight to her wedding.
“Well, I tried, but when he gives me that big-“
“Emilia Beatriz!” my mother scolds loudly and each of the triplets’ heads duck – if one got in trouble, they usually all ended up suffering together. I quietly blend the makeup hoping to passably cover the purple ones, which might have been a futile effort when I smelt a scent that still made my stomach churn to this day – ginger tea.
I whip my head to where my mother was standing, squeezing a lemon into it and stirring gently, a plate piled high with croissants beside it. “To settle your stomach, mija,” she tells Emilia.
“She’s just nervous,” Roman says soothingly, “I’ve got something for that – he pulls out a bottle of Jamesim Whiskey, “a shot or two and-“
“NO!” My mother and I shout in unison and garner strange looks from everyone in the room.
“Ah, liquor will make her stomach worse. Best not to drink any alcohol at all, babydoll.” Emi shrugs her shoulders and sips the tea hesitantly.
“We can still drink it though, right, mama?” Lenny asks hopefully.
