Page 6

Chapter Six

Amy

The Wedding Day

Standing in the eye of Hurricane Shannon, I watch my sister pace until she finally announces dramatically, “I’m reconsidering this whole wedding.”

Bridezilla, Episode One: The Reckoning.

Amanda bursts into the room, cheeks flushed, gripping a coffee tray filled with caffeine and love. Mostly caffeine, because Bridezilla here requires special handling today.

“Dude, the room is empty. You’re talking to yourself,” Amanda says, handing Shannon a cardboard cup.

“No, it’s not!” I expect to be acknowledged but instead, Shannon points down.

To a very angry pile of tartan and flowers.

I should be used to this, as the youngest sister, but come on .

Amanda gives Shannon a skeptical look. “That is a centerpiece. You are talking to inanimate objects. Did you get enough sleep last night?”

“Look closer.”

The centerpiece moves.

“Oh, no,” Amanda says, jumping back dramatically, palms up in surrender.

I peer around Amanda’s shoulder, horrified. That pile of tartan and flowers is Chuckles.

Our family's cat.

“ Meow ,” Chuckles says pitifully, clearly desperate. Translation: I will shred all your vocal cords in your sleep and tie them in knots looped through bicycle tires .

Amanda picks him up carefully. Chuckles snuggles into her, or maybe just tries to escape his tartan prison. He puts his paw on her neck and a cold flush runs through me. He's sizing up her vocal cords, isn't he?

“She really did it, huh? What is Marie thinking?” Amanda asks incredulously.

“Mom put him in a tartan kilt. See the pin? She made Mr. MacNevin use an infant’s kilt pin for the–” Shannon starts.

Amanda interrupts. “Hold up. Infant kilt pin?”

Shannon shrugs, two curls sliding gracefully down her shoulder. “I guess it’s a thing. Anyhow, then they took a flower girl basket and Mom had it customized for Chuckles.”

Chuckles squirms out of Amanda's grip, scattering rose petals everywhere. She sets him down. He defiantly urinates all over the petals.

Amanda grimaces. “I hate to think about what he’s going to do when you throw the bouquet.”

Shannon bursts into tears. “My mother is ruining my wedding!”

Amanda tries to lighten the mood. “Well, there’s always elopement.”

“Is Declan using you to get to me now?” Shannon snaps.

Amanda raises her hands defensively. “Whoa, whoa there! That was just a joke!”

“Sorry,” Shannon sniffles. “He’s spent the last month or so begging me to just run away with him and bag this whole stupid big wedding thing.”

“He has?” Amanda asks, eyebrows raised.

“Plus, he’s angry I made him abstain.”

“For a month?” Amanda looks aghast.

“No. Three days.”

Amanda rolls her eyes. “Oh. Poor baby.”

“You’re not being very sympathetic! The maid of honor is supposed to be supportive,” Shannon whimpers.

Amanda gestures dramatically to the coffee. “I am supportive!”

“Not when you suggest eloping,” Shannon insists tearfully. “I’m so tempted.”

Tap tap tap

The door bursts open. Jeffrey and Tyler, our nephews and today’s kilted ring bearers, tumble in like two tartan-wrapped tornadoes.

“Auntie Thannon!” Jeffrey shouts, burying himself in Shannon’s skirts. Jeffrey has a wicked lisp that slips in when he's excited. He frowns, then speaks more slowly. “Why are you crying? Mom told me this is the happiest day of your life!”

Shannon’s tears escalate. I step forward, watching helplessly as Tyler heads toward Chuckles. Chuckles, sensing trouble, promptly lifts a leg toward Tyler.

“No kitty! No! Turn the kitty off!” Tyler shouts, kicking Chuckles lightly, scattering rose petals everywhere.

“You don’t kick animals, Tyler!” Jeffrey reprimands.

Tyler panics. “Turn the kitty off! ”

Carol rushes in, instantly assessing the disturbance. “Did you kick Chuckles?” she demands.

Tyler hides in Shannon’s skirt. Carol turns to Jeffrey, who hesitates.

Our dad walks in, whistling cheerfully. “Why does Chuckles look like a dying tauntaun?”

“Tyler kicked him,” Jeffrey explains.

“Did NOT!” Tyler yells defensively.

“Why?” Dad asks.

Jeffrey points at their shoes. “Because Chuckles was going to pee on him, I think. Look, Grandpa. All our shoes have latheth.”

"Latheth?"

"Lay-ces," Jeffrey over-enunciates.

Dad goes red and looks down. “Oh, shit. You’re right.” Chuckles pees on shoelaces. It’s a thing.

“Dad! Language!” Carol admonishes.

“Sorry, Carol.”

“Shit,” mutters Shannon’s skirt, now inhabited by Tyler.

Carol shoots her father a look. “Great! It took two weeks to get him to stop saying that word last time.”

Dad leans toward Tyler. “Hey, Tyler, if I give you M&Ms, will you stop saying ‘shit’?”

Tyler emerges. “Okay.”

“Shit!” Jeffrey shouts gleefully.

Carol and Dad glare at him.

“What? If he gets M&Ms for not saying ‘shit,’ I thought I’d say ‘shit’ and then you can give me M&Ms for stopping saying it, too,” Jeffrey reasons.

Jeffrey's future as a negotiator seems bright.

Amanda hands Carol and Dad coffee, which they gratefully accept.

Dad sighs and like a magician, pulls two Halloween-size bags of M&Ms out of a rabbit's ass. He hands one each to Jeffrey and Tyler. “Hamish is passing around whisky, and Declan isn’t here yet. Just me, James, and Terry.”

“How is Hamy?” Amanda teases. Oh, no. That's like ringing the dinner bell at summer camp.

Mom appears instantly, curious.

I know I'll regret this. Maybe I'm a masochist. Maybe it's the sentimentality of the wedding day. My second-biggest sister (by age, not size, as we often joke), is getting married today and all I got was a booty call and a tartan thong.

But I confess what's happening.

"He booty called me last night."

Carol leans in. "Tell us more."

“Except he says I made the booty call!” I wail.

“What?” Amanda gasps.

"Did you?" Carol demands, giving me a once-over with eyes like our mom's.

"A booty call?" Mom squeals. "My Amy is sleeping with a famous Scottish soccer player?"

"NO!" I snap. "I am not sleeping with him!"

"My God, why not?" Carol asks in a low, hurt voice. "Do you have a yeast infection or something?"

"NO! I'm not sleeping with him because he's disgusting."

"Your standards are so high, they could be a weather balloon," Mom says tartly.

"He's a scheming playboy and a liar, too! He claims I called him!"

They all stare at me.

“WHAT?” Shannon, Marie, Amanda, and Carol roar simultaneously.

“So I put him firmly in his place, and then you know what he did?” I continue dramatically.

“What?” they all ask eagerly.

“He tried to get me to introduce him to Jessica Coffin.”

“Why would he try to do that?” Shannon looks disgusted.

“He probably thinks she’s the best person for going viral,” I explain bitterly.

“She’s a disease, all right,” Shannon mutters darkly, staring at the bouquet like it personally offended her.

I blink. “I mean for publicity,” I clarify, glancing around like I’m defending Hamish, which is about as appealing as wearing shoelaces around Chuckles. “He can’t stand the fact that he’s a celebrity in Europe but here in the U.S. no one knows who he is.”

Shannon snorts as Mom fusses with another one of her curls. Which, by the way, aren’t real curls. Shannon has pin-straight brown hair that’s allergic to volume. But today? She looks like she walked out of a Disney movie, thanks to enough product to gum up Boston’s entire wastewater system.

Honestly, I think an entire sewage plant is currently trying to locate the 700-pound clump of mousse and aerosol that’s gone rogue and formed its own zip code on Shannon’s head.

Carol peeks out the window, tensing like she’s spotted a sniper.

“Tyler’s at the damn pool again,” she says through gritted teeth. “I swear, if he does a cannonball, I’m calling in the National Guard.” She squints. "Oh, good. He's running back inside." But she's an experienced mom and heads outside anyhow.

Mom waves one bejeweled hand. “We’ll have someone close the gate.”

So reassuring.

I shift over to another crack in the curtains and peer out, just in time to see Shannon’s ex-boyfriend loitering near the rose wall like a bored groomsman with unresolved feelings who wants to make a terrible grand gesture. I turn back to my sister, trying to lighten the mood. “So... ready for your wedding night?”

Her eyes fill instantly. Dang it.

“I just want to see him,” she whispers. “Is Declan hung over? I need to see him.”

“It’s bad luck,” Mom snaps, yanking out a makeup brush that could double as a street sweeper.

Shannon swats at tears while Mom dusts her with enough powder to classify as a dust bowl event.

“I don’t care,” Shannon mumbles. “I haven’t gone this long without seeing him since he was in Singapore for that investor summit. What if he’s changed his mind? What if he calls it off and runs off with Jessica Coffin and makes beautiful Barbie children with her and drinks white wine with beef?!”

Mom pauses. Even she knows that white wine with beef is unforgivable.

“I had wedding day jitters when I married your father,” she says softly, putting down her brushes and taking Shannon’s hands. Her face goes tender, raw, vulnerable. “Every bride gets them.”

"Besides, Hamish is after Jessica," I say, mouth twisting.

“I know Dec loves me,” Shannon says, and it’s like watching her heart melting from her eyes. “It’s just...”

She lunges forward into Mom’s arms and the two of them sob together like a Hallmark movie that suddenly went off-script.

And then the door bursts open. And with it, chaos incarnate.

A tiny man strolls in like he owns the place, carrying what looks like a fur-covered leaf blower. Jordan. Our florist. In one hand, he has a bouquet. In the other? His dog, Muffin.

Who appears to be molting.

Mom squeals and launches herself at him, nearly knocking Shannon’s veil off. Jordan hugs her like she’s royalty, then scans the room—until his eyes land on Amanda.

He bares his teeth.

I’m not being metaphorical. His actual incisors shine like polished piano keys.

“Marie,” he croons, clinging to her arm. “Let’s make this wedding even more beautiful with my creations.”

He proceeds to lay out what seems like every floral item for the wedding party like he’s unveiling the crown jewels. Bridal bouquet. Bridesmaids’ bouquets. Reception bouquet. Corsages. All carefully labeled and color-coded like a botanical battle plan.

He describes the groomsmen’s boutonnieres in such florid detail, I half expect one of the roses to sing. Apparently, we’ll be adorned in flowers native to Scotland—primrose, bluebell, and white roses, all coordinated with tartan.

On Pinterest, it looked like a disaster.

In person? It actually works. Somehow.

One hour to go.

The room explodes into motion. Seamstresses zip, photographers snap, mascara wands fly, brides weep.

Mom claps and squeals like she just found out the president will be attending.

Between the tartan underwear (don’t ask), the tartan sashes, the tartan ribbons in our hair, tartan flower arrangements, and yes, even tartan nail polish, we don’t look like bridesmaids.

We look like the Loch Ness monster ate an entire Scottish gift shop and vomited.

This wedding has officially gone plaid.

Dad and James come around the corner like Scottish GQ models doing a live-action ad for tartan couture. Swords dangle from their hips. Kilts swish dramatically. Bagpipes could’ve started playing and no one would have blinked.

Amanda’s mom lets out a low whistle.

Dad blushes.

James? James doesn’t blush. James smirks and glides over to Amanda’s mom with the confidence of a man who once dated royalty and still sends them Christmas cards.

“Pam! Nice to see you! Don’t you look stunning,” he says, and then kisses both her cheeks. With intent .

Everything slows down. Like, movie-montage, dreamy-haze, Nora-Ephron-directed-this-moment slow. Except it’s not romantic. It’s Amanda’s mom.

James is kissing her.

And his hand rests on her hip.

His actual palm. Is he caressing her? Is this happening? Is my optic nerve broken?

“James,” Pam says, her voice going all buttery like she’s the heroine in a Southern romance novel. “So good to see you again.”

James winks. Winks. “Have any good statistics for me to use to improve my life? How about some good wedding stats?”

Pam blushes. She actually looks upward, like she’s scrolling through the file cabinet in her brain.

“Married men live longer than single men. That’s all I’ve got.”

“Is that true for women, too?”

Pam nods, beaming. And James delivers the line with a chuckle: “Then I’m glad to hear my son and new daughter-in-law are giving themselves more time together by spending nearly seven figures of my money on this beast of a day!”

Dad, mid-sip into his coffee, sprays an impressive arc. He turns, mouth open, eyes wide, and stares at James like he’s just revealed he’s been secretly dating someone only twenty years younger than him.

And just as I’m trying to process whatever the hell that was , something out the window catches my eye.

Blonde. Legs for days. The shimmer of a dress that cost more than my car.

Jessica Coffin.

My blood turns to ice. She's here . Not just on property—she’s mingling . She’s talking to a guest.

Taking selfies . Selfies for her social media poison channels. Social media where she makes fun of my sister, all because she's still furious that Declan didn't pick her, way back when they were in college and Jessica hit on him.

Jessica has been a thorn in Shannon's side for a long time, and there's no way I'm letting her hurt my sister on her big day.

Nope. Absolutely not.

I move quickly to the side, subtly stepping in front of the window where Shannon is seated in her makeup chair. I grab a curtain and pretend to fuss with it, shaking it out and pulling it closed.

“Why are you blocking the window?” Shannon asks, voice sharp with suspicion.

“I’m not. Just… adjusting the light,” I say with a fake smile and panicked eyeballs. “You know. For ambiance.”

Shannon narrows her eyes. “You’re not adjusting anything. You’re hiding something.”

“I’m absolutely not?—”

She’s up. She’s pushing past me. She’s flinging the curtain aside like she’s Joan Crawford looking for wire coat hangers.

She sees Jessica.

Her mouth opens. Her shoulders tighten. She sucks in a breath that could power a wind turbine.

“YOU INVITED JESSICA COFFIN TO MY WEDDING, MOM?”

Just then, Declan and Hamish burst into the room.

It is at this exact moment that my breath is stolen by a Viking god. Every bit of oxygen in the room disappears, every sensation in every cell of my body given over as a virgin sacrifice to Valhalla.

Because standing before me, in all his glory, is Hamish McCormick, wearing a full tuxedo kilt, looking divine.

More than divine.

Any revulsion I felt for him last night is long gone–poof!–replaced by a striking need to have this striker score a–kick a–well, whatever strikers do in soccer.

And I’m the back of the net.

As Mom and Shannon scream at each other, Chuckles hisses at everyone, Tyler tries to make the kitty fold into a different dimension, and Jeffrey argues with Dad over how much of a bribe it would take to get them out of here, I stand transfixed, unable to move, drool pooling in my mouth.

I have never wanted a man so badly.

And he's such a bad man to want.