Mrs. H waved her fork dismissively. “You’re all thinking too damn big. We need something subtle. Something that’ll make them laugh, not give them PTSD.”
“What about replacing the wedding favors with something ridiculous?” Mike suggested. “Like . . . I don’t know . . . tiny bottles of hot sauce labeled ‘Shane and Mateo’s Spicy Love’?”
“That’s actually not terrible,” Sisi admitted grudgingly. “Or replace the rice with those tiny confetti penises. They’re all different colors. It would be amazing.”
“And it would kill every bird in town who tried to eat them,” Mike said, killing the idea.
“Or we could mess with the photo props,” I spoke up. “Replace all the normal signs with increasingly ridiculous ones.”
“Now you’re talking,” Mrs. H said approvingly. “What kind of ridiculous?”
“Nothing X-rated,” Sisi said firmly, giving Matty a pointed look.
“Killjoy,” Mrs. H muttered.
“We could have signs that say things like, ‘I survived Shane’s bachelor party and all I got was this stupid sign,’” Omar suggested.
“Or ‘Mateo’s better half,’” Mike added. “And then another one that says, ‘Shane’s better half,’ so people fight over who gets which.”
Mrs. H grinned and nodded. “I like where this is going. What else?”
“Signs about their weird habits,” Mike suggested, practically bouncing off his seat. “Like ‘I promise to still love you even when you leave wood shavings everywhere’ or ‘Italians roll off your tongue.’”
“Oh, that’s good,” Sisi said, actually smiling now. “Personal but not humiliating.”
“Or . . . we could mess with the seating chart,” Matty suggested, apparently having given up on his more scandalous ideas. “Put all the most talkative relatives at one table and see what happens.”
“That’s not a prank; that’s biological warfare,” Mrs. H said. “I like it.”
By the time we’d finished brainstorming—and we’d successfully avoided Matty’s creative suggestions involving power tools and anatomical euphemisms—we had settled on a couple of ideas that were sweet enough to honor the occasion but mischievous enough to satisfy Mrs. H’s need for chaos.
“Those boys won’t know what hit them,” she said with satisfaction.
“In the best possible way,” Sisi added firmly.
“Of course. I’m not heartless,” Mrs. H protested. “I just believe that love should be celebrated properly—with a little mayhem thrown in for flavor.”
The sun set early in the late autumn sky, triggering a mass exodus. Mike and Sisi stayed to help Mrs. H clean up—and discreetly hide the fact that none of us had actually eaten the food. Omar and Matty walked with me to our cars, chatting andlaughing, as I suspected they always did. I couldn’t help but marvel at the amazing group of friends I’d stumbled into.
Found family indeed.
As I reached for my car’s door handle, my phone buzzed.
Postie: Thinking about you.
I smiled and typed as quickly as my thumbs allowed.
Me: If you think last night was good, wait until you hear what Mrs. H has planned for the wedding.
Postie: Should I be scared?
Me: Probably. But it’ll be worth it.
Chapter 30
Jeremiah
Over the past few days, my phone had become a virtual extension of my arm. Every buzz, every ping, every notification made my heart do something acrobatic in my chest, and I found myself grinning like an idiot before I even checked to see if it was from Theo.
