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Damn. Wedding stress must be getting to Chance because he’s the usually the most polite and well-spoken of us all. I can’t remember the last time he was this snippy.
Even chastised, Carter still wants to get the last word in. “I’m just saying, we all have black suits. Or gray suits. And they’re perfectly fine for a wedding, so I was wondering why we can’t wear those?”
“Samantha wants burgundy pants and vests, ivory shirts, and floral ties,” Chance says, sounding like he’s quoting his bride-to-be.
“And what Samantha wants, Samantha gets,” Cameron interjects sardonically.
He’s pissy from getting put in his place at dinner a few days ago, but Samantha was right and we all knew it. Fuck, even he knew it! He wouldn’t want Gracie getting disrespected and thinking she had to take it, though maybe there should be a step between head-pats and ball-busting? Like a ‘don’t touch me’ scream?
But then I imagine some kid at school pinching Gracie’s cheeks—either ones, face or butt—and decide Samantha was right. If that were to happen, they’d be damn lucky for her to show up and not me. Gracie’s my ride-or-die. She’s all of our ride-or-dies. As in, anyone who hurts her dies.
Cameron’s a good father, or he wants to be and tries his best to be. But he’s broken inside from the loss of his wife, Gracie’s mother, and that alone makes it difficult for him to function, much less function at the level he should. It doesn’t help that Gracie is the spitting image of her mom, and though she was small when her mother died, she somehow acts like her too. We all step in to help as much as possible, covering for Cameron when needed and making sure Gracie has all the love we can give her, but it doesn’t make up for the loss, and we all know that.
Cameron especially knows that, which I know makes him feel guilty. That of course feeds into his inner demons because he too feels that loss in his own heart, and the whole fucking cycle perpetuates itself. At this point, it might take an angel to shake him free. Or remove the stick from his ass.
“About this? Absolutely,” Chance answers Cameron. He points an accusatory finger at Carter. “How many weddings did you even have? How many times did you have us all playing along with your mess? All I’m asking is for you to quit bitching and put. On. The. Damn. Burgundy. Shit.”
Well, fuck. I’m impressed. Chance is the best of us, truly. He’s self-aware, helps others, makes a difference in the world, and all that jazz. He also rarely curses, so for him to square up to Carter that way and start throwing three-dollar words around, he’s furious.
In solidarity, I decide to wear the outfit Samantha wants without comment, floral tie and all. I shoot Kyle a look and find him grinning about the whole situation. He must think all this is fucking hilarious because he doesn’t do fancy clothes, serious events, and empty traditions.
He missed that mandatory dinner completely because he likes to do things that’ll piss Dad off, and no-showing a family meal basically puts him at number one on Dad’s shit list. But since Dad’s not coming to the fitting appointments, Kyle was right on time, arriving on his loud motorcycle, wearing dirty jeans and a tank top, with mud on his boots and days’ worth of scruff on his face. He said he spent the morning ‘working’ and when we asked ‘on what?’, he’d smirked and answered ‘Maggie’s house.’
My brothers had rolled their eyes and grumbled about him having a latest and greatest woman who’ll probably only last the week, and Kyle hadn’t denied it. But I secretly keep up with my family, and I know Maggie’s House is the dog rescue Kyle volunteers at, usually taking shelter dogs on socialization playdates with his dog, Peanut Butter, but occasionally doing work on their kennel area. Which makes me hope that’s actually mud on his boots and not dog shit.
I sniff, not smelling anything foul, so odds are fair to good that it’s dirt. This time.
“My turn?” Kyle offers as the tailor finishes measuring Carter. She blushes when Kyle toes off his boots and steps onto her pedestal in his socked feet. “Do your worst . . . or best. Your call,” he tells her with a wink, and I swear she blushes even more. Most of the time, Kyle’s ninety percent charming bullshit and ten percent serious guy. Every once in a while, that’ll switch, but it takes a lot for him to be sincere about anything, and wedding attire isn’t enough to warrant it.
While Kyle gets measured, he meets my eyes in the mirror. “A birdie told me you’ve got a new lady love.”
That bird’s name is Kayla. She probably filled him in on everything he missed at dinner. I hate that she does that because she’s not his fucking secretary and it only enables him to continue to flake on us.
