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But in moments like this, where scores of thousands of people have come together to watch the man I sleep with, the man I shower with, the man who asks me to look at weird lumps on his back and oil his biceps before photo shoots–the man who commands people to look at him and be happy–that's when I feel like a quivering baby rabbit on the inside.

I don't doubt our love.

I just... why me?

I make a beeline for the familiar comfort of my sister.

“Hey,” I say, trying to sound normal.

And failing.

Shannon turns and smiles. “There she is. Our reluctant future fiancée.”

I stare at her. She reaches out and re-arranges my hair back to the way I had it before Fiona "improved" me.

“I mean that in the most loving way possible,” she adds.

“Don’t.” And yet, is it that obvious? Can she see it in my face? I'm not reluctant about marrying Hamish. That part is easy. It's the whole idea of having eighty thousand eyes watching him propose that makes me freeze.

Declan gives me an easy nod, his green eyes jarring. They're nearly identical to Hamish's. How can cousins share so little DNA and yet all of it ends up in the eyes? “Would you like a drink?”

“Only if it’s a gallon of tequila and comes with a sedation dart.”

“I’ll see what the bar can do. Call it The Marie Special.”

He kisses Shannon’s cheek and saunters off like a man who has never once had to text his wife’s family thread, “Why is there a goat in our garage? Again?”

Shannon turns back to me, sliding into big-sister-who-knows-you’re-spiraling mode.

A breeze catches her long, brown hair and lifts it across her eyes, warm concern radiating from them.

Shannon got Mom's hair and Dad's eyes, while I'm the opposite, with Dad's auburn hair and Mom's bright blue eyes.

Our faces are similar in shape, even if the genetic roll of the dice gave us different features. “You okay?”

I open my mouth.

Nothing comes out.

“Oh, boy.” She takes my hand and scoots into the row where Declan was sitting. “You’ve reached the blank-stare stage. That’s never good.”

We settle into two seats, my breath still shaky. Shannon nudges me with her shoulder.

“You know,” she says, “I’m not even sure where I’m supposed to sit. Jacoby side or McCormick?”

“You were born a Jacoby.”

“Sure, but I married into this madness. And now I’ve got a toe in each volcano.”

“Welcome to the lava pool.”

She laughs. “This is all still better than my proposal, though.”

Every little sister loves being reminded of her big sister's screw ups. I laugh. “You swallowed your engagement ring.”

She grins. “And launched us into a seventy-two-hour medical drama called #poopwatch . Honestly, this whole spectacle? Glitter cannon, megaphone, and Hamish's mom’s interpretive bagpipe routine? It's still less traumatic than giving birth to a diamond solitaire.”

“I had to text you for stool updates.”

“I color-coded the spreadsheet. It was efficient. But I don't recommend unexpected emergency room trips on proposal day.”

I crack a laugh, the pressure in my chest finally giving way. "Thanks for the warning. I have no plans to see the inside of an ER today, thank you very much."

Shannon takes my hand. Her expression shifts to that rare sister-serious look I only ever see in moments that count. I'm so lucky that she and Carol are good, solid, kind, smart adults. I need them at times like this.

Need them more than ever.

We can wisecrack and one-up. We can razz each other and needle. But when one of us is in the fear zone, we're there for her.

Always.

“This is love, Amy. Ridiculous, oversized, loud-ass love. It’s not perfect. It’s not quiet. It’s never going to be. But it’s real. Hamish is choosing you, all of you. And yeah, he’s doing it in a full stadium with a glitter fallout zone, but he’s doing it. He’s all in.”

I breathe.

“He’s just… so much.”

“I know. But he’s your much.”

We hug. I let her hold me, just for a second. My throat is tight, eyes burning. This is what it means to have sisters. To be seen.

Then—

SPROING!

A sound like a spring-loaded clown cannon fires off behind us, followed by: “WHOO-HOO! I’M THE COO!”

We look toward the noise, and there she is.

Mom.

Standing on top of the mascot’s inflatable platform, wearing a sash that reads MOTHER OF THE COOSURE brIDE , a tiara made of mini American football helmets, and holding a clipboard with rhinestones that spell “C.O.O.”

She’s twerking.

To bagpipe music.

Shannon’s jaw drops. I swear I can hear forty thousand other jaws drop, too. Some of them cheer, many of them jeer. It all becomes cacophony.

I whisper, “There isn’t enough therapy in the world for this.”

"What the hell does 'coosure' mean?" Shannon's question is sincere, her eyes catching mine as if I'm going to offer up some special Scottish definition that explains what Mom's doing.

"Never heard the word before." I pull out my phone and search. "Nope. It means nothing. Mom made it up."

"Coosure. Coosure," Shannon repeats. "Sounds like 'kosher.'"

Mom points at a confused teenager standing nearby and shouts, “You, there! Intern boy! I want all airspace over this pitch closed! This is sacred ceremony air! ”

Shannon exhales. “I take it back. Hashtag poopwatch was dignified by comparison.”

"Is she drunk?"

She shakes her head and looks down at the Jacoby section, craning her neck. "Where is Dad? He's normally her wrangler. And no, she's not drinking these days. Working on her diet for your wedding."

"Our wedding is at least a year or two away!"

The way Shannon frowns, eyes fixed on mine, makes my butthole clench. “You already set the date." It’s not a question.

"I–what?"

"You–Mom said it was you–there's a wedding planner already picked! We got save-the-date emails." She taps on her phone and turns the screen toward me.

An email from Mom and right underneath, one from Fiona.

Both saving a date about eighteen months from now.

"Oh, my God. There are two of them," Shannon says, hand going to her mouth. "You have two versions of Mom. I'm so sorry. They'll potentiate each other and have exponentially more power."

I slide my sunglasses down and pretend I don’t know her.

We watch in silence as Mom attempts a high kick and nearly topples off the inflatable stage.

Neither of us breathes.

“I don’t want to be related to this,” I whisper.

"And now Hamish is about to be."

My phone vibrates. A text from Hamish:

Your mum’s hilarious. Love you!

I show it to Shannon.

"No way," she says, agog. "Are you sure our partners are really cousins? Because hell would have to freeze over before Declan texted that to me about Mom. He loves her, but..."

Just then, Mom points to a bagpiper, who tweaks an amp, and suddenly, there's an accordion player on the field.

And AC/DC's “Thunderstruck” begins, Scottish style.

"There's a reason you guys fled your own wedding," I say weakly as Shannon wraps her arm around my shoulders and gives me a gentle, understanding squeeze.

I didn't really get it then.

I do now.

Viscerally.