Chapter 12 Warren
TWELVE
WARREN
If weddings weren’t annoying enough as it is, my idiot brother asked me to be his best man.
I’m fractionally flattered and mostly agitated he’s forcing me to stand up in front of his guests to give a speech.
Five minutes max. In and out. Nothing special.
His words of reassurance did nothing, and I know the little fucker is secretly taking pleasure in my discomfort.
But I’ll do it. For him. Reluctantly.
The toasty interior of the country club differs drastically from the bitter December Saturday.
Our parents and Ben’s fiancée’s have been members here for years.
On the outskirts of Nashville, the venue is where we host most family celebrations.
The lush green lawns sparkle with frost, and festive spirit decorates every inch of space, gearing up for the holidays, creating the perfect setting for a winter wedding.
I fiddle with my bowtie so it doesn’t sit on my neck too tightly.
Marcus knocks elbows with me in the narrow, full-length mirror while my parents fuss over Ben’s tuxedo behind us.
Diana, my sister, tries to calm my nephew, who isn’t playing ball.
Two of Ben’s other groomsmen laugh in the corner, passing a hipflask of whiskey back and forth.
It’s fucking chaos in this tiny room, and it’s not even midday. Another twelve plus hours to go.
A loud screech pierces the air.
“Buddy, I promise you can take the jacket off after some pictures,” Diana soothes in a calming voice. “You look so smart, and you match with Daddy and your uncles.”
Freddie glowers at her, looking as menacing as a four-year-old can. He stomps his small shiny dress shoe on the carpet. “No.”
“Fredster,” Marcus warns his son. “Listen to your mom.”
Stomp. “No.”
“Freddie, sweetie,” my mom joins. “How about we get some fresh air?”
“No!”
This goes on for five more minutes, and a pulsing pressure forms behind my eyeballs.
Another sixty seconds pass, and the tension increases. Unable to stand the commotion, I spin on my heel, finger raised in Freddie’s direction, brows slashing across my forehead. “Hey! Quit it!”
The room stills at my thunderous voice.
Freddie stares at me, mouth gaping. Then, he bursts into a fit of bubbly laughter, clutching his tummy, the jacket saga long forgotten.
“Uncle Warren is so funny.” He giggles. “Quit it! Quit it!”
I deadpan at his mocking, though, after the eighth time, I can’t help but chuckle.
It wasn’t intentionally funny. Ever since he was a baby, the kid has warmed to my not-so-warm side, meaning I don’t have to act around him like I do the adults in the room. He’s probably my favorite person here.
Point proven when my mom’s watchful gazes catches mine, and she smiles at me sympathetically. Always with the fucking sympathy smiles. I’m not sure she realizes she does it anymore. It’s just her natural reaction.
“Uncle Warren is so funny,” my sister echoes then mouths, Thank you.
I huff a You’re welcome.
Somewhat satisfied with my attire, I turn toward my brother, who’s pale as a sheet. Ben is eight years younger than me, Diana four, making me the responsible big brother they look up to.
Mom catches her youngest son’s ghostly complexion and palms his cheek. “Nerves are normal. The moment you see Lilah walking toward you, it’ll all fall away. You’ll forget about everyone.”
Ben nods silently, the opposite of his loud, obnoxious personality.
I stride over and hook an arm around his shoulder, careful of his hair and tux. “Let’s get you hitched before Lilah sees sense and leaves you standing at the altar.”
“Warren,” Mom chides. “You were like this on your wedding day.”
The flare of her eyes tells me she immediately regrets her comment. Everyone holds their breath. She isn’t wrong—almost thirteen years ago, I was in Ben’s shoes, a nervous wreck, hands sweating and throat closing over.
“It’s fine, Mom.” I force a smile. “You’re right. I was. Not as bad as this idiot, though.”
The tension in the room eases, and Ben’s lips quirk. “Fuck it. Let’s get out of here.”
“Yeah, fuck it!” Freddie parrots, little fist pumping the air. Ben ignores the glares from his parents.
With a last-minute check of outfits and to confirm I have the rings, we file out of the dressing room and meet the wedding coordinator to run through the order of service, and then it’s go time.
Ben and our parents are at the rear as we make our way down the aisle. The seated guests smile excitedly, waving at us, and crooning over Freddie in his little tux. I keep my gaze forward, ignoring the pang of bitter nostalgia.
We stand underneath an oak archway decorated with deep green foliage and white flowers, waiting for the bridal party to appear.
Ben fidgets nervously with his cufflinks, and I set a hand on his shoulder when the strings of a guitar filter through the room, silencing the light chatter of the crowd.
Everyone’s attention is on the bridesmaids as they move toward us.
Mine included, until a hushed cadence floats through the air.
My blood thrums, ears prick. The woody sound of the guitar increases, and the smooth vocals pitch into a raspy resonance that hit me square in the chest, knocking the breath out of me.
Subtly, I search the room for the source.
The sight of her arrests me, snapping every muscle and tendon taut.
It’s a figment of my imagination, brought on by weeks of revisiting the memory of her when my days were long and challenging. My personal escape. Now, she’s here, completely oblivious to the impact she’s having on my nervous system.
I’m vaguely aware of the bride appearing, but I can’t drag my eyes away from her.
Harriet.
Sitting off to the side, long blonde hair cascading in soft waves, she strums a polished, mahogany guitar. Her eyes are closed as she sways gently, completely absorbed in the music.
I’m utterly enraptured by her.
When Lilah reaches us, her singing stops, and the greedy side of me pleads for more.
Someone nudges me, dragging me back to reality, reminding me where we are.
Ben and Lilah exchange vows and transition to husband and wife, all while my gaze remains welded to the beauty in the corner.
What are the odds? I mean, sure, she lives outside of the city. She never mentioned performing at weddings, and while the sight of her is a treat, I’m not sure what the next thing to do or say is.
Do I approach her? Ignore her? Has she seen me?
Spoken too soon.
Blue eyes dart to mine, widening slightly. Her glowy complexion turns ashen.
From the harsh clutch she has on the neck of the guitar and her clenched jaw, I’m the last person she planned or wanted to see today.