“Okay, okay.” He held up his hands. “I haven’t decided yet. I need to think about it.”
“Think about it?” Declan’s eyebrows shot up. “What’s there to think about? You pick one of us, the rest of us are groomsmen, done.”
“It’s not that simple?—“
Declan cracked his knuckles. “It is that simple. Unless you’re trying to say one of us matters more than the others.”
He didn’t mean it the way it sounded. I knew that, and so did everyone else in this room. But I also knew that if we let this spiral, Chris would agonize over it for weeks, trying to find a solution that didn’t exist, while Trixie planned the whole wedding by herself and my brother stress-ate his way through Nana’s freezer stash.
Time for the baby of the family to save the day. Again.
“Okay, I have an plan.” I stood up, and every head in the room turned toward me. I’d learned a long time ago that the only way to get a word in with seven older brothers was to just start talking like you expected everyone to listen. “Chris shouldn’t have to pick. None of you should have to pick. We’ll draw names.”
Silence.
Then Hayes tilted his head. “Draw names? What is this, Secret Santa?”
“It’s fair,” I said. “Everyone writes their name on a piece of paper, throws it in a hat, and draws. Whoever you pick is your best man. Or best woman.” I pointed at myself. “Because I am absolutely not letting any of you limit me to traditional gender roles.”
“Jules, you don’t even have a boyfriend, much less engaged. You don’t need a best man or a man of honor or whatever.” Isak said, but he was grinning.
He knew I did have a boyfriend... but absolutely no one else did.
“Yeah, well, it’s not like you’re engaged or anything. Neither are Flynn or Gryff. But we’re still family, and Kingmans do everything together.” I looked around at all of them, my giant, ridiculous, wonderful brothers. “I don’t want to be left out just because I’m not getting married until I’m like seventy-two if it was left up to all of you. And I know you guys don’t want to leave each other out either.”
“She’s got a point,” Hayes said softly.
“She usually does,” Isak added, and I shot him a grateful smile.
Dad, who had been watching this whole exchange with the amused patience of a man who had survived raising eight children, finally spoke up. “I think Jules is onto something.”
“Dad—” Declan started.
“No, hear me out.” Dad set his phone down and leaned forward, and something in his expression shifted. Got softer. “Your mother and I used to talk about what it would be like when you kids started getting married. Who would stand up for who, how we’d manage the logistics of eight weddings...” He paused, and I felt that familiar ache in my chest. The one that showed up whenever he talked about her. “She would have loved this. All of you, together, figuring it out as a team, as a family.”
I glanced at Isak without meaning to. He was looking down at his hands, and I knew he was feeling the same thing I was...that strange grief for someone we never really got to know. The others had memories of Mom. Real ones. Isak and I just had stories, and photos, and moments like this where we felt her absence without ever having felt her presence.
But we had Dad. And we had each other. And honestly? That was more than enough.
“The drawing names idea means no one has to choose favorites,” Dad continued. “And it means you’re all in this together, for every wedding, for the rest of your lives.” He looked around at all of us, his eyes bright. “That’s what family is.”
“Alright,” Chris said, and the relief on his face was so obvious I almost laughed. “Let’s do it. But we need something to draw out of.”
“I’ll get a football helmet from the hall closet,” Hayes offered, already standing.
“And paper from the office,” Everett added.
Within minutes, we had a system. Eight slips of paper, eight names, one slightly scratched Big Bowl championship helmet that Gryff had accidentally sat on at the victory party. One by one, we folded our papers and dropped them in.
“Okay, rules,” I announced. “You cannot pick yourself. If you do, you put it back and draw again. No trading, no bribing, no blackmail.”
“What about light coercion?” Flynn asked, eyes twinkling.
“No.”
“Aggressive suggestions?”
“No, Flynn.”
