We were eight years old, and I had only finally stopped singing theAll I Want for Christmas is My Two Front Teethsong.
Okay, I didn’t lose the entire tooth, but a chunk of it flew across the room and landed in Dad’s tea. Thankfully, the others remained in my mouth, fully intact.
“Is Freddie there?” Phoebe asks.
“No. I think he’s in Marrakech.”
“Still globetrotting before he and Aimme say I do?”
“They’re calling it their pre-honeymoon.” The thought that struck moments ago comes at me with a shake-inducing aftershock.
“They’ve been abroad for months. If you ask me, he’s trying to put off the wedding. Can’t say she’s my first choice for a sister-in-law,” Phoebe mutters.
I agree, but for reasons of my own. A tall, handsome reason who, more than likely, is Freddie’s best man. Also, I’m not entirely convinced Aimme isthe one, but telling my brother would break some of my rules about remembering to be sensitive, avoiding being overly honest, and taking care not to over-share my thoughts. I didn’t come with a factory-installed filter, so I’ve had to make up rules and lists to live by.
“If Freddie were there, he could go with you and commiserate about how snooty everyone is at the party and then he’ll pay damages from his youthful missteps of breaking your tooth by being your wingman. Scratch that, I think being engaged disqualifies him from wingmanship.” She has a point.
“The real question is, what does Aimme see in him? What did any of the girls back in high school and all the women since see in Sir Frederick Dorkingsworth?”
Phoebe chuckles at the name we used to tease our brother with. I prefer not to think about how my dorky brother grew up to be what is commonly referred to as a stud.Gag. Ew.Ladies, I’ve seen him pick his nose. I won’t tell you what he did with the booger.
“Are Mum and Dad waiting for you?” Phoebe asks.
“No, I’m having anticipatory nerves. It’s tomorrow.”
When I was a kid, my parents’ friends would call meThe Shy One. Not so. Yes, I’m an introvert, but I’m not nervous around people—okay, there’s one person that has the ability to trip me up, sometimes literally, but let’s not talk about him. It’s more like I need a cheerleading squad consisting of quiet church mice to encourage me to willingly involve myself in gatherings large and small.
“Why don’t you rip the bandage off and convince yourself to do it, get it over with? Then you can retreat to your happy place.”
“You know why,” I mumble.
“Lady Libby the Love Liaison?”
“Lady? Ooh. That’s a new addition.”
“Got to appreciate alliteration.”
“Mum would love the title,Lady.”
“She would,” Phoebe confirms. “But I’m not sure she’d appreciate our name for her.”
After college and moving from England to Concordia, I’ve had a good excuse to miss many of my parents’ fancy functions where Mum tries to play matchmaker. But since I happen to be in town for this event, I can’t respectfully decline even though I’d prefer to be at home in my jammies making candles or watching my favorite series.
“Give me a status update. Have you done pre-game primping? Spa day? Or are you procrastinating on the sofa with Ted Lasso on pause?”
She knows me so well.
I love the show even though football, or soccer as my US friends call it, reminds me of American football, which makes me think about my stupid, longstanding crush. I contemplate tearing the page with the headingThe Crush Listout of my journal.
“Pippa...?”
“I have the dress.”
“That’s a start, but let me guess, Mum laid it out for you.”
I don’t deny it.
“Okay, next step, stand up...” Step by step, Phoebe walks me through the prep process we perfected for getting ready for a party. Yes, my reluctance is so strong that I need her to verbally hold my hand.
