I roll my eyes.Like what, Miles? Like you’re brother of the damn year?
Miles has always been a part of my sister’s and my life to some degree. When Dad was alive, he’d come every summer for the entire duration of it, and most holidays, too. But once Dad died, Miles’s mom wasn’t too interested in ensuring he maintained a relationship with his half sisters. He came around a little bit until Grandpa, Dad’s father, died. After that, despite having our grandfather’s house in Sugar Creek willed to him, Miles didn’t come around much.
That house is still in Miles’s name. At least he rents it out now and doesn’t just let it rot to the ground.
“I didn’t say it like anything,” I say as neutrally as possible. “I’m just saying that it’s a spur-of-the-moment decision, and I know you’re busy. That’s all.”
“I hope that’s what you mean because I would’ve loved to be there.”
Sure.“Well, I hope you have fun in Berlin and that it’s a successful trip for you.”
“I’m sure it will be. And I hope this wedding is beautiful and that it makes you happy. You sound happy tonight.”
I make a face.I do?Pausing to give that a thought, I determine that Miles just really doesn’t know me well enough to know when I sound any which way.
“I am happy,” I say because I think that’s what a bride should say—not that they’re trying to figure out how to make everyone believe they’re in love.
“Good. I’ll keep my eye out for pictures online.”
My stomach roils as I consider that pictures will be posted of Hartley and me online. In a church. In front of a pastor.
At least posterity will remember that I pulled in a gorgeous husband.
“You do that,” I say. “Have a nice trip and … yeah. Good luck.”
“Good luck to you. And congrats, Mira.”
“Thanks. Bye, Miles.”
“Goodbye.”
I punch the red button to end the call, then down half of my drink. The rim is salty, and the tequila is very agave-forward. It burns as it goes down, but I kind of like it. It somehow clarifies my brain … or tricks me into thinking that’s what’s happening. Either way, it’s a nice change from the chaos that’s overtaken my mind all day.
My phone screen dims, and I stare at it as it darkens.
“Yeah, I don’t think that there’s any way that I can make it.”
I was prepared for that response from my brother—the odds of him showing up were about ten out of a hundred—but there must’ve been a tiny piece of me hidden in the depths of my heart that had a small flicker of hope that I was wrong. Because as the cool night breeze stings my heated cheeks, I can’t help but acknowledge the tenderness in my chest.
Having him there wouldn’t have changed anything for better or worse. But it would’ve felt nice. Even though it’s not a real wedding, he doesn’t know that, and it would’ve been really sweet to have him there to support me.
A wave of emotion rises inside me, and I try to sniffle it away.
The only people who care enough to come to my pretend wedding are my sister and my grandmother—the woman responsible for this mayhem. That’s my doing. It’s my fault for not connecting with anyone on a level to which they’d feel excited to come to the arguably biggest event of a person’s life … even if it’s for pretend.
And I’ve never noticed or cared until now.
I down the rest of my drink and pick up my phone.
Me: Hi.
His response comes right away.
Hartley: Hi.
A smile touches my lips. Somehow, his two-letter greeting eases the sting in my chest.
Me: What are you doing?
