The Third Time, I Meant It

I had this thing about jokes. Play the same joke on me three times, and the third time, I'd take it seriously. But my fiancé, Graham, and my entire family thought I just couldn't take a joke. The first time, they forged an email from the graduate admissions office saying my full scholarship had been transferred to Vanessa. They waited until I cried, then burst out laughing. "Got you." The second time, on my birthday, every single one of them turned off their phones and hid out at a resort outside the city to celebrate Vanessa's birthday instead. At midnight, they finally sent me a group photo. "Surprise?" The third time was my wedding. My parents lied and said the limo had broken down. Vanessa told me the venue had lost power. Then Graham sent me a video. He and Vanessa were both dressed for the wedding, cutting into my wedding cake. "Honey, we're just doing a little rehearsal for you. Hurry up and get over here." Everyone was laughing. They were waiting for me to rush over in tears, just like the first two times. I didn't go. Because this time, I took them seriously. ... I set my phone facedown on the table and watched the screen light up, then go dark again. Graham was calling. Then my mom. My brother. My dad. Finally, Vanessa sent me a voice message. "Iris, you're not actually mad, are you? Everyone was just messing with you. Hurry over. We even saved you some cake." Laughter rang out in the background. I even heard my brother, Bennett, say, "Ignore her. She's always been like this. She'll come when she's done throwing her tantrum." I lowered my head and removed my veil. The long white fabric slipped from my shoulders and pooled on the floor, painfully bright against the carpet. Just last night, Mom had smoothed my train over and over, telling me that her greatest wish in life was to watch me marry Graham with her own eyes. Today, they were at another hotel, watching Vanessa wear my backup wedding dress and cut my wedding cake. The truth was, they weren't wrong. The first two times, I'd gone to them in the end. The first time, when my scholarship had supposedly been "given away," I'd cried outside the admissions office until my eyes were swollen. When I got home that night, I found my acceptance letter hidden under a cake while everyone laughed themselves breathless. On my birthday, I'd waited alone in an empty house from the afternoon until midnight. Even after they sent me that group photo, I'd still taken a cab to the resort. Mom had hugged me and said, "See? You came anyway. Our Iris is so easy to coax." So this time, they were certain I'd show up too. Because when someone had never truly walked away, every "I'm done" sounded like pouting. My phone buzzed again. This time, it was Bennett. "Iris, enough." "Vanessa practiced for two weeks for today. She said you were adorable the first two times we pranked you, so she wanted to give you an even bigger surprise at your wedding." I stared at the message for a long time. Vanessa was my parents' foster daughter. She'd also been my best friend growing up. After the car accident six years ago, she'd gained another identity. She was supposedly the woman who'd saved my father, my brother, and Graham's lives. Ever since then, they'd almost never told her no. My graduate-school opportunity could be used to entertain her. My birthday could become hers. And now, even my wedding could be used for her rehearsal. Another message from Bennett appeared. "If it weren't for Vanessa, the three of us would've died that day. She asked for one little thing. Why can't you just let her have it?" I suddenly laughed. Apparently, saving someone's life came with a very high price. So high that even after six years, I was still expected to spend the rest of my life paying it back. I didn't reply. I changed out of my wedding dress and put on the white shirt and jeans I'd prepared earlier. Then I slipped the last of my documents into my suitcase. The room was already half empty. I'd shipped my clothes out the night before, and my resignation had been approved a week ago. I had a 4:40 p.m. train to Portland. A firm there had a position waiting for me. It was also the first major decision I'd ever made for myself without telling any of them. I dragged my suitcase downstairs. The front door suddenly flew open. Bennett stood there, still wearing his groomsman's suit, his expression dark. "You're seriously still home?" His eyes dropped to my suitcase. "What are you packing for?" "Throwing out some stuff I don't want anymore." He didn't think much of it. He strode inside and yanked the curtains open. "There are two hundred guests waiting at the wedding. Do you have any idea how humiliated Mom and Dad are?" "Vanessa cried. She said if she'd known you couldn't take a joke, she never would've suggested this." I looked at him. "What about the wedding?" "What?" "Whose wedding is it?" Bennett froze for a second, then frowned. "Yours, obviously." "Then why was she wearing my dress?" "I told you. It was a rehearsal!" "Why was she cutting my cake?" "Iris!" He finally lost his patience. "It's a cake and a dress. Are you seriously going to keep score over every little thing?" "Vanessa dragged me out of that car even though it could've exploded again. She still has a scar on her shoulder. You've had six good years because of her. So what if she played one joke on you?" That accident again. For six years, every time they hurt me, they found their excuse in that day. As if the second they said, "She saved our lives," I was supposed to shut up. I looked at him. Then I suddenly asked, "Bennett, what if one day you found out Vanessa wasn't the one who saved you?" His face darkened instantly. "How can you even say something like that?" He grabbed my wrist. "Iris, be jealous of Vanessa if you want. But don't throw away your conscience." Pain shot through my wrist. I didn't struggle. A few seconds later, I quietly said, "Okay." Bennett paused. "What?" "I understand." I wouldn't say it again. There was no point anymore. It was like he'd punched cotton. He released me. "Be at the hotel before eleven. Dad said if you show up, nobody will hold this against you." The door slammed shut behind him. I looked down. A red ring was already forming around my wrist. Right then, my phone chimed. It was an email I'd requested weeks ago through a public-records application. It had finally arrived today. The sender was the State Highway Patrol's accident records division. [Ms. Whitaker, the law-enforcement footage you requested has been processed. Please see the attached materials.] My finger froze over the screen. Six years ago, two highway patrol officers had been the first to arrive at the crash. One officer's body camera had captured twenty-seven full minutes after the accident. I stared at the attachment for a long time. Then I opened it.