I snicker into my boutonnière; last night, with the help of Clark O’Brien—a childhood friend of my brother’s—I painted HELP on the bottom of one wedding shoe and ME on the other.
My mother gasps and I don’t dare look at her, because I know she’s looking at me.
Why would she just assume I’m the one who did something wrong? It could have been anyone, but of course, they’re going to automatically accuse me.
Typical.
The white acrylic paint I bought at the craft store stains the tips of my fingers; my paint job was messy as fuck.
Buzz is a married man.
Just like the Super Bowl or World Series, the celebration after the ceremony—i.e., the big game—consists of tons of food, confetti, and alcohol.
Even the paparazzi are staked out outside the reception, a few select stations and publications allowed inside for exclusive photos.
MLB Network hovers in a corner, having gotten the rights for the first dance and cake cutting. Two photos for two million dollars. SportsCenter outbid them for the shots at the church and two from the honeymoon.
The honeymoon, I’d like to remind everyone, I was not invited to.
Begrudgingly, I slurp my wine and push the soup around its bowl, barely listening as Madison—Hollis’s best friend and maid of honor—stands to talk. And talk, and talk, and—
“…and now I’d love for the best man to join me in standing. Tripp Wallace would love to say a few words.” She hiccups and sits down, kissing Hollis’s face and blowing one to my brother.
A microphone is thrust into my hand.
What the fuck does she want me to do, give a speech?
My mother somehow magically materializes from behind, resting her hands on the back of my chair. Leans down to whisper, “You do have a best man speech prepared, don’t you, dear?”
Um, no, I don’t.
I lock eyes with True, my sister, placed a few seats down—the sly expression on her face a gloating one. She knows I have nothing to say and is going to roast me about it for years, I just fucking know it.
I stand, reluctant.
Pick up my wine glass for something to hold, keep my hands busy.
Didn’t someone tell Madison I’m an athlete, not a public speaker? What the hell do I say? The last time I was at a wedding, I barely paid attention to the ceremony, let alone the speeches at the actual reception.
Shit. I should have googled what to say.
The small crowd of guests look on, half of them bored, half of them waiting on pins and needles for what I’m about to say, and that damn Shoshanna, seated at what must be the singles table, licking her chops.
Cleat chaser…
Stay away from her if you get drunk, Tripp. Stay away from her if you get drunk—when you get drunk.
I open my mouth.
“We are gathered here today…” I start, causing the crowd to laugh. Crap, I sound like a preacher in church. “I mean—thank you for coming. Um…” I pause. “I’ve known my brother for all his life.” More laughter, and a deep scowl from my mother. “I’m Tripp Wallace, the groom’s brother.” I refuse to look over at my family again, and I want to die. Or get tackled by Arnie Felder, left tackle on my team, during practice.
Anything but this.
“Um.”
From the front head table, where Buzz is seated with his new bride—the new Mrs. Wallace—I hear his distinct chuckle.
“Go on. You’re doing great.”
No doubt this is his doing, in retaliation for me painting his wedding shoes. I want to tell him to fuck off, but this is his party and I don’t want to be rude.
Or get scolded by Mom.
“Um.” I pick at the on/off button on the microphone. “So. Buzz and I both play ball, and we’re always so busy, so none of us really expected him to ever find someone and settle down. Especially with someone like Hollis—I just assumed it would be with a groupie who managed to get herself knocked up.”
“Wow,” I hear someone from the crowd mutter.
“Hollis Wallace,” I go on. “How terrible does that sound together? Yikes.” I pull a face, let out a puff of air, and breathe into the microphone, the sound causing the speakers to emit a high-pitched screech.
More crickets.
I chance a glance over at my sister again. Her eyes appear to be damn near bugging out of her skull.
“I mean, come on—I’m only saying what everyone else is thinking.”
“Oh my god, is he drunk?” one of the bridesmaids asks another, whispering amongst themselves but loud enough for me to overhear. “Oh god, he must be.”
I ignore them.
Take a chug of wine, downing the entire glass.
It tastes like shit.
I open my mouth—but it’s not the sound of my own voice I hear when my lips part; it’s someone else’s. A feminine, amused voice. A chuckle. A low clap against a champagne glass.
“I think what Tripp is trying to say is…” Chandler Westbrooke is speaking, standing at the next table over, looking angelic and serene and completely in control. “It must have been fate for Hollis to meet a Wallace, because the names rhyme and go together so very perfectly, don’t y’all agree?”
Chandler begins clapping until everyone joins her, the echo of the microphone tapping a tambourine-style accompaniment, along with the clang from the glass in her hand. The ring on her hand glistens.
Hair twisted in an elegant bun, and it’s the first time I notice her all evening, having not seen her at the wedding ceremony since she wasn’t actually in it.
“We are all so happy for you both,” she tells the happy couple before facing the guests again. “I’m Hollis’s cousin, and for as long as I can remember, I’ve always aspired to be like her. Always independent, marching to the beat of her own drum. Following her own path and chasing her dreams. The one thing I remember her always wanting—besides a career in publishing—was her own family. Lots of kids. Y’all, I wouldn’t be surprised if we have another exciting reason to celebrate a year or two from now!”
My new sister-in-law covers her mouth with her hands to feign a giggle then throws her hands in the air as if to say Who knows! while her cousin goes on.
I stare.
Where the fuck did this come from? I was talking, for Christ’s sake!
Mousy, meek Chandler commandeering the room and hijacking my speech? So fucking rude.
Where does she get the nerve? I was doing fine on my own!
“Hollis and Trace,” she says, using my brother’s real first name, “today was incredible. The flowers, the ceremony, the vows.” She wipes one single tear form the corner of her treacherous, speech-stealing eye. “Trace, when you told Hollis you were her ride or die and that you knew you were going to marry her the moment you laid eyes on her, my heart melted.” Her hand goes to her heart. “No doubt you broke a lot of hearts today, am I right ladies?”
No doubt you’re a goddamn thief, I want to shout. I mean come on.
“Hollis, I love you. Trace, I cannot wait to get to know you better. Welcome to the family.” A few more claps. “Let’s all raise our glasses for a toast.”
The sound of glass clinking against cutlery rings throughout the room as guests raise their glasses—water glasses, wine glasses, highball glasses. “To Hollis and Trace—to Trace and Hollis. May you be blessed as husband and wife. We love you! Cheers!”