Page 24 of Unexpectingly Happily Ever After

″We’ll have a fabulous time!” The excitement in Brit’s voice is sincere. This might be her fourth wedding, but it’s been a while since we’ve gone away together.

There’s a lot of history between Brit and me, and a lot of traveling. Including the infamous European trip after graduation that led me to break up with the then love of my life, David Mason.

Who had beenthiscloseto being the father of my baby, if J.B. hadn’t gotten me pregnant. And if David hadn’t turned out to be gay.

But that’s another story.

Agreeing to the trip was the easy part. Planning things is much more difficult. Brit takes care of finding flights and hotels, emailing me a long list of names and numbers that I spend the next few evenings booking and confirming. But it’s the stuff at home that keeps me up at night worrying about. Like leaving detailed instructions for J.B. about pickups and playdates and soccer games. I double-check everything with my sister Libby, who is on call for emergencies. Not that I don’t think J.B. will be able to make it, but he needs to have a backup in case he has a crisis at work. I know the kids come first, butThriceis like another child to him.

Then why does he want another baby? Why not just open another restaurant?

As much as I want to stop thinking about having another baby, I just can’t. When I have something on my mind, I can’t let it go until it’s resolved. Before I got pregnant, it was my only focus for a few weeks. Baby. Baby. Baby.

Cooper used to call me obsessive.

What if I decide I really don’t want a baby, but J.B. does? What if I want it, but he changes his mind halfway through? Or when I’m about to deliver and he gets cold feet–

J.B. would never do that.

I have to stop thinking about this. My babies are tucked in their beds, with visions of soccer games in their heads.

I’ll miss their soccer game.

I sigh and check the schedule Brit has emailed me. We leave in three days, and Brit is a bundle of organizational nerves. Nowsheis more than a bit obsessive when planning for her weddings. Why she thinksshe needs a stagette for her fourth wedding, I’ll never know. She’s already had three legendary bachelorette parties, as well as a couple of pretty good divorce parties.

Why does she need to be married for a fourth time? If you mess up three times, I think you’d give up. And it’s not like Brit is a sucker for romance. I’ve only met her fiancé, Justin, once, and he certainly didn’t give me the warm and fuzzies. Nice enough, but I wouldn’t be racing down the aisle to marry him.

But I’ve long figured out that Brit gets more satisfaction in planning the weddings and everything that goes along with it. She should have gone into event planning rather than finance. When we were teenagers thinking about the future, my focus would be on babies, Brit’s on planning her weddings. Weddings–plural. She rarely talked about husbands, other than whether it would be a good idea to marry one of the Backstreet Boys or should she hold out for Leonardo Dicaprio.

Looking at how the careers panned out, I think Leo would have been the better bet.

Even so, four weddings are a lot of weddings. Maybe she’s trying to one-up me–I have three kids, she’s had four husbands. Brit’s always had a competitive side so I wouldn’t put it past her. Whatever makes her happy.

I’ve come to the conclusion a long time ago that there are few things in Brit’s life that truly make her happy.

And after I look at her schedule and check my confirmations, I realize I’m not going to be one of them.

I take a deep breath and pick up the phone.

″So when is your flight?” I ask hesitantly after Brit says hello.

“In three days,” Brit says, exasperation evident in her voice as if she’s gone through this with me countless times. She hasn’t, since it’s the first time I’ve glanced at her schedule. “The car will pickyou up at three-thirty, which will get you to the airport and through security in time to have a drink before our flight.”

“And that’s at si— fifteen?”

″What’s the problem, Casey?” The exasperation has changed to iciness. “Please don’t tell me there’s a championship soccer game you can’t miss.”

″There actually is a soccer game, but that’s not it. I think I’ll have trouble getting that flight. I think maybe if you told me your flight was eighteen-fifteen–”

″What the hell is eighteen-fifteen?”

″Six-fifteen pm. It’s the military time, the time that airlines follow. You said 6:15 so I booked the six-fifteen flight.”

″In the morning?” Brit’s voice screeches from cell tower to cell tower, finally arriving in my ear, still in full-fright mode.

″That’s what time you said.”

″No, our flight is six-fifteen.PM.”

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