"Fresh from the Chesapeake," Pete announces, oblivious to the tension that's suddenly thickened around our end of the table. "Caught it myself yesterday morning."
"It looks delicious," I say, accepting a piece.
Moira finally settles into the seat directly across from me, looking exhausted but happy.
"Right," she says, fanning herself with a napkin. "I think we pulled it off." She surveys the scene with obvious pride. "Everyone's eating, everyone's happy, and nobody's complained about anything yet."
"Mom, you outdid yourself," Emma says, then turns to me and Liv. "And thank you both. I know how much you helped today. I really appreciate it." She meets Liv's eyes and mouths "sorry" to her again, and Moira notices the exchange.
"What's going on?" she asks, looking between her daughters. "You girls haven't been bickering, have you?"
Liv shakes her head and leans over to place a kiss on Emma's cheek. "It's okay," she says. "Everything's okay. Are you having a good night, sis?"
"The best," Emma says as she shoots a loving look down the table toward her fiancé David, who's talking to one of his groomsmen. "I can't wait to marry this amazing man tomorrow."
David catches her gaze and grins back at her. "I love you, honey," he calls out.
"I love you too," Emma replies, blowing him a kiss.
I feel Liv flinch almost imperceptibly beside me. I wouldn't have noticed it at all if she hadn't squeezed my hand tightly at the same moment, making me look at her. Then she draws her hand away and plasters that smile back on her face.
15
LIV
Imay have had a bit too much wine.
I never drink more than two glasses—I hate feeling out of control. But I've been feeling out of control since we arrived yesterday, so I figured I might as well lean into it.
It's so strange to sit at a big gathering and not be in charge that I don't quite know what to do with myself. At the weddings I orchestrate, I'm constantly moving, checking details, coordinating vendors, solving problems. Here, I'm just... sitting. Eating. Socializing without an agenda. It's like I've forgotten how to naturally interact when it's not about work.
And then there was Emma's comment. God, I could kill her for that slip, but she's a little tipsy too and she meant well, I suppose. Still, my stomach clenched when she started going down that path. The last thing I need is for Sailor to start asking questions I don't feel like answering.
I have to admit, I'm impressed with her. I couldn't have found a better person to play Sailor if I'd held auditions with professional actors. She's been charming without being over the top, attentive without being clingy. Perhaps she’s just being herself.
The more I drank, the more I appreciated her little touches throughout the evening. The way she squeezed my hand under the table. The kiss she placed on my cheek when Uncle Pete was telling that embarrassing story about my high school boyfriend who was much shorter than me and had to stand on a log to kiss me. The casual way she rested her hand on the small of my back when we were standing together. Each gesture felt natural, protective even.
People have left their assigned seats now and gathered in smaller groups around the table and near the barbecues that have died down to glowing embers. This is so far from the rehearsal dinners I organize, where everyone needs to leave the venue at a respectable time, ensuring the guests are rested for the big day.
My mother has stopped offering people wine and beer though, likely worried about exactly that, and I have no idea where she hid the stash that was in the bathtub.
"Liv?" Emma appears beside me, settling into the empty chair with a bottle of wine tucked under her arm like contraband. "Peace offering," she says, holding up the bottle with a sheepish grin. "I know all Mom's hiding spots."
She pours wine into our glasses, glancing around to make sure our mother isn't watching. "I wanted to apologize again for earlier. I wasn't thinking."
"It's fine, Em. Really. Actually, I should apologize to you."
"For what?"
"For not organizing your wedding." The words come out in a rush, loosened by alcohol and guilt. "I'm sorry. It's just that I can't get away from New York for long enough, and organizing a wedding takes time, and I'd need to be here at least three weeks before and?—"
It's a lie. I would do anything for Emma. Just not that.
"Don’t worry about it," Emma interrupts, waving off my excuses with a laugh. "I understand. Anyway, I only asked you because Mom thought I should. I just wanted something simple like this, nothing like the ridiculous productions you pull off."
I shake my head and raise a brow at her. "I'll have you know, people pay me a lot of money for those productions."
"Yeah, but can you imagine what tonight would have looked like if you'd organized it?" Emma gestures around us with her wine glass. "No offense, but I don't need a champagne fountain, a string quartet playing classical music, and assigned seating charts color-coded by relationship to the bride and groom. Oh, and little cards at each place setting explaining the provenance of the flowers and the wine pairings for each course." She giggles.
