“No shit, Sherlock. Anthony was losing his shit in the church when you did that shimmy shit. And just now”—he points a finger toward the ballroom—“you waltzed the fuck out of that reception.”
He’s right. Matilda and I did just that. We waltzed the fuck out of the reception. And believe me, I’ve heard it from everyone here tonight. Vicky and Anthony wouldn’t stop talking about it in the limo from the church to the reception. Honestly, looking back on the day, I surprised myself too. I was nervous as hell right before we had to walk down to the front of the church. When someone announced, “This is it, folks, showtime,” my stomach lurched with an overwhelming need to vomit. When someone opened the doors to the church and the music started, my stomach gurgled. I looked down at Matilda. She must’ve read my mind because she gave my hand a squeeze and said, “You got this, Alec.” I nodded, but in my head, I corrected her. No,we’vegot this.
During our practices, Matilda told me not to hold back on my dance moves as I worked my way up the aisle. According to her, I drew more attention to myself acting “like an ass” and not shimmying as the choreographer instructed. In retrospect, I can see what she meant.
I did it. I shimmied. Then I thrusted and swiveled my hips on cue. When I turned, Matilda had started her way toward me doing her best not to limp. Her foot had to have hurt like a mother. The thing I noticed most, though, was the smile on her face. She enjoyed herself. Hell, she had fucking fun. I smiled back when our eyes met. When I dipped her, I was so happy I was tempted to kiss the tip of her nose, the one covered in all those little freckles, but that’d have been weird, right?
Yeah, it would have been strange.
I dipped her low and then swung her back up, being careful not to drop her on her bad foot. At the front of the church, the expressions on all three of my brothers’ faces was priceless. Each of them and a few of the bridesmaids had looks of shock and a little awe. Hell, Anthony was so busy looking at me, he missed Vicky when she started her long trek down the aisle.
Then, in my spot between Anthony and Angelo, it was Angelo who elbowed me. When I looked over, he gave me a wink and a thumbs-up. Yeah, we’d done it.
ChapterTwelve
Matilda
First of all,things were going okay. The dance down the aisle went better than I’d hoped. Alec really did a great job. Terrific. He shimmied far better than some of the other guys. I was proud of him. The waltz was good too. He smiled down at me as we worked our way around the room. It felt like we had been dancing together forever.
Until… the speeches.
Why did no one tell me I had to give a speech? That wasn’t part of any of the rehearsals. And, of course, the DJ guy called me up first. I had no chance to prepare anything, which is sad, because I’m a fairly decent wordsmith given ample time. Except I wasn’t given any of that. I had thirty seconds, tops. About as long as it took me to walk from the long table that housed all of us in the wedding party to the microphone-wielding disc jockey.
Ugh.
Vicky hired “the best videographer in Chicagoland,” whatever that means. Okay, I know the answer to that. It means my speech was recorded and it will probably be watched repeatedly—for all of perpetuity by family and friends. Hell, my speech wassobad it’ll probably end up on the internet with a million hits. Why take my word for it? Decide for yourselves.
“Um, wow.” I blinked a million times. “I, um, wow.” More blinking. “Thanks, uh, for, uh, coming.” Giggle. Giggle. Giggle. (Because I said “coming,” it turned me into a teenage boy as soon as I said that word.) “Wow, there’s a lot of you out there.” I placed a hand over my eyes to scan the crowd. “I wish I could see you, or maybe it’s best that I can’t see you. Maybe I need to do that thing where I picture you in your underwear like they told Marcia to do onThe Brady Bunch.” I laugh a little. “Remember that one?” Did I say that?Really?“Boy, is it hot in here or is it just me?” A masculine chuckle sounded from my left. One of the groomsmen, probably. I glanced in the direction of the wedding party, hoping someone would give me encouragement, hell any kind of affirmation, a thumbs-up, or maybe someone could come up and rip the mic from my hands and save me. That would have been awesome. But no such luck.
I couldn’t see anyone in the audience thanks to the stupid spotlight shining straight into my eyes. No matter, I had to keep going. “I’m not the real maid of honor.” Crap, why did I say that? “No, the real one slept with Anthony.”
There was a collective gasp from everyone. I mean that. It sounded like it was coming fromeveryone. That’s when I realized what I’d said. All I could think was,how do I get out of this?I decided the best course of action, apparently, was a long, rambling statement. It went a little something like this: “No, let me explain. It was a long time ago. But the old maid of honor, or previous one, I guess, because she isn’t old-old. She’s my age—twenty-five or six. Anyway, she thought Anthony was just okay in bed, and she was pretty sure Alec would suck because he can’t dance. Well, he couldn’t dance, but now he can; I wonder what she’d say about that theory now?” Oh, boy. I was on a roll. “Am I right?”
Crickets.
I could literally hear crickets from outside since the reception was at Mighty Oaks Country Club. The doors to the expansive patio were open, it made sense we could hear nature, but it also meant the room was silent enough to hear them cricketing.
Is that a word?
No, really, I asked that. To the audience. “Is cricketing a word?”
Finally, the DJ took mercy on me and reached for the microphone. Right before I handed it back to him, I said, “Um, yeah. Thanks. I’ll be here all week.”
Where the eff did that last sentence come from?
Ugh.
There was a smattering of applause and lots of people laughing as I trudged, shoulders hunched, back to my seat at the head table. I know my face was as red as a tomato because it was hot to the touch. When I passed the wedding table, I kept my eyes down. No way did I want to see Vicky’s face. She’s going to kill me. Not tonight. But soon. She’s going to do it soon.
* * *
“Hey, Dad?”I find him sitting at the table with Aunt Annabelle and Uncle Chuck. It’s nice to see him laughing and talking to the Russos. He and mom used to do everything with them when we were growing up. Not so much anymore. Not since Aunt Annabelle and Uncle Chuck moved into a condo downtown. It’s not that far from our place, but far enough, it seems. My aunt and uncle are both semi-retired and spend a lot of time in Florida these days, which limits the time Dad can see them. Plus, Dad’s still teaching at the high school but even with his summers off, they aren’t as close as they used to be. All that considered, it makes sense why they don’t see much of each other. But I wish they’d make the time.
The real reason for the distance, I believe, is my dad doesn’t like to see Aunt Annabelle all that much because she looks exactly like my mom. And sounds like her too. They were twins, you see. Identical. She’s a constant reminder of what he lost. As for me, I find comfort knowing what my mom would’ve looked like now if she hadn’t died of cancer. Plus, the pair had opposite personalities. For all of Aunt Annabelle’s need to lead, my mom was a follower and a peacekeeper. She was sweet, kind, and everyone loved her. Truly.
“Hi, Muffin.”
I lean down and kiss his cheek. While I’m there, I whisper in his ear, so nobody hears, “Hey, I think I’m going to head out. I, uh, need to get home and check on Shep.”
