Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 91501 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91501 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
This wedding is like the Met Gala for Genevieve Wallace—you would think she was the mother of the bride.
I’ll admit, Hollis has been amazing, taking my mother’s input and letting her do some wedding planning without balking, which has turned Mom into something of a momzilla. Suddenly, she’s making demands of me—do this, don’t do that, wear this, cut your hair, don’t say this, try to smile.
Try to smile? Pfft.
I smile plenty.
Frowning, I shuffle my way into the building, flanked by potted trees that, apparently, are going to have pale pink roses in them? And white twinkling lights?
Who knows. It’s like the goddamn bubblegum forest barfed all over the church and I have to hear all about it from my brother and his fiancée every time I go over to their place or they come to mine for food.
I cannot escape this wedding, their bliss, the nonstop merriment.
I cannot wait for it to be over.
Also, my brother refused to delay his honeymoon so I could go to the Maldives with them, a place I’ve never been, and is it too much to ask that they fucking postpone it until February?
They wouldn’t even listen to reason; he was such a selfish dick about it.
“Get your own wife. You are not coming on my honeymoon. Are you insane?”
“Who gives a shit if I don’t have my own wife—stop being greedy. It’s not like you’re going to be alone on that island, so what if there’s one more person?”
Me.
“I don’t need my brother breathing down my neck while I’m trying to get laid and romance Hollis.”
“What if we all come?” That idea sounded horrifying, even to my own ears. “Then I’d have someone to hang out with in the sun and sand.”
“We who?”
“You know, me, Mom, Dad, True—”
My brother threw his hands up in the air at that point. “Stop talking.”
“I’m going to get me one of those pedicures where you put your feet in the fish tank and they eat the dead skin off your heels.”
“You aren’t going to do shit.” Buzz laughed. “And that’s fucking disgusting.”
But cool.
“Why won’t you let me live my life? You’ll hardly know I’m there. I’ll get my own hut over the water if it’s going to be such a damn problem.”
“Oh, I’ll know you’re there alright. You’re like a fucking bull in the housewares department.”
A bull? “There’s no need to name-call.”
“You’re not coming.”
“You don’t have to answer now. Take some time to think about it.” I reached over to press a finger to his lips, but he smacked my hand away.
“I don’t have to think about it. The answer is no and will always be no. Nein. Nyet. Ochi. Non. Loh.”
Dang. I didn’t realize he knew so many languages.
“Shhh.” Is he being a bitch about this because I stole the last of his filet mignon leftovers out of his fridge? “No need to be hasty.”
Buzz isn’t the only Wallace who can be tenacious. I was the fucking Most Valuable Player at the Super Bowl three years ago, chump. Suck on that.
“Go home, Tripp, or I’m telling Mom.”
My face scrunched up, indignant. “You always tattle on me.”
“No, you always tattle on me.”
It’s true, I do. But it’s not like he doesn’t always deserve it…
My brother is getting married.
When I walk through the door to this house of prayer, my family will be gathered there, for him. And Hollis.
Her family too, a cause for celebration bigger than the World Series—which he’s never played in—or the Super Bowl. No one cares about those championships this weekend; they only care about Buzz and Hollis.
Trace and Hollis.
My fucking brother is getting married—I don’t know how many times I have to tell myself before I’ll begin believing it, before it’ll sink in.
The limit does not exist.
I stand stoically at the front of the church while they rehearse, Noah Harding, my brother’s best friend, serving as the officiant, going through his spiel while we look on, the entire process taking longer than it should because everyone and my goddamn brother keep cracking jokes.
Fine.
I will admit, it’s a pleasant evening.
And okay—I’ll admit, the room looks nice. Stunning, even, and I can say that even though I’m a guy, right?
Everyone is gathered around and on their best behavior, dressed up and decked out for the occasion—everyone, it seems, except me. In my after-workout gear, which normally I wouldn’t feel self-conscious about, but for some reason I do. Guilty even. The good news is my mom hasn’t found me and hasn’t chewed my ass out about my clothes yet, and no one has said a word.
But then—I was late, so not many people have noticed I’m even here.
It seems the ceremony is going to be casual, lots of personal touches, personal anecdotes about the loving couple from their family and friends, which I thought usually happened at the reception following the wedding, but what do I know about weddings? I’ve only been to a handful of them in my life. For some reason, I rarely get invited to them—and the ones I have been to are hella fancy and stuffy. Generally it’s been my teammates marrying high-maintenance women who spend hundreds of thousands of dollars showing off for their friends.