Page 40 of Sister of the Bride

But I wasn’t kidding about this dress cutting off blood flow to my brain. With my tits hiked up to the heavens, I can barely think, so I just smile.

“Sure, of course,” I say, reaching over to rub his arm just above where mine is tucked into it. “Let’s go get drunk and eat lobster.”

Toby smiles, the first genuine one I’ve seen since I arrived at his house. Which is a long time for Toby to go without smiling.

“Yes, please,” he says. He holds out his arm to usher me through the open door, and we step into the hotel, leaving that conversation, and probably others, behind us.

Chapter17

Toby

What do a tick and the Eiffel Tower have in common?

Pippin

Don’t do this …

Toby

They’re both Paris sites!

Pippin

I’m going to reach over and smack you with this phone

Four glasses of champagne, a lobster tail, a filet mignon, and the most decadent parmesan mashed potatoes I’ve ever put into my mouth later, I think we’ve more than gotten our money’s worth out of these free tickets. This gala is celebrating a multimillion-dollar gift the hospital received to fund cancer treatments, I’ve finally discovered.

The room is cavernous and ornate, the lights artfully dimmed, the linens a tasteful combination of ivory and champagne. A jazz band has been playing quietly for most of the evening, and while there’s a small dance floor set up in front of the low stage, only a few elderly couples have taken advantage of it. This doesn’t seem like aget downkind of crowd, for which I’m grateful, because dancing is not totally my thing. And dancing in four-inch heels and a sex dress? Yeah, not happening. I make a mental note that my maid of honor dress is going to need more leg room than this if I’m going to help pull off Polly and Mackenzie’s reception properly.

Speaking of the wedding, I take out my phone and aim it at the floral centerpiece. It’s a gorgeous blend of blue hydrangeas and pink peonies, and while those flowers definitely won’t be in season come October, the square glass vase with the gold rim would fit well with Polly’s industrial boho theme…I think.

“What are you doing?” Toby asks. He leans in close to my ear, and the warmth of his breath raises goose bumps along my neck. The food and champagne seem to have helped him unwind from the scene with his mom.

“Polly might like these,” I say, checking to make sure I got a good shot in the dim light of the ballroom. I don’t want to turn on the flash and draw attention. “You know, for the wedding.”

Toby nods, and his curls bounce, having freed themselves slightly from the styling gel. His hair has always had a mind of its own, and now it falls roguishly over his eyes. “Ah, so you’ve decided to get on board with the wedding? Or did your addiction to planning things just finally take over?”

“I’ve always been on board with the wedding,” I say, giving him a look, but he just volleys back a cocked eyebrow. “Thewedding. The marriage I’m still a little less sure about.”

“I don’t think you get one without the other,” Toby replies.

“I know, I know. I just need to figure Mackenzie out. Polly is clearly smitten, so there must besomethingin there that’s interesting. But so far she just seems like an uptight businessbot.”

“Well, you’ve got three and a half months to get to know her,” Toby says. “Better embody your best Nancy Drew and solve that mystery.”

“I think I’m more of a Veronica Mars, marshmallow,” I say. “And I’m working on it.”

At the front of the ballroom, on a raised stage surrounded by black and champagne bunting, a stagehand in black with one of those pop star monitors in his ear steps out and sets up a mic stand and a stool, studiously adjusting them.

Toby leans in, his voice lowered so his words go only in my ear, and not to the six strangers picking at their plates at our table. “Okay, so I think there are about to be some awards and a lot of really long, really boring speeches.”

“Wow, fun night you’ve planned,” I say.

“I’m just saying, if we want to slip out, this it might be our only chance.”

An acoustic guitar on a stand has appeared next to the stool, which can only mean that some very earnest singer/songwriter shit is about to happen. No thank you. The only thing I hate more than earnest singer/songwriter shit is improv of any level, with slam poetry performed by white teenagers coming in at a close third. Toby knows this about me, of course, which is why he’s also gesturing to the stage with his head. Man, why does anyone go to things like this with anyone other than their best friend?

“Yeah, I think it’s time to make a quick exit,” I say.

---