Who knows. It’s like the goddamn bubblegum forest barfed all over the church and I have to hear all about it from my brother and his fiancée every time I go over to their place or they come to mine for food.
I cannot escape this wedding, their bliss, the nonstop merriment.
I cannot wait for it to be over.
Also, my brother refused to delay his honeymoon so I could go to the Maldives with them, a place I’ve never been, and is it too much to ask that they fucking postpone it until February?
They wouldn’t even listen to reason; he was such a selfish dick about it.
“Get your own wife. You are not coming on my honeymoon. Are you insane?”
“Who gives a shit if I don’t have my own wife—stop being greedy. It’s not like you’re going to be alone on that island, so what if there’s one more person?”
Me.
“I don’t need my brother breathing down my neck while I’m trying to get laid and romance Hollis.”
“What if we all come?” That idea sounded horrifying, even to my own ears. “Then I’d have someone to hang out with in the sun and sand.”
“We who?”
“You know, me, Mom, Dad, True—”
My brother threw his hands up in the air at that point. “Stop talking.”
“I’m going to get me one of those pedicures where you put your feet in the fish tank and they eat the dead skin off your heels.”
“You aren’t going to do shit.” Buzz laughed. “And that’s fucking disgusting.”
But cool.
“Why won’t you let me live my life? You’ll hardly know I’m there. I’ll get my own hut over the water if it’s going to be such a damn problem.”
“Oh, I’ll know you’re there alright. You’re like a fucking bull in the housewares department.”
A bull? “There’s no need to name-call.”
“You’re not coming.”
“You don’t have to answer now. Take some time to think about it.” I reached over to press a finger to his lips, but he smacked my hand away.
“I don’t have to think about it. The answer is no and will always be no. Nein. Nyet. Ochi. Non. Loh.”
Dang. I didn’t realize he knew so many languages.
“Shhh.” Is he being a bitch about this because I stole the last of his filet mignon leftovers out of his fridge? “No need to be hasty.”
Buzz isn’t the only Wallace who can be tenacious. I was the fucking Most Valuable Player at the Super Bowl three years ago, chump. Suck on that.
“Go home, Tripp, or I’m telling Mom.”
My face scrunched up, indignant. “You always tattle on me.”
“No, you always tattle on me.”
It’s true, I do. But it’s not like he doesn’t always deserve it…
My brother is getting married.
When I walk through the door to this house of prayer, my family will be gathered there, for him. And Hollis.
Her family too, a cause for celebration bigger than the World Series—which he’s never played in—or the Super Bowl. No one cares about those championships this weekend; they only care about Buzz and Hollis.
Trace and Hollis.
My fucking brother is getting married—I don’t know how many times I have to tell myself before I’ll begin believing it, before it’ll sink in.
The limit does not exist.
I stand stoically at the front of the church while they rehearse, Noah Harding, my brother’s best friend, serving as the officiant, going through his spiel while we look on, the entire process taking longer than it should because everyone and my goddamn brother keep cracking jokes.
Fine.
I will admit, it’s a pleasant evening.
And okay—I’ll admit, the room looks nice. Stunning, even, and I can say that even though I’m a guy, right?
Everyone is gathered around and on their best behavior, dressed up and decked out for the occasion—everyone, it seems, except me. In my after-workout gear, which normally I wouldn’t feel self-conscious about, but for some reason I do. Guilty even. The good news is my mom hasn’t found me and hasn’t chewed my ass out about my clothes yet, and no one has said a word.
But then—I was late, so not many people have noticed I’m even here.
It seems the ceremony is going to be casual, lots of personal touches, personal anecdotes about the loving couple from their family and friends, which I thought usually happened at the reception following the wedding, but what do I know about weddings? I’ve only been to a handful of them in my life. For some reason, I rarely get invited to them—and the ones I have been to are hella fancy and stuffy. Generally it’s been my teammates marrying high-maintenance women who spend hundreds of thousands of dollars showing off for their friends.
Who knows. Maybe everyone is already married, so there are no weddings.
Or, maybe I’m an asshole and no one wants to waste the space inviting me to their thing. Their event.
Whatever, like I have time for that crap.
The wedding planner is busy matching people together, her clipboard in hand, no doubt listing the pairings of the bridal party. We move through the motions of the processional or whatever it’s called—the grand march or some shit—where we walk down the aisle, two by two, like we’re marching onto Noah’s Ark. (Noah’s Ark from the Bible, not Noah Harding, the baseball player officiant standing on the pitcher’s mound. Er, I mean, podium.)
I pull at my crotch, adjusting my shorts, while the young woman beside me tries to push her hand through the crux of my bended elbow so we can start walking to the front.
“I’m Shoshanna Lohenstein,” she tells me, batting a pair of false eyelashes. They’re too black, too long, and flutter like engorged butterflies fucking her actual eyelids.
Shoshanna. Lohenstein.
If that doesn’t sound blue-blooded and snotty, I don’t know what does.
“You’re not the maid of honor,” I state matter-of-factly, hoping like hell they haven’t changed the plans and stuck me with this Barbie doll. “Where is Madison?”
“I’m the practice stand-in—Maddie is putting out fires with the mother of the bride. She’s like, losing her mind. Maddie, not Mrs. Westbrooke.” She pats my arm. “I hope you don’t mind.”
I snort.
From what I’ve seen of Madison Newtown, when it comes to parties and planning, she runs a tight ship and has everything under control. I wonder where she’s at, because I’d rather have her standing next to me than this socialite debutante—but I don’t care enough to find out.
“Whatever.”
I stare straight ahead to deter any conversation.
The last thing I need is to encourage the Shoshanna Lohensteins of the world.
Her nails—I look down at them digging into my bicep—are painted in bright colors, sunk into my skin as if she has no intention of letting go when we get to the end of the aisle.
I’m correct; I have to peel her off before fleeing to the groom’s side. Just the tiniest bit afraid, I chance a glance over my shoulder to find her leering at me like I’m a piece of meat.
Avoid that woman at all costs tomorrow night.
I manage to avoid her eyes the remainder of the rehearsal, made slightly easier now that she’s seated in one of the pews, replaced by Madison, who returned from wherever the hell she’d gone off to.