My head jerks up at her ludicrous words. “No. Please don’treturn it. It’s yours.” Before I can say anything else, the sound of tires pulling into her driveway has me spinning around to find the hired blacked-out Escalade coming to a stop.
“You hired a car service?” she asks.
I face her once again and pull at the back of my neck. “Yeah.”
For a too-long moment, we stand there, unable to fix this. The clock has run out. There will be no overtime. I lost.
“Go on,” she says with a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “It’s your brother’s big day. Go make sure he has the best wedding ever.”
I’m not entirely sure how our conversation ends or how I got into the SUV because my thoughts are shrouded in a fog.
For my family and friends, I put on a brave face. I smile brightly for every camera shot the wedding party takes. I joke with my brothers and teammates, but inside, I’m bummed.
Renée would have loved being here. I saw the way her face lit up when she found out the wedding would be at the Horticulture Center. Floor-to-ceiling glass windows surround us, as well as endless plants and twinkling lights. There’s a floral scent I can’t place, and I wish she were here to tell me what it is.
At the altar, I stand in a mix of Isaiah and Dell’s groomsmen while Robyn—more beautiful than I’ve ever seen—and her bridesmaids stand on the other side. I teased my brother for years that she was my dream girl, just to ruffle him up so he’d admit that he loved her. In the end, it wasn’t me who got him to admit his feelings—it was the big blond personal trainer standing between them.
The wedding has only just begun, and all three are fighting back tears, which causes me to well up. I can’t help it. I’m so happy for them.
I want what they have someday.
The officiant asks Angie to read a passage a few minutes into the ceremony. Our family isn’t particularly religious, but maybe Dell’s family requested a Bible passage. I cock an eyebrow as my sister takes the microphone. I do not remember this from the rehearsal.
She clears her throat. "Our mother, Zofia, left each of us Johannsen children a journal where she documented our first years of life. I thought this entry was perfect for today.” Angie swallows, and she glances at Isaiah before he gives her a nod.
“Hello my little noodle,” she reads. “Today, you are ten months old. You’ve just learned to stand—wobbly, proud, and completely undeterred by gravity. You looked so pleased with yourself when you fell on your butt that I laughed until I snorted. Isaiah, you are brave, joyful, stubborn, and absolutely certain the world should be explored.
“I don’t know who you will become, but I already know your heart. It’s gentle and bright and far too big for your little body. You reach for people the way most babies reach for toys—with curiosity, with trust, and with both hands.
“Wherever life takes you, my little noodle, stay that way. Laugh when you fall. Stand tall when you can. And know that from the very beginning, you were a joy to love.”
When Angie closes the journal, I realize I haven’t thought about my mother in a long time. I was only three when she died, and I barely remember her. I’ve relied on pictures and the memories Angie would share with me when we were alone. We never spoke about her growing up because Dad had such a hard time with her passing. At any mention of her, he’d disappear into his workshop.
When we all became friends with Rafael and Joaquín, their moms adopted us in a way. I clung to their family like it was my own, desperate for more motherly attention. Ana and Christina fed us, taught us Spanish, and we celebratedevery Día de los Muertos with them. We never told my dad, but all of us Johanssen kids looked forward to that day more than any other. Angie had found a picture of our mom in a photo album and brought it to their house where it stayed, in a new frame, amongst all the deceased relatives of their families.
It was the one time a year we openly talked about our mom. Angie fed us scraps when she could throughout the years, but we feasted on Día de los Muertos.
I think about Renée’s daughters and how lucky they are to have her. I’m sure they miss their dad, though. Maybe they’re in the same boat I was as a kid—missing a whole parent. At least they have their mom, who seems much more involved in their lives than my father was for me.
The next thing I know, rings are exchanged and kisses seal life-long vows. Music swells as we walk down the aisle. Soon after, a glass of good whiskey rests in my palm.
There were so many people in the wedding party that the bride and grooms forewent a long table, and just the three of them sat at a small one.
I take my assigned seat with my family and Joaquín. Before dinner, a waiter asks if someone is sitting in the empty seat next to me and asks if I know what they ordered.
“No, she wasn’t able to attend,” I reply.
The waiter gives a polite nod and efficiently clears her plates, silverware, and glasses. With each item removed, I sink a little further into my chair. My whiskey doesn’t taste as good, and the invincibility I felt in my tuxedo a while ago fades.
Angie places a hand on my shoulder. “What happened to Renée? She couldn’t make it?”
I shake my head.
“I’m sorry. I was looking forward to meeting her.”
“You were?”
“Well, yeah,” she smiles. “You sounded so excited overthe phone when you told me about her. And from the way Dad was talking”—she shrugs—“I just... had to see for myself.”
