Page 85 of I'm Not Yours
“And Ben’s family. They’re proper, conservative, blue blooded. Who knows what will happen as the families unite and clash?”
“Who cares? It’ll be fun.” He picked up his guitar and strummed a few chords. “Woe is me, I’ll miss it, though. Woe is me,” he sang.
“Woe is you!” I threw a handful of satin at him.
He caught it, and caught my gaze. “I’d be a good date. I want to meet your parents.”
“You mean the hippies?”
“The hippies and the rest of the gang.”
“Even though many will be dressed as Scotsmen and women during the festivities?”
“I love Scotland, I’ve been twice.”
“We have a watermelon-seed spitting contest.”
“I have some talent in that particular area.”
“We have a scavenger hunt. It gets competitive.”
“I play to win.”
“You need to know that I cannot predict my family and, most particularly, my Great-uncle Seamus, who says he’s coming dressed as Abe Lincoln, my Great-aunt Lolly, who sings songs with swear words, and my twin cousins, Chuck and Duck. Those are their nicknames. Their given names are Cornell Brown Balashov and Harvard Yale Balashov. Their parents thought they were so brilliant they’d go to Ivy League schools. Didn’t happen. They literally joined the circus and travel the world.Daredevil trapeze artists, they do tricks with this giant ring they run on top of, stand on each other’s heads, et cetera. Anyhow, they’ll be there. One cousin, Marci Shinola, recently was paroled. She shot her neighbor.” Reece’s eyebrows rose again.
“The neighbor stole her dogs. He said they barked too much. She shot him in the knee.”
“Oh,” he mocked. “Only the knee. Did she get the dogs back?”
“Yes, she did.” I put the iron down. “Reece, if you want. . . .”
“Yes?” He strummed his guitar.
“If you have nothing else to do . . .”
“Don’t think I’m busy that day.”Strum, strum.
“I’ll be swamped with the bride and the bridesmaids . . .”
“I’ll find the groom and hang out.”
“You might be asked to do . . . crazy things.”
“I’m good at crazy.”Strum, strum, strum.
“I might be crazy, too. It’s my sister’s wedding.”
“We’re friends, June. I will bring you martinis and hugs for your craziness.”
“You’d be alone.”
“I won’t be alone. I’ll be with your relatives, including the shooter, the cousins who stand on each other’s heads, and Abe Lincoln. Would you ask me?”
“Ask you?”
“Yes. Formally. Invite me.”
I took a deep, deep breath. “Reece, this is going to be the bizarrest wedding ever, but if you are brave and want to come to August’s wedding, I would be happy for you to be my date.”
