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“I don’t know,” I said. “But I do know I’m starting to feel infantilized. When am I going to be allowed to bust out of here and rejoin the party?”
“What did the doctor say?”
“The doctor said two hours. Tina said the doctor was being reactionary.”
“Oh, and Tina has her medical degree, so we should definitely listen to her.”
“Well, I think Tina is feeling a bit better than she has in a while.”
“Yes, I think you could say that,” Michael agreed with a grin, but he was too much of a gentleman to add, I told you so.
Tina was not the only one who’d been surprised to discover Boris P. was the “top-notch live entertainment” Grandmère had lined up for the reception instead of the DJ Michael and I had requested.
I was a little miffed at first. Was I to get nothing I wanted at my wedding?
Well, except a groom who’s the man of my dreams, of course. And my parents, happily together for the first time in my memory. And a new little sister, and all of my best friends showing up, as well as what’s turned out to be a truly gorgeous gown, Sebastiano having de-emphasized my belly by raising the waistline a little, and adding diamond Ms—for Michael and Mia—instead of bows as the “pickups” Lilly had suggested. They not only “pick up” the full tulle skirt, they pick up the light and glitter outrageously!
But even Boris being here has turned out all right, because he’s agreed to sing every single song on Michael’s playlist, and also—quite dramatically, at last night’s rehearsal dinner in the grand reception hall, no less—showed Tina that the photos of him and that blogger were, indeed, Photoshopped, as he had insisted all along.
“Look, they’re of you and me,” he insisted (which, if she’d ever bothered to look at them, like Lilly and I had encouraged her to do, she’d have known). “Remember the ones we took that weekend in Asheville? She cut and pasted copies of her own head over yours. I don’t know how she got hold of them. Hacked my phone, I guess. You always told me I needed a better password than the one I use . . . Tina.” He blushed. “I guess it wasn’t that hard for her to figure out.”
This, of course, mortified Tina—she didn’t want any of us knowing she and Boris had nude photos of each other.
But I thought it was sweet . . . and it also allowed me to be able to sagely point out, “Let he—or she—who does not have a set of nude photos cast the first stone.”
(This did not amuse Grandmère, however, especially since I said it in front of the pope. But I think it must have amused him, since it’s currently one of the top quotes on social media, I noticed a while ago.)
“Maybe the next wedding we go to,” I said, reaching up to adjust Michael’s pale gray tie, “will be Tina’s to Boris.”
He considered this. “Maybe . . . I think it’s more likely to be your dad’s to your mom.”
“Another royal wedding?” I tried to raise my arms over my head in a dramatic gesture to show my frustration, but doing so caused the bodice of my wedding gown to slip, exposing more of my cleavage than I intended.
That’s when Michael stood up and began removing his jacket.
“Excuse me,” I said. “What are you doing?”
“Making myself more comfortable,” he replied. “Aren’t I supposed to wear something different tonight, anyway?”
“Yes. A tux. But that’s in like four hours.”
“This isn’t a tux?”
“No. It’s a morning suit.”
He shook his head. “I’m never going to get used to this royal thi
ng. So many rules. Too many . . . that’s what your sister says.”
“When did she say that?”
“Earlier, when your grandmother told her to be less liberal in her throwing of the flower petals from her basket.”
I groaned some more. “She wasn’t even supposed to be a flower girl! She’s too old. She was supposed to be a bridesmaid.”
“It doesn’t matter. I think she was really happy today,” he said, draping his jacket over the back of a chair. “She told me just now that she loves her new school. She’s taking art lessons.”
“Well, that’s good.”
