“Luna, I was just talking—I didn’t mean what I said.”

“I have all those pictures from their engagement,” I say, mentally flipping through the many, many candid photos I took of Cohen proposing on the Brooklyn Bridge, which was where they first met during a gay men’s running club that neither of them participate in anymore. “I could use one of those for the application picture. We know they’re handsome as ever in all of them.”

“This is a bad idea.”

“I can fill it out right now. I know their information.”

“Luna!” Farrah calls out as I walk like a deranged but happy zombie toward the coffee table, where my computer innocently sits.

“Imagine the relief in their faces when I tell them they’ve been selected and they didn’t have to do anything.”

“I think they would kill you, and I’m not paying this rent by myself.”

In a daze, I type in my password. “They’ll for sure buy me something pretty. Oh, maybe that new set of watercolor markers I’ve had my eye on.”

“Luna, think about what you’re doing. Cohen is going to be—”

“I bet they’ll buy me one of those giant cannolis they always talk about. The pistachio one. My mouth is watering just thinking about it.”

“They’ll murder you.”

“Murder me with praise.” I search for The Wedding Game application and then click on the first link I see. When the application comes up for New York City, excitement blooms in the pit of my stomach. This is going to be great.

Amazing.

They are going to wonder what they ever did without me.

Cohen is so lucky to have me as a sister.

The Wedding Game is ours to win.

Evil laugh

Lightning flying from fingers

Veins popping hideously from neck

Computer dying; forgot to plug it in

I’ve never really understood the point of hyperventilating into a paper bag. What does a bag really do? You’re just breathing in the same air, over and over again, while the bag puffs in and out. I’m sure if I did some internet searching, it would tell me something about CO2 levels or some crap like that, which is why I’m currently grateful for the paper bag I’m holding up to my mouth as I stand outside Cohen and Declan’s apartment.

Courtesy of the bagels I bought for our Sunday brunch, I hold half a dozen everything bagels in one hand, sans bag, while I lean against the wall of the hallway leading to their apartment, breathing garlic and sesame seeds into my mouth, over and over again.

I can still see the email in my head, practically imprinted on my brain.

Congratulations, Cohen and Declan! You’ve been chosen to compete on The Wedding Game.

Have you ever seen Whitney Houston perform on stage? She gave it her all, and you could tell because tiny beads of sweat were always above her finely lined and painted lips. When I was young, I’d watch recordings of her performances and wonder why people sweat on their upper lip. It had never happened to me before.

That is, until today.

The instant I opened the email, a sheen of sweat coated my upper lip. It was the oddest sensation: nerves, excitement, and impending doom all hit me at once, like an atomic bomb, bursting over my face.

I don’t know why I was so surprised. They were a shoo-in, but the reality of the show has set me into a tailspin of dread. Hence the hyperventilating just outside their apartment.

I considered just not telling Cohen and Declan about the application and replying to the email with a kind, “No thank you.” No harm, no foul, right?

But then I kept thinking about how they could win. How this could change their lives for the better. And because of that thought, I sent back a reply accepting the spot on The Wedding Game with the plan of begging for forgiveness today.

I glance at their door, at the pristinely polished brass 6B, and wonder if this is the last time I’ll get the chance to run my finger over it and leave a smudge that will drive Cohen crazy when he comes home tomorrow. Will this be the last time I get to imagine him using the sleeve of his flannel to furiously buff out the smudge? Will I ever get another text from him simply stating: I know it was you? Will I never again be able to send him my favorite GIF of Star Wars stormtroopers humping the air?

I really didn’t think this thing through.

Before I can think of a way to get myself out of this, the door to their apartment whips open and Cohen steps out, bag of trash in his hand.

He startles when he sees me, but then his brow furrows in confusion.

I don’t blame him—his sister is balancing six bagels on top of each other and leaning against his apartment wall, all while breathing in and out of a paper bag.

I chuckle awkwardly but keep the bag over my mouth, and my voice booms weirdly against the paper. “Hey, Cohen.” I wiggle my fingers at him. “Love the smell of bagels, don’t you?”

His eyes narrow. “What did you do?”

He’s annoyingly observant—not that I’m being very coy.

“Nothing at all,” I say. Standing up straight and still balancing the bagels, I walk past him. “Just submitted an application for you for The Wedding Game.” I step over the threshold of his apartment. “And they picked you, so you’re going to be on TV, and wow, I need to set these bagels down.”

“You what?” Cohen booms, but before I can answer, I slip away and walk straight to their kitchen, where Declan is finishing up one of the most miraculous fruit salads I’ve ever seen.

“Hey, Luna.” He glances at the bagels in my hand and chuckles. “You’re always bringing the party tricks. Let me help you.”

Feeling the storm that’s building and circling in the hallway, I desperately look up at Declan and say, “I love you so much and think you’re perfect for my brother. Thank you for loving him, and if I don’t make it out of here alive, just know that you are wickedly intelligent, so you should use it to your advantage. Fuck with him. Get him out of his comfort zone. Move things around. Play with his mind. It will keep him alive.” I glance behind me and whisper, “I smudge the 6B.”

Looking confused, Declan takes the bagels and sets them down. I bring the bag back up to my mouth and breathe in and out, my heart hammering in my chest.

The thing with Cohen is he’s not a yeller. When he’s mad, he doesn’t lash out irrationally and stomp around, flinging his arms about, making a true show of his anger.

No, he’s the scary type of angry.

The kind that bottles it up and slowly, ever so slowly, lets it out, like the steam trying to fit through the tiny spout of a kettle. His chest puffs—which I think comes from him consuming the anger—his eyes turn pure black and widen, like some freaky character in The Witcher, and there’s this tiny vein that runs parallel to his left eyebrow that all of a sudden makes itself known and starts throbbing with impending death.

Throb.

Throb.

Throb.

It’s horrifying when the vein comes to life. It adds a certain petrifying vibe to the entire experience.

But it’s the slow and deliberate way he speaks that really cuts to your soul. I almost wish he would make a scene. I wish he would be overtly dramatic, snap his fingers in my face, and then cry while screaming at me. I wish he’d put on more of a show than the stern, thought-out lecture that’s waiting instead.

Still looking confused, Declan asks, “What’s going on—?”

Slam.

Declan and I both startle. Together, me with the bag over my mouth, we spin to see Cohen standing in front of the door, arms tense at his sides, jaw clenched, looking just about ready to murder. I can hear the knife-wielding reet reet noise sounding off in his head as his eyes connect with mine. And just as I suspected, his eyes are black, his nostrils flared so wide that for a brief second, I wonder if I could stick a marble up them—only brief, since terror is taking over, after all—and heavenly lord, hold my breasts, because there it is . . .

The Vein.

Throbbing, pulsating, sending out a message in Morse code that he’s coming for me.

“Luna,” Cohen says, his voice so menacing that I can feel my toenails shrivel up in my shoes.

I gulp and, without even thinking about it—this is my actual initial reaction—I open the paper bag wide and plop it over my head before casually leaning against the counter. “Only Paper Baggie here. Luna couldn’t make it. But please refrain from relaying information through me. I hate being the middleman.”

His steps draw closer.

That Whitney Houston sweat hits me again.

And before I can take my next breath, the bag is torn off my head, and my six-foot-two lumberjack brother towers over me. “You’re about to die.”

There’s only one thing I can do at this point as we face off in the kitchen, Declan observing the entire interaction with bagels clutched to his chest . . .

Ramble.