Page 78 of Father of the Bride

Mark froze. “She didn’t tell you?”

“No. I saw her sneaking out of the casita the other night. I thought y’all were just…” she trailed off. “First love?”

“Look, I don’t have time to get into it.”

“I’m gonna need you to make time, Daddy. This is—“

“Bride! I need the bride!” Daisy yelled as she rushed toward them. “The grandparents are ready to speak.”

She blew out a breath. “We’re not done.”

Mark reared back, his face balling up as she walked away. It felt like a role-reversal, and he wasn’t comfortable with that. He didn’t have to answer to her—and yet, he felt like he owed her an explanation.

He returned to his seat just as Orion’s father stood up to say his piece. Unfortunately, the man’s toast was interrupted by Samara, who said, “Oh my God!” a lot louder than she intended to.

“Sorry,” she whispered as she passed her phone to Jules, who passed it to Brooklyn. A subtle ripple effect went around the room as the younger guests’ faces began to glow from the light of their phone screens. They were all transfixed by something.

Mark frowned at the rudeness. He’d taught Brooklyn better than that. But he realized Sterling’s eyes were glued to his phone, too. Drew. Vince.

Something was wrong.

“You saw this?” someone whispered from behind Mark.

Micah caught his brother’s eye, his face twisted in confusion.

“…So I wanna wish my grandson and his bride a lifetime of happiness. Cheers!”

The few people still paying attention lifted their glasses. Everyone else’s eyes were on Mark.

He leaned forward. “Brooklyn, what the hell is going on?”

Her wide eyes lifted to meet his. “You need to see this.”

“Right now? You’re being inconsiderate.”

Samara stood, inclining her head to tell Mark to follow her.

Exasperated, he stalked after her, ready to give her a scolding. He’d known her for years; she was like a daughter, and she’d handled some minor PR stuff for the practice.

“What the hell is happening?” he said. “Yall are being—“

“Dr. Bennett, this is serious.”

She shoved her phone in his face.

It looked like Instagram. A pretty black woman wearing a purple bonnet and smoking a black and mild lay sideways on a velvet chaise lounge. The caption for the video read:Juno is live: My BBL almost killed me. Time to tell the truth.

“Who the hell is this?” he demanded. She looked familiar.

“Juno. She’s the number one female rapper in the country right now. Listen.”

Samara pressed play.

“I guess it’s time for this, y’all. I’m a Memphis bitch til I die, so I hate to do this to some hometown boys, but it is what the fuck it is.”

She took a drag and blew smoke into the camera.

“I almost died getting my ass done, y’all. And it wasn’t even no backdoor shit. This junt was a reputable establishment, like legit with licenses and shit. I trusted this nigga, Sterling Harris. Dr. Sterling Harris. I trusted this nigga because his shit got a website, he all up in that muhfuckin’ picture smilin’ and shit. Got the white coat on, dripped out in that doctor shit. But see, when you do some shit, you gotta make sure they supposed to be doin’ that shit. That Harris nigga don’t even do BBLs like that.”

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