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“Not helpful, Henn,” Josh says. “In what universe would you ever think that’s a helpful thing to say?”
I laugh. “Sorry.”
Jonas puts his hand on his brother’s arm. “You’ve got this. If I can say my vows without sharting, then you most certainly can.”
“All done,” Uncle William says, patting me on my shoulder. He turns me around to face the groom, like I’m Josh’s little puppet boy. “Acceptable, Joshua?”
“Suave perfection,” Josh confirms. “You’re Cary-Grant-meets-Steve-Jobs, Henn.”
“Oooh, thank you.”
Reed sidles up to Josh with a bottle of Patron. “A little something to calm the jitters?”
“Just a little sip,” Josh says, accepting the bottle. “Any more than that and I might spontaneously shart from being too relaxed.”
We all gather around and take turns swigging the pricey tequila.
“Pretty good,” Uncle William says after taking a sip. “But at the reception, we’re all drinking my Scotch.”
Conversation turns to the fancy Scotch the old man has brought to share—apparently, the bottles are rare and highly valuable—until the wedding planner pokes her head into the bungalow and tells us it’s almost time to take our positions on the beach. “We have to time this with the sunset,” she reminds us, “so you’ve got to be in position in five.”
When she leaves, Josh turns to the group. “Ready, men?”
Everyone says yes, we’re ready and raring to go, at which point we pass around the bottle of Patron once more.
“Hey, bro,” Josh says to Jonas. “You got a Plato quote for me to think about when I’m up there, just in case I suddenly feel like I’m gonna spontaneously shart?”
Jonas taps his steel chin and thinks for a half-second before replying, “Courage is knowing what not to fear. And the one thing never to fear is spontaneous sharting.”
Everyone bursts out laughing.
“Thank you,” Josh says. “You’re a beast of a best man, Jonas Faraday.” He takes a deep breath. “Now let’s get out there and get me a smokin’ hot wife.”
Absolutely, brother, I think. And me, a smokin’ hot fiancée.
37
HANNAH
As the band cranks onstage, I throw my arms up and my head back and shake my booty with gusto—all while singing along at top volume with my best friends. I’m dancing in a group with the usual suspects and having the time of my life. Dinner is long over. All toasts and speeches given. Dancing kicked off maybe an hour ago and promises to continue for hours to come.
When the song ends, I signal to Henn that I’m going to the bathroom, and when I emerge from that task and see Henn and all of our friends still going strong on the dance floor, I decide to get in line at the bar behind two of Kat’s brothers—Colby, the firefighter, and, Dax, the future rockstar.
As I come to a stop behind the pair, I wonder if I should say hello, since we’ve crossed paths in large groups several times this week but haven’t conversed directly. Should I congratulate Dax on his band getting signed to River Records? Should I tell Colby I saw news reports about his heroism earlier this year, and I’m relieved to see him recovering so well from his injuries?
Nah. I can’t hear what the brothers are saying in front of me, due to the loud music, but I can plainly see they’re engaged in animated conversation. I can’t imagine they’d appreciate being interrupted, only to make awkward small talk with a well-meaning stranger.
I swipe into my photos, figuring I’ll use this time to send Maddy a few images and videos from today’s festivities. As I do, the band’s loud, upbeat song ends and a slower one ensues, and suddenly, I can make out Dax’s voice in front of me.
“Oh, I’m sure she loved it,” Dax says. “You not only told her you’re in love with her, but you showed her how much by not being able to hold it in, no matter how hard you tried.”
Colby says something I can’t discern, so I lean in a bit closer while still looking down at my phone, just in time to catch Colby saying “. . . swear this week away from Lydia and the kids has driven me batshit. That’s the only explanation for my uncharacteristic lack of restraint during that phone call.”
Dax chuckles. “If you’re batshit, then what does that make Ryan—a psychopath? Only a psychopath would say yes to letting some friend of Josh’s hack into no less than nine airlines to find a woman he’d only met once in a bar.”
My eyes widen. Excuse me?
“Ryan told you about that?” Colby asks.
“No, The Blabbermouth did.”
“Of course, she did.”
Dax says, “Hey, do you know if the hacker who helped Ryan is the same one who helped Keane out of his stripper jam last month?”
Say what now?
Colby says, “Keane got himself into a stripper jam? Jesus Christ. Tell me everything.”
