Page 2 of Stuck With the Best Man

To everyone else in town, Gram is known as Miss Maisie. Or, more mystically, as the wise woman of the beach. She’s a legend of sorts, handing out blessings and gemstones to unsuspecting tourists and locals in desperate need of spiritual guidance. She also does formal tarot and palm readings, but she’s more popularly known as somewhat of a spectral creature roaming the dunes and speaking with the sirens under the cover of the coastal mist.

At least, that’s how the others see her. To me, she’s just Gram. Quirky, warmhearted, vegan-baked-ziti-making Gram.

With some kind of New Age music crooning from the outdated stereo system, I relax into the seat and watch slivers of the grayish-blue Atlantic Ocean slip through the trees. Gram pulls off the highway onto a familiar, unmarked road. A tiny wooden sign, mostly hidden by dense pine branches, announces that we’ve entered Mermaid Shores.

I don’t need a sign to tell me when I’m home, though. I can feel it. There’s a shift in the air—a spark of electric energy that washes over me each time I pass the borders of this strange little town. Even the most agnostic of people can admit that there’s something magical about it.

It’s not common for people to move away from Mermaid Shores. When they do, the furthest they usually end up is in Boston. Or maybe somewhere in southern Maine. Rarely, so very rarely, does anyone dare go as far as an entire two hundred and fifty miles south to New York City.

Honestly, I didn’t even think I’d go that far. I auditioned for the Boston Ballet and figured I’d spend my entire career there. Despite all my ambition, it felt impossible that one of the best ballet companies in the world had accepted me into their ranks instead.

I’ve lived in downtown Manhattan for years now, but I’ve made sure to visit Mermaid Shores at least three or four times a year.

Our parents, on the other hand, retired early and moved out to Montana.For a change of scenery, they claimed. We only see them on Christmas and Independence Day now, but at least they were nice enough to leave Amy and I the house. Our childhood home is a safe haven—a place that’s available for us to run to if we ever need it.

Gram doesn’t drive us to that old Victorian on Cedar Road, though. We go to Cherry Street, where her eclectic little house with its purple gate and yellow shutters is waiting cheerfully for me.

When I told Gram I’d be coming for the weekend, she insisted that I stay with her. I was quick to agree since Amy’s boyfriend just moved into the other house with her, and I don’t feel like being roommates with a random guy all weekend. Not that I have anything against Liam Moore. I just don’t know him that well. Technically, we grew up together. Except, of course, I was so busy with ballet that I never saw much of him or his little sister, Mina, when we were kids. Amy was the social butterfly with all the friends and normalcy and whatnot.

I was the weird, quiet twin.

A massive nazar bead smacks against the front gate as I push it open, and a tangled assortment of enchanted twigs—or whatever they’re supposed to be—nearly get caught in the handle of my suitcase, but I manage to make it through the mystical barrier of Gram’s colorful abode.

I head inside, the screen door of the front porch groaning loudly inhelloas I push it open. My body is stiff from the train journey, so I park my suitcase by the foot of the stairs and head into the cluttered living room to do some stretching. Gram murmurs something about making tea, and I’m pretty sure I catch another muttered comment about my chakras, but I decide to ignore it.

You don’t grow up with a grandmother like her without learning quite a lot about spirituality by accident. Still, I swear my chakras are perfectly aligned. I’m fine. Everything is great. Totally, absolutely, great. Why wouldn’t it be? I mean, yes, I do have some career-related stress, but that’s normal. So normal that it’s basically negligible. So, maybe I haven’t been on a date since college—unless you count that one time about a year ago, which Idon’t—but who cares about boys, anyway? Who cares about any of that nonsense when I have ballet and the stage lights and my bright, hopeful future?

“Will you be eating here tonight, darling?” Gram calls from the kitchen.

I fold forward over my legs, wrapping my hands under the arches of my feet.

“No, tonight’s the rehearsal dinner,” I remind her.

“Ah, yes,” she croons, puttering into the living room with two steaming mugs of tea. “At Blakeley Manor, right? How romantic!”

I snort. “Howposhis more like it.”

Eva isn’t a snob. Nor is Sebastien. They just have expensive taste. Also, sometimes I think my friend has something to prove. I would, too, if I came from humble beginnings and then exploded into stardom. Eva is now constantly surrounded by the wealthy and privileged, and I know that she feels pressure to seem like she effortlessly belongs.

Hence, the wedding being hosted at the most exclusive venue on the Cape: Blakeley Manor.

Gram settles herself in her usual armchair by the hearth, which is crowded with at least two dozen unlit candles and a collection of dried herbs. She has almost the same coloring as me and my twin, as well as our mother—her daughter. She named all of us. Emerald, or Em for short, is our mother. Amy is short for Amethyst. I lucked out with the simplest name: Ruby. From old pictures, I know that Gram’s silver-white hair used to be blonde like ours, and that she and my mother have the same dark brown eyes. Amy and I took after our father in that department, though. We have icy-blue eyes, which are pretty enough, I guess, except that they’re insanely sensitive in the sunlight.

My eye color is exactly why Eva insisted I borrow one of her dresses for the rehearsal dinner tonight. It’s a lovely slip of silk the same color as the larimar stone in the ring on Gram’s left thumb—exactly the sort of thing that I would never wear unless my friend forced me into it. Personally, I prefer neutrals. And when I’m not wearing leotards and leggings, I like my clothes to drown me.

But it’s Eva’s weekend. It’s her special day. So, I’ll oblige.

Gram watches me stretch. She has that look in her eye that makes me feel like she knows exactly what I’m thinking. Luckily, even the wise woman of the beach can’t read minds.

“I’m fine,” I tell her again before she can say anything.

She purses her lips and glances away. “Of course, darling.”

***

I clutch my little white purse like a lifeline as I step into the glamorous foyer of Blakeley Manor. It’s half past seven and I haven’t had the chance to see Eva yet. I’m wearing the blue dress, though, so she’ll at least be pleased by that. The silky fabric clings to my body in a way that I typically only tolerate when it comes to stage costumes, but it’s the least of my worries right now.

This event is crawling with VIPs. I should’ve prepared for that ahead of time. Should’ve known that being dropped off in Gram’s old Subaru would be a laugh in the face of the sleek foreign cars and tuxedo-clad chauffeurs.

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