Page 1 of Wright Kind of Trouble

Part I

Wedding

1

Harley

March

“You look like you’re going to a funeral.”

I blinked at my brother and then gestured to my black lace dress. “Excuse me?”

Whitton shook his head as he squared off his perfectly knotted silk tie. “I know you wanted to be Winona Ryder, growing up, but don’t you think this is taking it a little too far? You look like that girl from Beetlejuice.”

“Should I be insulted or flattered that you think I look like Lydia?” I asked with a tilt of my head.

He laughed. “Only you, Harley.”

“Black is fine for a wedding. It’s a neutral color. You’re going in a black suit!”

“I could wear charcoal,” he said with a shrug.

I turned back to the living room mirror to check out the waves I’d put into my long blonde hair. “Don’t be pedantic.”

“Oh no, Harley is using her advanced vocabulary. You must have upset her,” Whitton’s twin, Weston, said as he strode out of the kitchen with a coffee in hand.

My brothers couldn’t be more opposites. If they didn’t look exactly alike, no one would guess they were related. West was a laid-back musician with a go-with-the-flow vibe, and Whitt was all five-year plans, business suits, and strict schedules. The one thing they always agreed on was ganging up on me. But I could give as good as I could take.

“You’re not even wearing a suit coat,” I said then pointed at his feet. “And you’re in Chucks.”

Whitt winced as he looked at West’s attire. “She has a point.”

West raised his coffee to us. “Still wearing them.”

“We could put you in a suit.”

I grinned, having sufficiently distracted Whitt. And he was wrong anyway. I looked nothing like Lydia, as much as it dismayed me. I’d even forgone my normal Doc Martens for a pair of black heels that made my already-long legs look miles long. I’d contemplated a pair of white sneakers, but no way would Whitt have let me out of the house. Boy didn’t understand fashion.

I slung my black bag over my shoulder and dug out my phone. I shot off a text to Mom.

Wedding bound. Make the boys stop arguing.

A second later, in lieu of a return text, Mom’s face appeared on my screen. I clicked open on the video call.

“Hey, Mom.”

Both of my brothers stopped talking and looked over at me. Well, mission accomplished.

“Hey, sweetie. Are you excited for Jordan’s wedding?”

I shrugged. “Sure.”

My mom shot me a quintessential mom look, her short blonde hair falling into her round face—which was my mirror, plus twenty-five years. “So eloquent, my little scholar.”

“You should have come in for it.”

It was her turn to be dismissive. “I don’t know what your brother would have thought about that.”

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