Chapter Two
KYRA
“Do you think a wedding dress has to be white?”
I gently float the question, holding up a soft pink dress with long sleeves and an A-line skirt that should hit just past my knee. Simple, classy, could be worn again. Checks a lot of boxes.
Girl math hard at work.
“Ummm, I mean, I think if it’s the whole big, traditional church thing, then, yeah, probably should be,” my older sister Lindee answers, absentmindedly flipping through the rack behind me.
I don’t need to turn around to know that she didn’t even look up to answer the question, her black-framed glasses sliding down her nose, blonde hair shoved carelessly up into a ponytail.
When I texted her last night and asked her if she wanted to drive over to Knoxville with me to go shopping, I left out the part about it being for a specific occasion.
Much less what specific occasion. Which is why she is dressed like she just walked out of the distillery in her dirty jeans along with a Tennessee Trouble-branded Henley and vest. Three days before Christmas, the mall is too busy for anyone to notice though.
“But not for the courthouse, right?”
“Then, no.” She pauses, turning to me. She scrunches her nose, thinking for a second. “If someone’s eloping, pretty much all bets are off, and the dress can be whatever color.”
Good to know…
“Good. Because this might be a front-runner for my wedding dress.”
“Excuse you?”
Lindee’s voice could break glass it’s so high, her eyes all but bulging straight out of her head.
Her jaw drops open as she stumbles backward, nearly taking out a small display of shirts with her.
A group of middle-aged women fuss at her about watching where she’s going, but she ignores them, still too focused on me, shock fully registering on her face.
Not quite the reaction I was expecting, but I suppose not completely uncalled for.
“What? Baby pink doesn’t work?” I hold up the dress against my front, flopping some of my curls over my shoulder so that the color contrast displays correctly.
That’s the thing about red hair; it doesn’t go with everything. Not like Lindee’s pretty blonde. She can wear just about every color. Actually, so can our oldest sister, Mikayla, as well, her dark brown giving her a freedom and flexibility a carrot top doesn’t have.
Except orange. None of us can pull off orange all that well. Something that is tough growing up in the state of Tennessee. But we do it anyway come Saturdays in the fall.
Mom has always joked that the three of us are the perfect setup for a bad joke—a blonde, a brunette, and a redhead walk into a bar. But for as different as our hair color is, we all have the same matching hazel eyes with strands of gold and green woven through.
Our brother, Rylan—who not only had the pleasure of growing up with only sisters with three very distinct personalities, while also being sandwiched between the oldest and the middle sister—is this dishwater blond-ish combination of the three of us.
That said, he keeps it cropped close enough that you can’t tell what color it is most of the time anyway.
Even if you could, it wouldn’t matter, because he also has the same matching irises.
They’re the Murray eyes, the same ones our great-great-grandfather had. The same ones that every generation of Murray has had since. The ones that no matter where we were, no matter what we did, let everyone in Trouble, Tennessee, and the surrounding areas know that we were Murrays.
To the point where even if we had wanted to be anonymous, anytime we were out and about, good luck. Our eyes gave us away.
“Wedding dress?” Lindee repeats, her voice cracking, this time loud enough that it attracts the attention of a few other shoppers. “Did you say wedding dress?”
“I did.”
“Kyra.” She pushes her glasses up her nose with her middle finger, and I can tell she already regrets not having put in her contacts. Guess that’s what I get for taking her away from a distilling day. “Who are you marrying?”
“Davis.”
Lindee stares back at me, blinking rapidly.
I know this look. This is her thinking look.
As the nerdy one in the family, Lindee has this look a lot.
Every time she’s trying to work out one of her equations or other weird problems around the distillery.
Of which, as the Master Distiller—and now one-quarter owner—of Tennessee Trouble, she has many.
Overseeing the production of classic whiskey and moonshine products, plus helping create the new moonshine, keeps her brain working overtime.
“Have you two been secretly dating behind everyone’s backs?”
“No.” I shake my head, keeping my answer simple.
Although, I like that her mind automatically went there. That her first thought must be that this whole time my best friend was actually my boyfriend, and we simply weren’t telling anyone that is what we were.
“But you’re getting married? Like, married married? Actually married? You’ll be his wife married?”
“Is there another kind?”
“I mean, like, proper, all the things that come with marriage.” Lindee looks around, her cheeks flushing slightly as she notices the little old lady giving us the side-eye on the other side of the rack.
Lowering her voice, she continues, “Or is this one of those lavender marriages that you see on social media?”
“Davis isn’t gay,” I hiss.
Not that we talked about sleeping arrangements. Or extracurriculars.
Conveniently, or maybe not so, neither of us broached the topic of sex or dating and what us being married to each other meant in regard to that part of our lives.
Maybe that was because I was too busy trying not to get caught up in how dinner at Final Cask, the more upscale restaurant in town, with its dim lighting and soft music, actually felt somewhat romantic last night as we talked about our wedding—even if all we’re doing is eloping.
Or that as we shared the cheesecake—wishing it was whiskey cherry cheesecake, a dessert long since retired from the menu, but not our hearts—I couldn’t help but wonder if that was what Lady felt like when sharing that plate of spaghetti and meatballs with Tramp.
All giddy and like a little kid on Christmas morning, never wanting it to end.
“Let’s try this one, see how it fits.”
I step around my sister, hoping the subject change will make her forget her question altogether, and head toward the fitting room. It takes her a second, but she’s hot on my heels, like a puppy scurrying after its owner.
“Kyra, explain yourself,” Lindee demands, pulling the curtain closed.
I huff out a breath, pulling my sweater over my head. I’ve been dreading this part. It’s only fair though. I did drop a major bomb on her in the middle of a department store. Plus, I’m about to ask an even bigger favor of her here in a second.
I launch into an explanation, at least the best I can given my little understanding of the stock market.
It’s more than enough for Lindee though, who like me, is good at her area.
Actually, that’s not true. Lindee is super smart, period.
But when it comes to chemistry, she’s scary smart.
Either way though, when it comes to the stock market, we know enough of the basics to get by, and then hire Davis to handle the rest.
“And you getting married will fix this?”
“Yup. So we’re headed to the courthouse tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?”
I nod again.
“We’re gonna go over there, fill out all the paperwork, and then text everyone to meet us there at two o’clock.”
Twirling around, I look myself up and down in the mirror, my heart squeezing.
The dress is simple, no doubt about it, same as it was on the hanger.
The scoop neck is wide, dipping low enough to show off the top of my breasts, but not too much, leaving plenty for the imagination.
The fitted top hugs my torso like it was cut just for me, the skirt flaring right at my hips. It may be simple, but it’s perfect.
I’m marrying my best friend on a whim…just like I did when I was nine…
“What do you think?” I ask, turning to Lindee.
“Oh, Kyra…”
Her eyes fill with tears, her bottom lip quivering. “You’re getting married…”
I nod. “I am. And I need a witness. State of Tennessee doesn’t have a waiting period, but they do require two witnesses over the age of eighteen. So, be mine?”
“Really?”
“Really. I’d ask Davis, but he’s already the groom, so…” I laugh. “You’re the only one I trust to keep this secret and—”
“Wait. Does that mean you’re not inviting Mikayla? You’re not inviting your own sister to the wedding?”
Did I say that? No…listen, Lindee!
“I am too inviting Mikayla to the wedding. I’m just not giving her advance notice,” I explain, trusting that she’ll understand.
Lindee knows Mikayla as well as I do. “She’ll get the same ‘Surprise! We’re eloping!
Want to join us? Meet us at courthouse in an hour’ text everyone else will get.
Because you know as well as I do that she will try and talk me out of it.
Tell me it’s just another one of my ‘bad ideas.’ But I don’t care. I’m doing it.”
Defiance rises up in me, as my oldest sister’s voice rings out in the back of my mind, chastising me.
I mean it when I say all three of us Murray girls are as different as they come.
I’m the fun-loving, easy-going, up-for-anything child.
Lindee is the brains, happy to be squirreled away playing with her chemistry set.
And Mikayla? She’s the serious one, the perfectionist.
“That is exactly what she’ll say,” Lindee agrees, stepping behind me and adjusting the back of my dress. “We really need to get her laid. Maybe that will loosen her up.”
I snort, quickly covering my mouth with my hand. Lindee, Rylan, and I have made that joke for years—even to her face—and it somehow never gets old. At least to us. Mikayla might be a little tired of hearing it at this point.
“And, I don’t think it’s a bad idea,” Lindee continues, wrapping her arms around my waist and resting her chin on my shoulder. Our eyes meet in the mirror, and I can see the warmth and genuineness in them. “Not if it’s what you really want.”
“It is.”
The answer flows out of me like the water down Trouble Creek—free, easy, and without thought. Same as my answer to Davis yesterday when he called. Because I can’t imagine my life without him, and the idea of being his wife, in whatever form that takes, lights me up like the Fourth of July.
“Then that’s that then. Tomorrow, we’ll stand in front of the judge and get you married to the man you…”
Love…the man I love…
I finish her sentence in my head, but don’t dare say it out loud. By the way Lindee trailed off, she doesn’t either. I can see it in her eyes though; she knows.
Hugging me tighter, Lindee kisses my cheek, then lets go. I smile, ready to make some sort of excuse or change the subject somehow so that there isn’t this semi-awkward silence, with my unspoken truth hanging in the air like a balloon.
“Shoes,” Lindee says, stealing my move. “You need new shoes.”
“I sure do.”
My phone buzzes as I hand the dress to Lindee to put back on the hanger, and I steal a glance at it, slipping my sweater back over my head.
Davis:
Hope dress shopping is going well. Can’t wait for tonight
I look up, catching Lindee’s raised eyebrow on the way.
“Tonight, huh?” she teases.
Turning back to the text, I hope she can’t see my blush. Butterflies swarm in my tummy and I type back, unable to control my silly, giddy grin.
Me too.