Page 10 of The Fast Lane

Melanie nibbled her bottom lip, concern flitting across her face. “Are you sure? We could figure something out.”

“He’s your brother. He has every right to be at your wedding. We’re both adults.”

Big words from me. Big, lying words. Sure, the fresh fish I hid in his car after the break-up wasn’t exactly mature on my part. And giving every realtor in the Dallas/Fort Worth area his phone number and email address wasn’t totally on the up and up.

But he started it. How he broke up with me. What he was doing forty-eight hours later. Yeah, he definitely started it.

“If you’re sure?”

“Totally.” I grinned so wide my cheeks hurt but I’m really trying to sell it. For Cal and Melanie, I would suck it up. It’s not like I would have to talk to him except to be polite.

“Alright then.” Melanie stared at me for a beat longer, maybe waiting for me to break into a blubbery mess of tears. Not happening. “Have you gotten your dress?”

“Yup. And I have to say I look pretty damn good in it.” We’d had a choice of dress styles all in the same soft-pink color. I’d gone with an A-line dress that hit me just below the knee. It was tank-style with a deep V neckline and a belted waist.

“Always humble.”

“Always,” I repeated with a grin.

As a member of the Pear-Shaped Body Society, I had narrower shoulders, wide hips, and enough junk in the trunk to outfit an antique store. Because I didn’t drive, I walked everywhere, ran a couple of times a week, and was always up for a friendly game of soccer. I liked to move my body when I could but I wasn’t doing it so I could look better; I did it because it made me feel better.

However, it did not change the shape of my body, and that was cool. If not being a size 8 (or 10, or…okay, fine, I was a size 14) meant still getting to eat homemade lasagna and snickerdoodles, I was just fine. (Even if trying to find a pair of jeans that didn’t gap at my waist was near impossible.)

“And the shoes?” she asked, her voice a touch sharp. “You returned the other ones and got the right ones.”

“Um…”

“Ali,” she snapped. “You need the right shoes, or you’ll ruin the entire mood of the wedding party.”

Melanie was an elementary art teacher and about the sweetest, gentlest person I knew. She caught spiders in the bathroom and escorted them outside after she’d given them names and backstories. Besides already being poor (’cause teacher), she often bought extras for the students she worried about—school supplies, shoes, coats. She was a bona fide saint.

But planning a wedding could bring out another side in a person. A scary, demanding, irrational side.

For the record, I had gotten the correct style of shoes but in pure white instead of cream. Clearly a mistake worthy of ruining everything. “I’m going later this week. I still have time, I swear.”

Melanie stared at me for a long, uncomfortable moment and then suddenly smiled. “I can’t wait to see you. I’m so excited. I’m giving you back to your brother. He’s starting to pout. Talk to you soon.”

Cal’s face reappeared. “Hey, kid, I wanted to ask you something.”

“Don’t call me kid.” I knew he wouldn’t stop and I kind of liked it anyway. It was our thing.

Calvin Coolidge was the oldest of my brothers, seven years my senior. Our parents named each of the boys after presidents, the other two being Franklin Roosevelt and Abraham Lincoln. You can guess why they all preferred nicknames.

As for me, I was named for my two grandmothers: Alicia Grace. When I was about six or so, I asked why I hadn’t been named after a president and Mom told me there hadn’t been one to name me after. Family lore states I sighed deeply, and said very seriously, “Well, I guess I’ll do it then.”

As my oldest brother, Cal gave the best advice and if trouble was brewing, he’d step in in a heartbeat to take the heat. Now, I’m not saying I got in trouble a lot…let’s say a moderate amount…but there’s never been a bully or an injustice I could pass up without at least doing something about it. If I needed an alibi, Cal always provided it, no questions asked.

“I have a favor,” he said, his voice pensive.

“I promised I wouldn’t pull any pranks on the wedding day. Although, I think you should reconsider my idea of The Muppets’ theme song for the recessional.”

“No,” Melanie yelled in the background. “Just no.”

“I’ll bring the sheet music. I can just slip it to the piano player. Sometimes it’s better to ask for forgiveness than permission.”

Melanie’s face popped back onto the screen. “If I hear even a note of that song, I will tell your mother that living alone scares you.”

I sucked in a breath. “You wouldn’t.”

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