Searching for Romeo

By Salina Jivani

The Parker sisters are jinxed with love.

Lingerie model Liz Parker is dead broke thanks to her exorbitant shoe fetish. After two years of dating Nick, her successful surgeon boyfriend, she manages to finagle a proposal out of him only to have him stand her up at the altar, meaning she's left with no ring and no one to finance her shopping pleasures.

Rachel, the middle sibling, discovers that her boyfriend of two years isn't the faithful man she once thought. In a rage, she abandons the apartment they share, only to learn that her bartender’s pay can't afford much on its own.

The sisters scramble back to their childhood home where the youngest Parker sister, Becky, lives with their demanding, obsessively clean, divorced mother. Much to the sisters' chagrin, they learn that while their own lives are a romantic disaster, their mother's is quite the opposite. The sisters are convinced that the old croak she's dating is a complete mismatch for their vivacious, energy-bound mother.

Between Swiffer Jets, endless bickering and toilet bowl scrubs, the sisters learn that, stark differences aside, they share commonalities: their hate for Sunday cleaning, their determination to halt their mom’s looming wedding to Mr. Wrong and the desire to find their Romeos. Throughout their efforts, the sisters battle lawsuits, disastrous blind dates and bizarre men. Will they ever find their Romeos? Or are they doomed to the company of their wacky mother and her Clorox wipes for all time?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Salina Jivani
• Release date: Mar 12, 2016
• ISBN: 9781311458513

Salina Jivani

Salina was born in New Delhi, India, grew up in a bunch of different places around the world, including Muscat, Dubai, Oman, and Kuwait, and then moved to Pittsburgh when she was three. By the time she'd turned nine, she'd developed an affinity for the Steelers and her family had relocated to Atlanta, where she's lived ever since.She's married and has two sweet daughters who are her pride and joy.

Book preview

Prologue

~ LIZ ~

"Now. NOW! I need to get this off, NOW!" I grunted, tugging at my French tulle wedding gown. The faille bodice encased my belly with a strength that I imagined to be the equivalent of mummy plaster.

My youngest sister, Becky, materialized at my side, ensconced in a huge puff that served as her own wedding dress. "Liz, you’re going to rip it! And we have to walk down the isle in, like, two minutes!" She looked like a marshmallow, but I decided not to articulate this opinion as she hurled my veil over my shoulder to un-obstruct the culprit zipper that would put me out of my misery.

Ohhh, I need to pee soo badly! It’s gonna come out! I squeezed my knees together, hopping from foot to foot as Becky’s hands deftly worked the stubborn metal.

That’d be a great view. A nice, big urine stain on a stark white wedding gown, my sister Rachel smirked as she carelessly punched keys on her iPhone from her stance in front of the large, horizontal bathroom mirror of the Ritz.

It’s Old Lace, I snapped.

Huh?

Not white. It’s Old Lace. The color.

She lifted a tanned shoulder from her shoulder-less wedding dress. Whatever. Same thing. Since when did lace become a color anyway?

"Same thing? Same thing?! I cried near hysterics. It’s not the same darned thing! Do you have any idea how much more I paid for this shade?" The material pressed on my bladder with the likeness of a tractor rolling over an industrial-strength water balloon. Or maybe I’d tied the sash too tight.

Becky grabbed my shoulders. Stay still! I can’t get it off if you squirm.

Rachel frowned at something on her screen then looked up long enough to regard me with a scowl through the mirror. Well excuse me, Bride Kong.

My resolve snapped. But before I could exert enough energy from my lungs to show my middle sister just how much she was ticking the daylights out of me, my zip came undone. If body parts could breathe, I’m positive every organ in my body would have exhaled a symphonious sigh of relief.

Ok, so maybe it hadn’t been the brightest idea in the world to buy a wedding dress a whole size smaller than my size zero waist. When I had waltzed into David’s Bridal and forced the snooty salesperson to alter the dress to a smaller size despite her unwillingness (I just knew I’d lose at least five more pounds on the new Abs Diet), what I hadn’t considered was the consequence of chugging three bottles of Evian an hour before I was due to walk down the isle in my Vera Wangs.

Now with more lung capacity at my disposal, I stalked toward Rachel to demonstrate my true Bride Kong–ness. The extra steps took a toll on my dire efforts to contain my bodily fluids, but I guesstimated that I could go approximately fifty seconds before I’d lose complete control and gush like the Niagara.

I halted a few inches from her back, speaking to her reflection in a slow, calculated tone. "I wasn’t the one who nearly disembodied my own cousin this morning for forgetting to call the limo driver, your royal bitchiness."

Oh, it’s OK, really, our cousin Melissa mumbled, cowering behind Becky. The Parker women’s temper was infamous for its explosive nature. But you’ll see more evidence of this later on.

Sparks shot through my sister’s jade irises and she slammed down her phone, knocking over a large, open tube of black eyeliner. Liquid splattered over her peculiar fuchsia gown and the mirror.

An ominous silence filled the bathroom. For a whole ten second, the trickle of water through pipes was the only sound audible.

Rachel’s chest heaved in contempt. One breath, two, then another. A freaky shade of crimson replaced her normal pallor. You bitch! Just look at what you did!

I sputtered. I probably had only fifteen seconds before I’d start leaking like a broken pipe. "You’re sabotaging my wedding, you brat!" I howled at the top of my lungs. My voice echoed off the iridescent wallpaper of the elaborate bathroom.

"In case you’re forgetting, it’s weddings. Plural." Rachel spun away from the mirror and faced me. Ugly black streaks ran in weird angles across her midsection. A few wayward drops had somehow managed their way across her right breast, making it seem as though someone with a sick sense of humor had purposely etched several nipples across her chest. You remember that Friends episode where Ross has three nipples? That’s what suddenly popped into my mind and it took everything in me to stifle a round of uncontrollable giggles—and not, mind you, because I was afraid of Rachel, but for the simple fact that right then, I didn’t have the capacity to support any muscle movement.

The pressure in my bladder increased to an unbearable pain. I bent my knees and pressed my thighs together. I would have come back with a smart retort, but talking would mean exerting more pressure. After the slightest smidgen of reluctance, I scuffled toward the nearest stall.

Just a few feet before my prized destination, my head suddenly jerked backward. My hand instinctively clutched at the source of my deterrent — my veil—just moments before a loud, portentous rip sounded through the bathroom.

I turned around in slow motion. Somewhere in the distance, I was remotely aware of the bathroom door flying open. I didn’t get a chance to see the lucky spectator because I was too horrified at the sight in front of me. There, beneath my sister’s fuchsia-flowered high heel, lay half my veil—torn and dismembered like a seamstress’ reject.

Red obscured my vision.

You! I lunged at Rachel. Through her ugly pink veil, I clawed at her blonde chignon. Her updo cascaded out of the pins that had neatly kept it imprisoned. I heard a hysterical voice that oddly resembled my mother’s. Dear Christ almighty! Someone…smelling salts…blacking out…!

A flurry of excitement swirled around me, but I didn’t dare release my hold on my sister’s hair. She had hers fingers wrapped around my throat. The restriction of oxygen oddly seemed to intensify the force of urine in my now near-ready-to-pop bladder.

Let go of each other! You can’t do this today! Becky yelled as our cousin Melissa diffidently struggled to pull Rachel and me apart. A loud thunk sounded from somewhere in the bathroom, followed by a desperate cry from my mom’s older sister, my dramatic Aunt Barbara. Beverly! Are you okay?! Holy mother in heaven! Call the ambulance! She’s passed out!

My mother’s strained voice carried through the commotion. Smelling salts…someone… damned salts!

Aunt Margaret, Melissa’s mom and the eldest—and therefore the most senile—of my mom’s three sisters, lost the permanently etched look of confusion off her face long enough to scuttle to the pink purse strewn next to my mom. She pawed through it right before my vision started to blur. Black spots began to replace the red.

Rachel, let go. You’re going to choke her! Rebecca wrestled to disentangle my sister’s long fingers from around my neck.

No! She always does this! She thinks she’s this…this famous celebrity just because she fucking walks around in fancy underpants and pops up in a TV ad once a blue freaking moon. And then she thinks the paparazzi have no one better to stalk than her. Like Tyler Perry and Usher and every other celebrity in the city of Atlanta are all dead! But really? Really, Liz? No one knows who the heck you are! That’s right. You’re just like the rest of us.

How dare! She was obviously so jealous.

Oh, for chrissake! Not this again! Becky cried. We’re getting married. We’re all ready to walk down that aisle. We all look lovely. She sang the last bit in a pathetic whine, then grunted as she tried to disengage Rachel’s paws off my neck. But my devious middle sister was too quick for her.

She grabbed at the long strands of curls nestled neatly on top of my head. Suddenly, I didn’t know which pain was worse: the one in my lower abdomen, the one from her fingers wrapped like a vise around my neck, or the one pulsing through my skull from her relentless grip.

Lovely my butt! I look like a flamingo with the bubonic plague! Rachel shrieked.

Well, that’s what you get for picking that hideous gown, I managed between gritted teeth and restricted levels of oxygen.

"I didn’t pick it out you moron—for the bazillionth time, they ordered the wrong freaking color!"

Between the three pain points, I suddenly knew which one overpowered the rest. If I didn’t make it to the stall within the next few seconds, Rachel would never let me live down the day I peed on myself—on my (fine, our) wedding day.

With renowned motivation and Herculean efforts, I released her hair, detached myself from her freakishly iron-like grasp, trundled past everyone and clambered into the closest stall. I barely made it out of my thong. But dear gosh, if I had to describe a single moment in my life when I’d felt relief as powerful as I did just then, settled on the throne of a public bathroom tearing at the feel of release, I wouldn’t have been able to think of any. The sensation was so wonderful that it was almost enough for me to forget about how my younger brat of a sister had managed to ruin my wedding day. Almost but not quite.

Beyond the stall door, I could hear the cacophony of chaos. Rebecca, ever the loyal sibling and peacemaker, was vehemently admonishing Rachel for her rash behavior. Rachel, being her obnoxious egotistical self, was blaming everything on me.

Another buzz of excitement came from the entrance of the bathroom, where I presumed my mom was still sprawled on the floor in her long baby-pink gown sniffing salts like Bobby, Aunt Barbara’s son, snorts…well, other things.

I pressed my hands to my temple where a chunk of hair had come undone from my updo, for which I had paid enough to feed a small country. My rage returned. No way in hell was I going to let my younger sister get away with this. After fixing myself up as best I could without the aid of a mirror (minus zipping the god forsaken dress), I flushed the toilet and stormed out of the stall, my fury renewed.

When I was a mere arm’s length away from Rachel’s throat, Melissa (damn her) grabbed me mid stride and spun me around. Liz, don’t do this. You’ll ruin everything.

"Ha! It was already ruined the day I found out I had to share my wedding with her!" I jabbed an accusatory finger at Rachel’s nose.

Yeah, well you wouldn’t have had to share diddly if you had enough brain cells in that anorexic head of yours to know that no one can book a venue only three weeks in advance—in the middle of summer!

I heard a whimper near the entrance, where small crowd of my mother’s church friends were gathered around her frame. I could have sworn I saw one of them glance in our direction and do a hail Mary.

Yeah, well I’m not the dumbass who forgot to pay her down payment for the hall! I retorted, making another feeble attempt to lunge forward and break through Mellissa’s impossible hold.

Becky inserted her big cloud puff self between me and the flamingo look alike and held up her hands. "Well, now you’re both stuck getting married at my venue, on the day that only I was supposed to get married. I was nice enough to share my thunder with the both of you, for which—let me remind you— you owe me dearly. So suck it up, and don’t ruin this day for me, or else, I promise, I’ll be the only one walking down that isle."

The threat delivered the intended impact. Rachel and I stood quietly and pouted like two-year-olds who’d been sentenced to an eternity of time out and no chocolates.

Becky peered at me, then at our stupid, dolt of a sibling. Don’t you remember what the three of us went through for this day to become a possibility, let alone a reality? Don’t you remember all the time we wasted dating moronic men before we finally found our Romeos?

Count on Becky to embellish the truth with Shakespeare. Not that John wasn’t comparable to Romeo, I thought.

I threw a grudging glance in Rachel’s direction. Our eyes locked. We both folded our arms and turned away.

Do you or do you not remember? Becky pressed. Answer me.

Yes, we both mumbled.

Even the most severe case of amnesia wouldn’t be enough to wipe the horrid memories of what the three of us had endured before we’d found our Romeos. Just thinking about it made me break into a cold sweat. It was all I could do not to bolt for the door and coerce the priest into marrying me off before John could change his mind.

Which is why I, Liz Parker, had begged my sisters (despite my love for the limelight) to share their special day with me.

Prolonging the wedding any more to find our own respective venues would have allowed our men to mull over their matrimonial decisions a bit longer, which would increase the likelihood of a change in heart. Not that any of them had voiced anything to make us think they were questioning their decisions of monogamy. But I’m a strong believer in the saying all good things don’t last.

And, dear friend, after learning what we’ve been through to arrive at juncture we are today, I’m sure you’ll darned well agree.

Six months ago…

Chapter 1

Indecent proposal

~ LIZ ~

I just don’t understand why it’s such a big deal, I took a calming sip of ice water and cleared my throat as I waited for a response from my boyfriend. The man I had imagined marrying. On a cruise ship. Setting sail into the Tahitian sunset.

A live singer dressed in a black and white penguin-style suit intoned the words to Always by Bon Jovi as he crossed past our booth. Dulce, a popular Italian one in the heart of Atlantic Station, buzzed faintly with the sound of conversation. White c-shaped leather booths covered in taupe table linens spanned the room, and sheer curtains covered floor-to-ceiling windows, barely obscuring the outdoors, where hundreds of people ambled about in the November chill.

Nick paused over his plate of chicken parmigiana, placed down his fork and knife and patted a napkin over his mouth. He licked his lips. To me, it is a big deal. It’s a huge move, Liz. You can’t just expect me to make the decision because you feel it’s time.

I tossed my napkin down in front of me. The corner of it landed on my steamed broccoli. We’ve been together two years, Nick. That’s got to account for something.

He reached across the linen covered table and placed his hand over my conspicuously bare left one. We’re in a terrific relationship. Why do we have to complicate things by making it official on a measly paper?

I snatched my hand away as though he’d singed it with Lancome’s so-last-year lip stain. It’s called getting married, Nick. And it’s something everyone does.

Nick leaned back and heaved a sigh. Just because the whole world does it, doesn’t mean it’s right for us.

I threw my hands up and raised my voice an octave. So what? We’re never going to get married? Is this it? Our relationship’s at the finish line?

Nick ran a hand over his face. His brown puppy dog eyes looked weary. Can’t we talk about this some other time?

I jutted out my chin and raised my nose into the air in what I hoped to be a stern and serious expression. No. I need an answer. Now. Where are we headed? What are we doing together if you don’t see yourself getting married to me?

Nick expelled a breath and fiddled with the grey Movado on his left wrist. Why does it have to be rushed?

It was my turn to release a frustrated sigh. Nick, I’m twenty-seven and I’m not getting any younger. My mother is breathing down my neck about grandchildren, not that we would have to worry about that anytime soon or anything… Having kids was not on my list of priorities. I was fine with being responsible for only myself. And sometimes, I wasn’t even the greatest at that.

But what about your career? Isn’t it taboo to be married in your profession or something?

I rolled my eyes at him. Seriously, sometimes he was so clueless. I’m a model not an actress. I do lingerie. Girls look at me and envy my body and guys look at me and, well…fantasize. I doubt my getting married would change any of that.

Right. He nodded but didn’t look convinced.

Look, can you leave all the technicalities of my career up to me? All I need is for you to make a commitment. I’ll take care of the rest. And I promise you won’t have to lift a finger for the wedding preparations. I knew I sounded desperate, pathetic even.

I was Liz Parker, after all. An infamous lingerie model that any guy in his right mind would be exultant to have a wet dream about. And here I was, sitting at an upscale restaurant in Atlanta, begging for the hand of a man that I’d spent two years of my precious life with. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. He was supposed to be the one slipping a wedding ring into my champagne, getting down on his knees and professing his undying love and affection, making me the envy of every fairytale-adoring female in the room.

Nick hesitated and seemed to be choosing his words. I’m not saying it’ll never happen. I’m just saying I need some time to—

And that’s exactly what I don’t have! I yelled, triggering several heads to twist our way.

Nick flushed and I downed the remainder of my lemon water, wishing it had been a vodka soda.

Waiter! I lifted my empty glass and swayed it around in the air. A random waiter dashed forward with a fancy metallic, condensation-laced pitcher, topped off my glass and scurried away. And get me more lemon wedges! I yelled at his retreating back.

Look, Nick, I tried again. I don’t have time. I’m twenty-seven—

Weren’t you born in nineteen-eighty?

I glowered. Why does it matter?

Nick squirmed under my narrow gaze. Well you keep saying twenty-seven but if you were born in ninteen—OW!

I plowed my heel into his shin. He gave a painful yelp and clutched his leg scowling at me like a wounded animal. I looked around to make sure no one had heard this exchange. "What the hell do you think you’re doing? I hissed. Trying to ruin my career? I’m twenty-seven! And actually, right now, my age should be the very least of your concerns!"

I straightened my back, folded my legs and lifted my chin in what I hoped resembled another stern look. Nick had struck a nerve. The truth was that my age was a very big concern. It was because of my damned age I was stuck in this predicament. I’d pictured myself having a successful modeling career forever, but poor, oblivious, naïve me had completely undermined the age factor. Only lately had I realized that I had another year—two tops—in this industry and then I’d be as desirable as clumpy mascara to modeling agencies, let alone to Tracy’s Treasures, one of the top lingerie brands in the nation. Which meant I had to have a backup plan that was sufficient enough to fund my endless hunger for Jimmy Choos and Manolos. Backup plan, thy name is Nick.

You have to make up your mind. Right now. I declared with renewed fervor.

Huh? Nick stopped rubbing his leg. What do you mean?

I mean that you have two choices. I paused, not able to believe what was about to topple off my tongue. Either you get married to me, or we break up. I held my breath waiting for the implication of my words to strike. It didn’t take long.

Nick looked bewildered one second, then angry the next. "You’re giving me an ultimatum?"

I swirled my silver bangles around my wrist and fixed my eyes on him. Call it whatever you want. You have to make a decision and it needs to be now. Either you marry me, or else we walk out of here and never speak to each other again. I paused, wondering how I could sweeten the deal. I’ll even let you skip the proposal part.

Now I knew I sounded desperate. A very miniscule part of my brain—the one that considered other people’s feelings every so often—knew there was a possibility that I was being just a tad unreasonable. But the majority of my brain—the part that didn’t give a damn—was ruling.

I resisted the urge to wring my hands in anticipation as I watched Nick sputter like a fish out of water. I went for a nonchalant look and examined my freshly polished nails, but really, I wanted to spring across the table, clutching Nick’s throat and shaking until I rattled out the phrase I was looking for: Will you marry me?

Nick extracted a wad of bills from his black Armani wallet, tossed them on the table and stood. Let’s go.

Huh? That so wasn’t the response I’d been expecting. My self-confidence faltered and panic spiraled through me. I knew exactly what was happening. But no way in hell was any man, let alone this one, going to be the one to dump me! If anyone was going to be doing any dumping tonight, it was going to be me. I was Liz Parker, after all. Nick was just some measly surgeon (okay, fine, one of the nation’s top, but who the hell cared?), who didn’t know how to recognize his blessings, even when they came slapping him in the face in the form of a marriage proposal by the sexiest lingerie model to walk the ramp.

I clenched my fists and stood, mustering all the energy I possibly could, despite the weakness in my knees.

You think you get to call the shots? You’re going to walk out on me and you think that’s okay? I hissed.

Liz what are you talking—

You listen! I jabbed his chest. A gazillion pairs of eyes were suddenly watching us. "I’m leaving you! You got that? You’re not walking out on me, I’m walking out on you!"

Liz I—

It’s over. I repeated.

Now let the newspapers have a field day with who dumped whom. In fact, I decided at the whim of the moment, a nice photograph was worth a million words (or something like that). Those journalists worked hard for their paychecks, and if some lucky little bastard caught proof of my ingenious departure on their cell phone, they’d make a fortune. Before I could talk myself out of it, I grabbed the plate of Nick’s left over chicken and dumped the entire entrée over him. The meat did a funny little balancing act on top of his head before it headed to a more secure place on the floor—on Nick’s shoe. Pasta and sauce dribbled down his face and clothes. I tried to use ESP to tell the idiots watching us to whip out their cell phones and take a picture. Didn’t they know who the hell I was? Didn’t they understand that they could become millionaires overnight for a shot of this? Apparently not.

All I received for my dire efforts were shocked stares. One woman with ridiculous navy-blue eye shadow and blood red lipstick even had the audacity to giggle. Stupid cow! I had half a mind to pick up the chicken from Nick’s shoe at toss it at her ridiculous face, but that would mean tarnishing my well polished nails and diverting my attention from the more serious matter at hand—my failure of a relationship with my idiotic, brain-dead boyfriend.

As I stood there staring daggers at clown woman, I felt a sudden presence beside me. A man with the word security stamped in yellow across the left breast of his black polo shirt regarded me through a hooded gaze. Is there a problem, miss?

I faltered. If only I could scream: Yes, officer, this imbecile is refusing to marry me, Liz Parker, the sexiest fucking lingerie model ever! Detain him now, please!"

Do you realize you’ve created a public disturbance?

Was he talking to me? Didn’t he realize how emotionally scarred I must be to dump an eighty dollar meal over someone’s face? Out of the corner of my eye, I was aware of the wait staff surrounding Nick as they proffered wet cloths and napkins—the waiter who had refilled my water was among them. (Funny he hadn’t had the time to deliver my lemon wedges but appeared as quick as lightning to take part in the unfolding drama). Nick hastily wiped himself off and threw another wad of cash—it looked like presumptuously a lot more money than he’d used to pay for our meals—on the table.

I raised my chin in the air and tried to inject as much confidence as I could into my voice, Sir, with all due respect, this is none of your business. This is a personal matter between my boyfriend I jerked a thumb in Nick’s direction, and me.

The man imperceptibly raised a thick, blonde eyebrow, which was the exact same shade as his buzzed hair.

Well if it’s personal, take it somewhere private. Without forewarning, the guard grasped my left arm and escorted me toward the exit.

At that precise moment, clown woman, cow that she was, decided to take a damned picture. She smiled at her cell phone screen as a flash of light bathed my face. I gave her the finger, which only served to increase the guard’s grip on my arm and the pace at which I was walked/dragged.

Ouch! Let go of me. I’m not a damned felon.

I heard rustling from behind and dreaded the fact that I would have to see Nick’s face again—especially since the plan was for me to triumph from the scene I’d created. Now I’d be at his mercy for a ride home…unless I wanted to take a cab. Damn my strategizing abilities.

A few seconds later, I was pushed through