“Well, there’s always elopement,” I joke.
“Is Declan using you now to get to me?” she snaps.
“Whoa, whoa there!” I hold up my hands. “That was just a joke!”
“Sorry,” she sniffs, the word wispy and fragile in her mouth. “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?”
“Plus he’s angry I made him abstain.”
“For a month?” I’d be angry, too. It’s only been a few weeks for me and I’m pretty grouchy.
“No. Three days.”
“Oh. Poor baby.” My sarcasm is as thick as the mocha syrup in her latte.
“You’re not being very sympathetic! The maid of honor is supposed to be supportive.”
I point to the lattes I brought her, mochas in the largest size Starbucks carries. There’s more caffeine in there than in a UMASS student’s bloodstream on the last day of finals.
“I am supportive!”
“Not when you suggest eloping,” she whimpers. “I’m so tempted.”
Tap tap tap.
Before I can answer the door, two little boys spill into the room, a bundle of nervous energy and out-of-control limbs.
“Auntie Shannon!” Jeffrey shouts, his lisp finally gone. He’s almost ten now, and growing like a weed. He races to her, clearly not caring or conscious of the fact that she’s in a slip, her corset loose around her torso, and she’s showing more skin than a Hannibal Lechter victim.
Jeffrey’s hug is full-force, all-love, and no holding back.
And it makes Shannon cry even harder.
“Why are you crying? Mom says this is the happiest day of your life, Auntie Shannon!” Jeffrey’s words are muffled because his face is buried in nineteen layers of muslin and taffeta and wool.
Shannon cries more. If she sobs with much more force her brain will slide out her nostril.
Tyler’s little face appears from around the open door. He’s painfully shy, but when he walks in the room he lights up at the sight of Shannon.
“Pretty!”
They are the ring bearers and dressed—you guessed it—in kilt tuxedos. Traditional kilt shoes, called Ghillie brogues, are like dress shoes without tongues and feature extra-long laces that wrap around the boys’ ankles. In fact, all the men in the wedding party are wearing the same shoes.
Chuckles rubs his side up against Tyler’s left foot, his leg lifting, and—
“No kitty! No! Turn the kitty off!” Tyler screams as he half-kicks poor Chuckles a few feet, sending a cascade of rose petals all over the corner.
Chuckles finds his footing quickly, but his attached basket inverts, making it impossible for him to walk, an extra inch of wicker rubbing along the ground.
He stops and lays on his side, like a female cat nursing her brood.
“You don’t kick animals, Tyler!” Jeffrey shouts.
“I sorry! I sorry!” Tyler’s speech disorder comes back when he’s nervous. “Turn the kitty off!” That’s his way of saying, Go away.
Carol rushes in, taking everything in with the practiced eye of a parent of two young boys.
“Did you kick Chuckles?”
Tyler buries his face in Shannon’s skirts and says nothing.
Carol turns to Jeffrey for an answer.
He looks at Tyler, then me and Shannon, assessing where his loyalties rest.
Just then, Jason arrives, whistling and happy as can be, wearing half his tuxedo kilt, a tool company t-shirt covering the top of him.
“Why does Chuckles look like a dying Tauntaun?”
“Tyler kicked him,” Jeffrey starts to explain.
“Did NOT!” Tyler wails from under Shannon’s skirt now, where he’s taken up residence.
“Why?”
“Because Chuckles was going to pee on him, I think. Look, Grandpa. All our shoes have laces.”
Jason’s face goes blank, then beet red. “Oh, shit. You’re right.”
“Dad! Language!”
“Sorry, Carol.”
“Shit,” mutters Shannon’s skirt.
Carol shoots Jason an exasperated look. “Great! It took two weeks to get him to stop saying that word last time.”
“Hey, Tyler,” Jason says to the skirt.
“What?”
“If I give you M&Ms, will you stop saying ‘shit’?”
“Okay,” he mutters as he comes out.
“Shit!” Jeffrey shouts.
Carol and Jason 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 is going to grow up to be a political campaign manager.
Or a pawn shop owner.
I point to the coffee tray and Jason and Carol give me looks of thanks as they guzzle their lattes. I take in the room. The groom, his new best man, and his groomsmen are supposed to be in a wing on the other side of the pool and reception courtyard outside. Each wing is a wall of glass, covered with thick curtains. From what Shannon’s told me, Andrew is here. He just refuses to be best man, or to go outside until the temperature cools down enough to reduce the risk of wasps and bees.
He insisted on confirming that the ambulance is here as well.
And planted EpiPens everywhere.
I hope one is shoved way up his butt, because if you’re going to have a stick up there, it might as well serve a functional purpose, too. My sympathy for his complex fear withers away in the face of not overcoming it for the sake of his own brother on his big day.