“Uh-huh. Well, it wouldn’t hurt you to spend some time with people other than the mill workers and your geese, Brann. You’re turning into a real Ebenezer Scrooge.”
Ow. That one stung. I wasn’t a Scrooge. I just didn’t like people or Christmas.
Oh wait…
I downed my beer as she waited for a reply, hands on slim hips. I was about to recite my famous “You can worry about a lot of things, but I’m not one of them” line when the band struck up the song she had chosen for this special moment. My grin was wide when I heard “You Got a Friend in Me” fromToy Story. We’d loved that film as kids, watching it over and over on rainy days. I placed my glass on the bandstand, bowed, and took her into my arms.
“You’re such a dork,” she said as her eyes grew misty. I pulled her close, kissed her beautiful brown hair, and led her around the dance floor until her new husband claimed her. I moved aside, melding into the crowds of athletes, their wives, and family members from both sides. My gaze stayed on Nora, my throat tight as she beamed at Antoine. They’d be happy together.He adored her and she him. They would have a wonderful life here in Canada, him playing hockey, and her working for a charity that her hubby was devoted to. I’d done my duty as big brother extraordinaire.
“Brann, oh my goodness, I’m so glad I found you,” Mom gushed as she raced to me, the hem of her lovely red mother-of-the-bride dress up to her knees. Dad trailed after her, smiling in that whimsical way of his whenever my mother was up to something. Nora was the spitting image of my mother, whereas I was a mish-mosh of my parents. Brown eyes for both of us kids but my hair was totally ginger thanks to Dad’s side of the gene pool. Mom’s thick hair was a lush brunette with highlights shot through it. No gray hair dared to peek out of her mane lest it be plucked or dyed on sight. Dad, on the other hand, was more cavalier about his silver. It made him look distinguished, he liked to say, and it did. “Paula Prescott, she’s the lady sitting beside Antoine’s aunt Marie, has a son—”
“Dad,” I whined piteously, throwing my sire a plaintive look. “Can you reel your wife in please?”
“Carmen, you promised no matchmaking at weddings,” Dad said, which got a pout from my mother, who thought it was her life duty to see both of her children happily wed with children before she could pass over. She got that from my great-grandmother, a beautiful woman of ninety-two years. A war bride, Nonna, came to the US from Italy with a very Scottish man with flaming red hair. Nonna was still kicking it in a senior center in the same Boca Raton retirement center my parents now called home, her fingers always in the mix when it came to pairing off anyone not in a committed relationship under the age of thirty. Nonna ran family matchmaking like a mafia Don, only her displeasure was shown in withholding the annual holiday card with ten dollars in it as opposed to a horse’s head in your bed. I’d not gotten ten bucks in a card for over three years.Nonna’s upset was large. Even flouncy men could get married and have children now, she would announce on the family Zoom calls every fourth Thursday.
“If not here, where?” Mom asked, settling her gaze on me as couples bounced around on the dance floor to a Bruno Mars song. “If not now, when? We only see you once a year, twice if we’re lucky, and there is never a man on your arm when we see you.”
“That’s because I’m happy being single,” I argued.
“No, you’re not.” I threw a sour look at my father. “You’ve just let all this silliness on social media taint your thoughts on relationships. Not every man you meet is going to be so extra as Paulie.”
“Mom, I don’t think extra is used in that way,” I explained as Dad shrugged. “Paulie was not extra in any way other than being an extra-large dick.”
“Brann,” Dad chided. Mom rolled her eyes.
“Well, he was,” I childishly replied, folding my arms over my chest just as I had when I was six and my parents did not let me have a llama for my birthday. “My life is good. Honestly.”
Mom opened her mouth to parry but Dad slid in, calm and cool, to deflect. “Carmen, I’m sure that Brann will find the right partner someday, on his own time. Just like Nora has. Speaking of Nora, I think she’s looking for you.”
Mom’s sharp assessment of her poor, lonely gay son flew across the room to her youngest. Nora, feeling that maternal gaze, met our looks with confusion. “Looks like she needs help with her hem,” Dad lied.
“I told her it was coming undone. She should have bought it from Cousin Sophie and had it shipped instead of buying it from some unknown shop in Canada with no Italian seamstresses.” Off Mom went with a full head of steam, leaving me to ponder onhow she knew the ethnicity of a gown maker in Ottawa when she was in Florida, and what difference it made.
“Thanks, Dad,” I said.
“Anytime. She means well, Brann. She just wants to see you happy.”
“I know, I do, I know, but love comes when it comes, and for some people, it never comes at all,” I tossed out. He studied me for a moment, then bobbed his head. “I’m truly happy with things the way they are. And no, my being alone has nothing to do with Paulie.”
“Okay, I never said it did. Will we see you for Christmas?”
“No, I’m sorry.” I caught the flash of disappointment in his eyes. “I’d love to fly down, but I shut down the bar for a week for this.” I waved a hand at the festivities. “I can’t do that again in two weeks or I’ll never crawl out of the hole. The holidays are my busiest time. Then there’s the headache of lining up goosesitters…”
“Sure, sure, we understand. Nonna will be sad.”
“I know. She won’t send me ten dollars again.”
That made him snicker before he gave me a quick side hug and fell in behind Mom.
Nora made a face at me that spelled pain in my future. I ducked behind a potted fern, stole a flute of champagne from a passing server, sipped, gagged, and went to sit in the corner until the newlyweds left for a night of passionate consummation. I did not sit alone. I spent the remainder of the reception celebrating with mugs of Moosehead and shots of Canadian Club to show love and support for all the non-Italian Canadian wedding gown makers in the Great White North.
Cheers. To the bride! To the groom!
When I staggered to my hotel room after the blushing bride and her hulking hubby raced off to some remote cabin, I was still humming “Satisfied” from Hamilton. I had concluded thatCanadians not only made fine wedding dresses, but they brewed some hellishly good lager. Their whiskey wasn’t too bad either. I fell into bed, with my top hat and tails still on, belched loudly, and drifted off to have randy dreams about getting frisky with a few of the founding fathers.
***
The next morning’s flight out at the crack of fucking dawn was ugly.