Page 132 of Cooking Up My Comeback
Unfortunately, Scout chooses that exact moment to investigate the basket situation. Brett’s foot connects with thirty pounds of enthusiastic golden retriever, andsuddenly he’s waving his arms, trying to regain balance while covered in rose petals and tripping over a dog who considers this the best game ever invented.
He goes down hard, taking the family room coffee table with him. The sound of splintering wood fills the room as Brett, Scout, and what appears to be Jack’s entire magazine collection crash to the floor in a spectacular display of wedding day coordination.
For a moment, nobody moves.
Then Ellen claps her hands with delight. “That was amazing! Do it again!”
“Ellen,” Lucas says weakly, “maybe we don’t ask people to recreate accidents.”
“Okay, Uncle Lucas.”
Brett sits up slowly, rose petals in his hair and what appears to be aSports Illustratedswimsuit edition stuck to his jacket. Scout, completely unperturbed by the mayhem he’s caused, licks Brett’s face with obvious affection.
“You okay?” I ask, trying not to laugh.
“My dignity’s seen better days, but everything else is functional.” He attempts to stand, realizes his leg is tangled in the coffee table wreckage, and sits back down with resignation. “This is not how I pictured making an entrance.”
“I don’t know,” I say, moving to help untangle him from the furniture debris. “It’s very you. Dramaticentrance, accidental destruction, expression of wounded pride.”
“I don’t have wounded pride.”
“You’re sitting in a pile of home décor rubble covered in flower petals. It’s the definition of wounded pride.”
“I’m maintaining my dignity under difficult circumstances.”
“Is that what we’re calling it?”
Our gazes meet as I help him to his feet, and for a moment, the weird, careful distance disappears. This is the Brett I know—grumpy, slightly disaster-prone, and absolutely refusing to admit when life gets the better of him.
“There you are,” I say quietly.
“What?”
“Nothing. Just... there you are.”
He studies my face as though he’s trying to figure out what I mean, but before either of us can say anything else, Hazel appears in her wedding dress.
“What was that crash? It sounded as though someone demolished the family room.”
We all survey the scene: overturned coffee table, magazines scattered everywhere, rose petals coating every surface, and Brett appearing as though he lost a fight with a craft store.
“Minor incident,” Lucas says diplomatically. “Nothing we can’t clean up.”
“Define minor,” Hazel says, entering the room with the careful grace of someone wearing a very expensive dress. Her eyebrows climb toward her hairline. “Brett, you appear as though you wrestled a florist.”
“The florist won,” he admits, picking rose petals out of his hair.
“Are you hurt?”
“Only my pride.”
“Good. Because if you’re injured, I’m not explaining to the wedding photographer why my best man appears to have survived a floral explosion.”
Twenty minutes later, we’ve restored some semblance of order to the Hensley House family room and relocated the wedding preparations back to the master bedroom. Brett’s been de-petaled, and the coffee table has been pronounced a casualty of pre-wedding enthusiasm.
Now I’m standing in Hazel’s living room, observing Brett through the window as he helps Jack load wedding supplies into the truck. He moves with his usual efficient grace, but there’s still something careful in the way he glances toward the house.
Toward me.
