Page 4 of The Snuggle Is Real

Malcolm has to practically yell “feet” and it does get some attention. Several patrons pause on their way into the diner and eye us curiously.

“Let’s stroll.” Malcolm urges me to start moving down the sidewalk.

Now we’re strolling? If I was worried before, I’m terrified now.

Malcolm doesn’t stroll. He strides, he jogs, hell, he charges forward. Strolling is for people who stop and smell the roses and Malcolm doesn’t have time for that. He’s moving millions of dollars worth of bourbon round the clock.

But I follow him because now the band is doing what I think is “Final Countdown” and that just feels too ominous.

“I can’t believe this wedding has no itinerary,” I tell him and we do, indeed, stroll, moving past a florist, a bakery, and a hardware store—the small town trifecta. “I can’t decide if it’s a refreshing throwback or a disaster waiting to happen. Or both.”

I’m used to weddings being planned down to the minute and detailed itineraries given in advance to guests. Dress codes and transportation arrangements are carefully curated for excursions and meals.

There is no such thing as downtime these days.

But Malcolm’s brother, MacKay, and his fiancée, Faith, are not the norm. Their itinerary is a very loose, “let’s just have fun” with a wedding in the middle.

“That’s probably how the rooms got messed up. They don’t have a wedding planner.”

“That will do it. Weddings have a million details.” I take another sip of coffee, running my hands over the white picket fence that outlines the front of a former house, which is now a law office.

“It might also be because my mother thinks we’re dating.”

I choke on my coffee. “What?”

“It’s just for the weekend,” Malcolm says, words tumbling out. “I just don’t want to stress anyone out.”

Am I just the tiniest bit thrilled to hear that Malcolm’s mother thinks we’re together?

Yes. Which is ridiculous because I’m well over thirty and Malcolm and I decided a long time ago that we’re just friends.

“It’s kind of stressing me out,” I say. “Why does your mother think that?”

“She heard you were coming as my date and I didn’t want to get into the whole pact thing with her so I didn’t. Which led her to believe we’re together. She’s thrilled by the way, so it’s a compliment really.”

I stop walking when we reach the gazebo and plunk myself down onto a bench. I stare up at Malcolm. He looks uncomfortable and defiant and pleading all at once.

“You’ve bamboozled me,” I tell him.

It’s the perfect word for this situation and the perfect word for this town. Wanted is probably swimming in shenanigans, bamboozling, hijinks, and hootenannies.

“That is not what the pact is for,” I add.

“The pact is designed for us to help each other,” he points out. “That is the heart of the pact.”

“How is me lying to your mother helping you out?” I don’t like lying. It makes me feel lousy and I’m bad at it. I’m too straightforward to excel at deception. Besides, I like his mother. She always gives me a Derby pie whenever I see her.

He groans and runs his hands through his hair.

A leaf drifts past his ear and flutters to the ground.

“I don’t want the focus of this weekend to be on me being single. Can’t we just extend our plus one pact to include fake dating?”

Many years ago when all our friends started getting married, Malcolm and I made a pact that we would always say yes to being each other’s plus one at weddings. Nothing romantic, just a guarantee that we would never have to spend a reception at the singles’ table or fending off unwanted interest from drunken guests.

At last count, we were up to nine weddings.

This makes ten.