Page 148 of Lies He Told Me (Bratva Crime Syndicate 1)

I’m the one who built Homeless No More from the ground up, from a no-way-is-that-even-possible idea to a bustling nonprofit. What that meant and means is securing grants, getting legislation changed, an unceasing flow of application forms, funding forms, forms for this, forms for that, and on and on until my brain melts and leaks out of my ears.

But the sight of just one street person’s face lighting up at hearing they’re getting access to housing, or another who has landed their first job in a decade, is all it takes to remind me that all the hard work is worth it.

I hear a knock at my door.

“Come in, Mario,” I say, bracing myself against my wood laminate desk in readiness.

He bursts in, red face, whites visible around his bulging eyes. “Joy Karen Vaknin!” I roll my eyes. I knew I shouldn’t have told him my middle name. “It is your wedding day—and you’re in here …” He peers in. “Doing paperwork?!”

His tone is about what a Catholic priest would sound like if he caught me fervently devil-worshipping in the back of church.

“I know,” I say, “But you know how much paperwork there is, and besides, I was just sitting around biting my nails anyway, so—”

“Nope, this way, now,” Mario gestures me through the door he’s holding open firmly. “We only have four and a half hours to get you wedding-ready.”

“What, am I that much of a hopeless case?” I joke, trying and failing to smile. We both know full well that this is a battle I’m going to lose.

“I won’t argue about this!” In one swift motion, Mario grabs me by the arm and hustles me out of my own office, down the hallway, and away into his car.

* * *

Thirty minutes later, I’m back at home, in his studio, gaping at my reflection. I look like Cher was my makeup artist.

Bright turquoise shadow to my brows, bronzer splattering half my face. My nose looks so contoured it might crack and fall off my face.

Thankfully, several very long-feeling minutes later, Mom sweeps in.

“Oh honey, you look …” Catching a glimpse of me, she trails off. She shoots Mario a careful sidelong glance. “I don’t recognize her.”

“Yes! She is a goddess! I have unleashed her full beauty!”

Mom grabs a makeup remover pad. “Mario, I appreciate your effort, but I don’t recognize my own daughter. How about you focus on the hair?”

Mario makes an outraged sound and they both pause.

“Well, why don’t we ask Joy, then?” Mom says. “Considering it is her wedding.”

“I …”Oof, here goes. “I think Mom’s right,” I tell Mario apologetically. “Maybe a little less …”

“Fine.” Mario waves his many-ringed hand in a gesture of supreme dismissal. “Destroy the masterpiece. Do what you will.”

Just a few makeup remover pad rubs later, I’m really looking much better. More like me. In the meantime, Mario has coaxed my hair into a full, flouncy wow.

Finally, when he and my mom hover over me with approving gleams in their eyes, Mario pumps his Conair curling iron victoriously and declares, “Dress time!”

Mom brings the bag over, we carefully extract the contents, and then, it’s time to get the damn thing on. Which is no small feat in itself.

Stepping in, sucking in, moving my hair, getting the others to hold the zippers together and zip it up the back. And then, looking in the mirror and …

“Oh.”

It’s me, and yet it’s not. An elusive woman I’ve only ever seen from afar. The one who …

“Is it okay if I go to the bathroom for a sec?” I ask them, already halfway there.

“Of course, honey.” Mom’s voice wobbles with barely held back tears.

But I’m already firmly closing the bathroom door behind me. If I get into it with Mom, let myself have the cry with her I’m needing, I’ll never make it to my own wedding in time.

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