“There will benofood-throwing,” Aunt Brenda says.
Uncle Owen winks at her.
She blushes.
Go, Uncle Owen, but maybe not in front of me?
I spot my dad up at the head table, looking around.
Probably means he’s looking for me. I wave.
He gestures to the seat next to him.
I jerk my head at Chandler.
Dad sighs.
I shrug.
He shrugs.
He doesn’t know I’m paying for the wedding. Don’t know if he knows about my GrippaPeen stardom. I do know he’s picked up on the tension between Chandler and me, and after all we’ve been through, he probably recognizes that I’m staying out of the way to try to not cause any trouble.
Not like he wasn’t there when I caught a flamingo costume on fire by sneezing.
A plate of nut-crusted mahimahi, purple potatoes, and coleslaw appears in front of me.
“I figured it out,” the server from this morning whispers in my ear. “I know where I know you from. Your… arms… are very distinctive.”
Every ounce of blood in my body drains to my toes.
“I won’t tell.” She giggles. “I’d be telling on myself, wouldn’t I?”
“Speak up, young lady,” Aunt Brenda orders.
“He’s already got himself a nice girlfriend. We think,” Uncle Owen adds. “Okay, we hope. Been a while since he had a girlfriend. Could use someone to make him feel good about himself.”
“Thanks, Uncle Owen.”
“I got your back, kiddo.”
He fist-bumps me.
“What was she whispering to you?” Aunt Brenda demands as the waitstaff I hired for the night passes plates to the rest of them. “Was it inappropriate?”
“Do I ever do anything appropriate?”
She sniffs.
Uncle Owen cackles with utter glee.
I wish I was having a private dinner with Laney anywhere but here. On the beach. In the back of the Jeep while looking up at the stars from the volcano park. In our bungalow while kittens frolic all over both of us.
No parents.
No relatives.
No wedding.
