"It is a cry for help," Meredith corrects, sipping her own flask she pulled from her purse. "But do carry on. I can't wait to see if you try to catch the bouquet."
Catherine looks at me. She looks at Max. She looks terrified that we are going to kick her out.
"I’m sorry!" she whispers to Max, ignoring her sister. "It’s too much. I know it’s too much. I can... I can stand in the back? I can wear a coat?"
Max looks at the dress. He looks at his mother, trembling under Meredith’s assault.
"It is a white dress at a wedding, Mother," Max says. “In normal circumstances, it is a declaration of war."
"It’s surrender!" Catherine pleads. "It’s just... expensive surrender!"
Max sighs. He looks at me.
"Let her wear it," I say. "She looks like a marshmallow. It’s fine."
"You may stay," Max says. "But you will sit in the second pew. Behind Alistair."
"Behind?" Catherine blinks.
"Behind," Max confirms. "Row two."
"Thank you," Catherine breathes. She scurries past Meredith, who whispers something that sounds like "Miss Havisham" as she passes.
Just then, Alistair York enters from the nave to check on the delay.
He stops. He sees the group. He sees Frederick.
The air in the vestibule instantly turns toxic.
"Frederick," Alistair says. His voice drops the jovial "Jimmy Buffett" tone entirely. It is cold, hard, and sharp.
"Alistair," Frederick sneers, stepping forward. He looks Alistair up and down, eyeing the magenta pocket square. "Stilldressing like a clown, I see. I heard the audit is going well. Or did you manage to hide the Cayman accounts in time?"
"I heard your last merger failed," Alistair counters, stepping into Frederick’s space. "Hostile takeovers require capital, Frederick. Not just hot air and daddy’s trust fund."
"At least I didn't let my wife turn my son into a science experiment," Frederick spits.
Alistair’s hand clenches into a fist. For a second, I think the Father of the Groom is going to deck Uncle Frederick right there in the vestibule of St. Patrick’s.
"Gentlemen," Preston’s voice cuts through the tension like a scalpel. He steps between them. "If you fight, you will ruin the photos. And if you ruin the photos, I will tell the IRS about the shell company in Panama, Frederick. And Father, I will tell Mother about the karaoke machine in the storage unit."
Both men freeze.
"Detente," Alistair growls, adjusting his jacket. He turns his back on Frederick—the ultimate insult—and looks at us.
His face softens instantly. The rage vanishes, replaced by a frantic, bubbling energy.
"Right!" Alistair booms, clapping his hands. "Let’s get you boys married! The Archbishop is waiting, and I think I saw him eyeing the communion wine again!"
The organ music swells. The heavy doors swing open. The nave of St. Patrick’s stretches out before us—a mile of red carpet and expectant faces.
We decided against the traditional walk. No one is giving us away. We are walking ourselves.
"Ready, Trauma Cowboy?" Max asks.
"Ready, Ice King," I say.
We step out.
