Page 10

“Don’t we all.”

"He's not alone, by the way. I've been hanging out with–"

Out in the yard, the shed door creaks open—the kind of loud creak that sounds like a haunted house trying to send a warning.

Fergus McCormick lumbers out, walking crooked and looking squinty.

Gravity can’t decide what to do with him.

He’s got a half-empty glass in one hand and the energy of a man who just had a deep philosophical argument with a lawn ornament.

His white hair sticks up like it lost a bet with a wind tunnel, and that red nose of his could land airplanes in a snowstorm. He talks to himself as he makes his way across the yard, looking equal parts jolly, tipsy, and completely unbothered by the fact that he’s still in socks.

Is this a glimpse of my husband, forty-odd years from now?

“Fiona?” he bellows, catching only the tail end of our conversation. “Yer talkin’ aboot Fiona? That woman’s like livin’ with a hurricane wearin’ pearls and a scowl!”

Dad nearly chokes on his drink. “Afternoon, Fergus.”

“Is it?” Fergus looks around. “Coulda sworn it were still mornin’. Or Tuesday.”

He stumbles to a patio chair and plants himself with a grunt, glass sloshing dangerously close to my sandals.

“Ye ever try ta have a calm conversation wi’ that woman?” Fergus says to Dad, slapping his knee. “One minute yer askin’ if she wants tea, next she’s off about the moral decay of scented candles and why oat milk is a government psyop.”

“She does like to redirect,” Dad replies, the corners of his mouth twitching. In Dad-speak, that means there is no brake pedal on this woman .

Fergus squints at him. “ Redirect? I asked her ta pick a movie once. Ended up applyin’ for a goat adoption license in rural Perthshire. We dinna even own goats, Jason.”

“Marie once replaced the toilet paper in our neighbor’s guest bathroom with bamboo cloths,” Dad says. “Left a note that said, ‘Trees have feelings, too, Karen.’ ”

“She what? ”

“Then she had a bidet delivered to their house . ”

Fergus lets out a strangled laugh. “Ach! Fiona once live-tweeted our plumber’s visit and got him banned from the neighborhood WhatsApp group for usin’ the phrase ‘man hole.’”

“Marie staged a silent protest outside Whole Foods because they moved the tricolor quinoa. Had a handmade sign that said, ‘If you displace the grains, you displace the people.’ ”

Fergus wheezes. “That’s art.”

Dad leans forward, warming up now. “She also once refused to get out of a Lyft because the driver’s playlist wasn’t ‘emotionally congruent with the weather.’ Said Adele in the sunshine was a ‘spiritual betrayal.’”

Fergus blinks. “That… might be fair.”

“Oh, we’re not done,” Dad says. “She took the connector cord, gave a twenty-minute lecture on emotional alignment in digital spaces, and made him cry. He gave her five stars.”

Fergus nearly falls out of his chair. “Fiona once locked a man oot of his own pet store fer playin' American country music.”

“ What? ”

“He said goldfish need stimulation. She said that was neglect. Called it justice for a hostage situation. The fish were fine.”

Dad wipes his eyes. “Marie once stole a megaphone from a local councilwoman and used it to shame someone for not rinsing their recyclables.”

“That’s just being a good citizen,” Fergus mumbles, nodding.

“Fair enough,” Dad adds.

They clink their glasses together and settle in, old dogs hunkered together in a hurricane shelter, united by the baffling miracle of still wanting to share a life with the women at the eye of the storm. Then they both start laughing, shoulders shaking, eyes watering.

“They’re bonding,” I say to no one.

“They’re trauma -bonding,” Carol says behind me. I've been so enraptured by Dad and Fergus talking as if they married the same woman that I didn't even hear her come in.

"Where's Mom?" I ask as Carol kicks off her shoes by the door.

"She drove past a yard sale and saw some uranium glass on a table. Texted me to come join her. No way."

"Oh, boy. We won't see her until next Monday."

"Yeah. It was the end house of a cul-de-sac and I saw a sign that said 'Neighborhood Yard Sale.' Probably should have slapped an Air Tag on her for tracking purposes."

"She's Dad's problem, not ours," I say with a sigh. "What about Jeffrey and Tyler?"

"Tyler's at home on his iPad. Jeffrey went off with the Lord of the Flies gang Hamish calls siblings. Headed to Purgatory Chasm and the ice cream place nearby."

"After that football game? With their big brother in the hospital?"

"Would you rather they hung out here?"

I shudder. "God, no. How are they all getting there? That's eight people. Who drove them?"

"Jeffrey drove. And one of the McCormick kids took their rental van."

"They drive on the wrong side of the road!"

"Jeffrey has an under-18 license," she reminds me. "I reminded him he can't drive anyone else. He tried to negotiate, because plenty of Hamish's brothers and sisters are over 18, but I said only American citizens count."

"That can't be true."

"My car, my rules." She gives me a sympathetic smile. Of all us girls, Carol looks the most like Mom, which can be weird sometimes. They don’t talk the same, and Carol’s expressions are more muted, more sarcastic.

Less intrusive.

"How's it feel to have a blowout proposal, except it's Hamish's knee that blew out?"

"Ha ha."

"I'm so sorry. What do the doctors say?"

Opening my mouth and closing it a few times doesn't bring a shred of clarity to my brain. It’s a long story to retell.

Fergus and Dad finally manage to stand, clasping hands like old generals after battle. The hug that follows involves a lot of back-patting and something that sounds suspiciously like a mutual grunt of defeat.

“She’s a bloody menace,” Fergus says, wiping his eyes.

“But she’s my menace,” Dad replies with a sigh that says send help , but also I’d marry her again tomorrow.

"What's the plan now?" Carol asks, giving me a side hug. "I heard Hamish is still at Tufts?"

"Yeah. They'll discharge him later. Coach and Jody stayed to go over his prognosis with the ortho. The team physical therapist is meeting with them all, too."

"That's a lot."

"His leg has to heal. It's his biggest asset in the game."

"He told me his mind was his best asset for playing."

Just then, the back door flies open so hard, it ricochets off the stopper and bounces. A gust of brisk, judgmental air sweeps in ahead of Fiona McCormick, who enters like a thunderclap in lipstick and tartan.

“Och! Look at these wee trinkets! Who’s responsible for this adorable nonsense?”

She beelines for the sideboard and picks up a ceramic hedgehog holding a fake succulent like it’s the crown jewel of kitsch. “That’s precious! And look at the way this couch curves—who picked that out? Amy, was that ye? Brilliant choice . ”

She spins, notices the half-empty glass in Fergus’s hand, and gasps like he’s holding a severed head. “FERGUS. What in God’s hung-over name have ye done ta yerself?”

Fergus blinks. “Sat down.”

“With a drink? After the three pints ye had at the stadium? Have ye eaten anything since then, or are ye fueled entirely by fermented grains and poor judgment?”

Fergus shrugs. “Canna drink beer in yer seat at matches back home. Fun to do here. I ate, though. I had a pretzel stick.”

Fiona turns her fire on Dad. “Jason! Ye just let him swan aboot the garden lookin’ like a washed-up Santa on furlough?”

Dad lifts his hands like he’s being held at gunpoint. “He poured it himself, Fiona. I’ve learned not to interfere with men over seventy who look like they wrestle elk for fun.”

Fergus beams at Dad. New besties.

Fiona scowls at me. “Amy, love, ye let him sit oot here in this condition?”

“In my defense, he sat down before I noticed he was drunk.”

“And ye just left him ta bake in the sun?”

"I'm aging like fine wine," Fergus argues back.

Fiona throws up her hands. “This family’s gone aff its nut. And I’ve only been here five minutes!”

Then, because she’s Fiona, she starts rearranging the pillows on the outdoor furniture while blathering on about lumbar support. After plumping the pillows into submission, she turns on the living room like it personally offended her.

“Who picked this color scheme?” she scoffs, scanning the soft pinks and creams. “A dentist’s office would be more romantic.”

I'm getting future mother-in-law whiplash. I thought she liked Mom's decor?

She zeroes in on a framed print of a cow wearing a crown of wildflowers.

“And what is this? That poor beast looks like she was being assaulted by Pinterest and surrendered.”

She walks the room, acting like a home inspector with a personal vendetta. “Och, and this throw blanket—scratchy! Probably bought it because it matched a scented candle. And the fake lemon tree in the corner? What message does that send? Are we in Tuscany? Are we citrus-forward now?”

Carol nudges me and whispers, “Oh, no,” tilting her head toward the garage door.

It opens.

Mom stands in the doorway, holding an armful of green uranium glass. She freezes at the sight of Fiona mid-critique, eyes narrowing.

Catching my gaze, she gives a tiny head shake: Don’t. Say. Anything.

Fiona, of course, barrels ahead.

“This whole room’s got no vision. Did a lifestyle blog and a real estate brochure have a baby and then leave it in a nursery, with those sad beige rainbows painted all over the walls? Who sold you on acid reflux in latex form?”

She flips a tassel on the curtain with visible disgust. “Ye ken what this says ta me? It says, ‘Welcome to mild depression.’ ”

And then she turns her sights on me.

“I’ll say it now, Amy, ye canna bring this aesthetic ta Edinburgh.

Yer weddin’s gonna be in a historic castle, not a craft fair tent.

What’re ye plannin’–centerpieces made out o’ cinnamon sticks and regret?

Table settings wi’ twine and affirmations?

Ye’ll turn the place into a failed potpourri startup! ”

She gestures to a small wooden sign hanging over the bar cart that reads: Sip happens.

“Sip happens? Really? Is this the energy ye want for a transatlantic ceremony as ye marry ma famous footie-playing son? Might as well hand oot flasks that say ‘Bridezilla was here.’”

Mom sets the uranium glass down with the kind of delicate precision that screams enjoy your hair extensions while you can.

Then she straightens to her full height.

“EXCUSE ME?”

Dad and Fergus freeze like forest creatures hearing the snap of a hunter’s boot. Their eyes meet, wide, grim, and resigned.

Fiona turns, unbothered. “Oh. There ye are. Did ye ken yer kitchen rug’s a trippin’ hazard? Tassels on a rug! It’s like dryin’ yer feet on a low-stakes booby trap.”

“I will NOT,” Mom thunders, “be insulted in my own home by a woman who looks like she knits tea cozies for wine bottles and calls it ‘artisanal hosting.’”

“At least I dinna decorate like a Hallmark card come ta life.”

“You put a kilt on your Christmas tree , Fiona. I saw the pictures.”

“Ye put one on yer damn cat!”

"That made sense in context. Yours is just weird."

“Isna that callin’ the kettle black?”

"I am not weird!"

“I celebrate ma culture!”

“You celebrate visual chaos!”

Chuffy chooses this moment to leap into Fergus’s lap, tail wagging, paws scrabbling for balance. He settles in like he owns the place and Fergus starts scratching his ears.

“Well, hullo ta ye, too,” Fergus says to him. “Hullo, Chuffy. Fine lad.”

Fiona stops mid-rant.

“ What did ye say his name is? ”

Fergus, unruffled, replies, “Chuffy.”

Fiona freezes.

Then she blinks once. Twice.

And shouts, “ CHUFF? Fergus, ye canna say that word in company! It means fanny! And not the American fanny—the UK one! The one wi’—” She makes an aggressive gesture like an animated medical diagram.

Carol coughs so hard, she nearly spills her water. Dad has to look away. I think I just pulled a muscle trying not to laugh.

Fergus, utterly unbothered, sips his drink. “Well, it suits him."

"The dog's named after a vagina!"

"Makes sense. He’s soft. Wee. Needs a good trim. Kinda needy, gets upset if ye ignore him.”

“He’s a dog , Fergus. Not a metaphor fer yer fragile masculinity!”

“Still accurate.”

Chuffy lets out a tiny whine and nuzzles further into Fergus’s lap, choosing drunk Scottish granddad over the fury of Highland thunder.

Mom steps forward. “And another thing —you don’t get to plan my daughter’s wedding when you stormed the production booth at the football game and tried to get the kiss cam on yourself while climbing into Ryan Reynolds’ luxury box.”

“He smiled at me!” Fiona’s face scrunches up. "And what the hell does that have to do wi’ ma ability ta plan a wedding?"

"It doesn't," Mom sniffs. "I'm just revolted by your behavior."

"And by revolted ," Carol whispers, "she means jealous of ."

Even the ceiling fan slows down like it wants to hear the rest.

Fergus leans toward Dad. “Fancy crawlin’ under the porch?”

Dad lifts his glass. “Not unless we bring the bottle.”

Carol has half disappeared behind the couch. I pull out my phone, swipe to Hamish’s contact, and tap FaceTime like it’s a lifeline.

Ring

Ring

Ring

I step onto the porch, the sound of verbal artillery echoing behind me.

Come on, Hamish. Pick up.