Page 28 of Hot Mess Wedding

Cleary

There were no questions asked when I called my brother, Cam, to come pick me up at the airport. He just opened the door to his truck and helped me inside. The only question he asked me was what flavor milkshake I wanted when we stopped at a drive-thru.

Peanut butter hot-fudge in case you were wondering.

By the time we get back to my place, he helps me inside, then gives me a tight hug. When he pulls back, he gives me a searching look.

Neither of my brothers are exactly great with the emotional side of being brothers. Don’t get me wrong, there are lots of things they are great at—marrying fantastic women, for starters—but not so much with the talking.

“Call if you need anything else,” he says.

“Thanks, Cam. Go home and take Paige her milkshake because I know she’s probably counting the minutes.”

He shakes his head. “This is more important.”

I pat his big chest. “I’m fine. Promise. Feeling a bit foolish, but it was bound to happen at some point.”

“Do I need to kill anyone? You know I learned how to make things look like an accident when I was in the service.”

See what I mean about being great with other things?

I narrow my eyes at him. “I think you’re joking, but it’s always so hard to tell with you. But no. Everything will be fine eventually.”

He nods. “Love you, Cleary.”

“Love you too, big brother.”

I’m left alone in my small, but comfortable house. It’s practically the middle of the night because the only flight home I could catch was the latest. But I’m home and it’s over.

Everything with Ian is over.

And this is what it feels like to have your heart live outside of your body.

* * *

The following morning I’m awakened by women arguing in my kitchen. I squeeze my eyes shut and they hurt. Probably from crying which is just annoying.

I hate crying, because: a) no one likes crying, b) my fair-Irish-decedent skin makes it look like I’ve been beat up when I cry too much, and c) when I ugly cry, it’s like ten percent tears and ninety percent snot, which is very dehydrating. So basically, for me, crying is like getting a hangover, but without any of the fun of being drunk. Not that I get drunk that often.

And the only thing worse than having an ugly-cry hangover is having people see my ugly-cry hangover. But, I suppose if someone is going to see me with an ugly-cry hangover, at least it’s my amazing sisters-in-law.

I brush my teeth, redo my messy bun and grumble into the kitchen. Sure enough, there I find my sisters-in-law arguing about my coffee pot.

“I’m pretty sure it’s one of those pod ones,” Paige says.

“Well, there aren’t any pods in this kitchen, Paige. What are we supposed to do about that?” Cassia asks.

“It’s not for pods you crazy ladies. It’s just a regular coffee making,” I grouch.

“Where’s the water basin?” Paige asks.

“It’s behind. Just move. Both of you. Are y’all even supposed to be drinking coffee in your conditions?” I point at their pregnant bellies.

“We were making it for you,” Cassia says.

“I’ll do it. Y’all just sit down. Or there are sodas the fridge. Or water.”

“Oh, a soda sounds nice,” Paige says. “Cam has been hiding them from me for weeks.”

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