Page 41 of The Snuggle Is Real

Then I pull back and lightly run my hand down over the curve of her backside. “I’m going to miss you today.”

She looks flustered. “It’s just a few hours.”

“Might as well be fifteen years,” I say, then retreat out of the bathroom, closing the door behind me.

Ian’s house is in chaos by eight-fifteen.

It’s not a big house. But it’s a two-minute walk to the church and so it’s become Wedding Central.

My mother is steaming MacKay's shirt in the kitchen while yelling at my father about the boutonnieres. Dylan is eating cold pizza out of the box at the counter in his undershirt. Ian is on the back porch trying to convince Barrel, who was supposed to be at Winnie's friend’s house, that the dog house is the best place for a dog to stay.

MacKay is sitting on the stairs with his head in his hands.

"I'm fine," he says, before I can ask.

"You look fine."

"I'm going to throw up."

"That's normal." I think. I mean, it’s not like I actually fucking know. I sit down next to him. "Breathe in for four. Hold for four. Out for four."

"Is that an Emily thing?"

"It's a Navy SEAL thing. I read it in an article."

He breathes. He looks slightly less green. Then he squints at me. "Why do you look like that?"

"Like what?"

"Like you're the one getting married."

I don't answer, because I've just remembered something that makes me want to put my head in my hands, too.

I don't have my phone.

Emily has my phone. I have hers, zipped into the inside pocket of my overnight bag. The pact. Rest of the weekend. No work, no emails.

No immediate way to text her and ask what the hell happened between midnight and seven a.m.. Or just pestering her with very uncool text messages. Or sending her pictures of me looking jacked in my tux.

So instead, I spend the next forty minutes being extremely useful. I find the cufflinks. I confer with the photographer about the shot list. I stop my father from giving MacKay a speech about marriage that he's clearly been working on since 1997.

Then I go out to my car and dig Emily's phone out of my bag to look at the picture of us in Savannah. Laughing.

I know her passcode. I've known it for years. It's my birthday, because she said her birthday was too obvious, and she can readily remember mine.

I don't read anything. I open a new message and type my own number.

It's Malcolm.

I stare at it. Then I text again.

Obviously.

I hit send and feel like an idiot.

The reply comes three minutes later.

Hi.