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“Tria, seriously, can you imagine it?” I sat back and growled under my breath. “Everyone who is going to be there comes from money. Serious money. For the most part, they only care about what designer made your dress and whether or not your purse and your shoes match. They would assume you were the kitchen help if you walked in there with the Sack of Sauron.”
“The what?”
Oops.
I hadn’t meant to say that out loud.
“My point is,” I said, hoping to divert her attention from my slip of the tongue, “everything is designer, all the way down to your skivvies, and yeah—they probably do check them at the door.”
Tria watched me for a minute with round eyes.
“You mean I don’t have anything to wear.”
“Yeah, that’s what I mean.”
“I could get something…” Her voice faded, and as our eyes locked, I knew I didn’t have to tell her how ridiculous that was.
“Yeah, and throughout the night they’d do their best to make you feel like shit for it, and whatever money you would spend on it would be totally wasted. You could go to Nordstrom and spend five hundred on a dress, and they’d consider you crap. How exactly does that sound like a nice evening to you?”
Tria dropped her gaze to the table. I felt bad for putting it all out there in the open, but it was a hell of a lot better than her spending the money on something that would just get her ridiculed. I remembered when Amanda had just started dating Ryan and showed up at a holiday party wearing something off the rack. She’d left crying within about fifteen minutes.
Girls were mean.
At least guys get it over with in a thirty-second fight. Chicks would harp on little things for years, whittling down the self-esteem of whatever girl was the brunt of the abuse until she couldn’t take any more. I knew Tria was fragile when it came to that kind of shit—no way would I expose her to that.
“Liam,” Tria said quietly as her fingers drummed on the edge of the bowl of bean balls, which were still calling to my stomach, “if you are going to go to this wedding, I’m going with you.”
“No, you aren’t.”
“Let’s see…What did you say to me when you told me you were coming to Beals with me? Not up for debate? I’m going.”
“This isn’t the same at all. You know I’ll be back as soon as the cake is cut.”
“Yes, it is,” she insisted. “I know there’s a lot you’re not telling me about why you disowned your family, but it doesn’t matter to me. I know this is going to be hard for you, and I am going to be there with you!”
“It’s not going to be hard for me,” I argued. “I go in, sign the fucking book to prove I was there, say a toast, and get the fuck out.”
“Toast?”
“Um, yeah…” I reached up to scratch the back of my head. “He’s my cousin. I’d have to do a toast.”
“Isn’t that the best man’s job?”
“Well, yeah, the best man always does a toast—that would be Michael. In our family, pretty much everyone does a toast of some sort. It’s just expected. I even gave one when Michael married Chelsea, and I was just a kid.”
I reached for the bean balls, but Tria wouldn’t relinquish them. She just pulled them closer to her side of the table as she looked at me.
“Why does she want you to go?”
“Who? Mandi?”
“Yes.”
“Amanda has been trying to get me back in the family since the day they figured out where I was living,” I said. “I guess she figured the guilt-tripping and browbeating weren’t going to work, so maybe making me go where everyone is going to be will make some difference.”
“Your parents will be there,” Tria said.
“Undoubtedly,” I replied.
