Page 78 of Sister of the Bride

He’s standing near the laptop where I just was, and nowhe’sboxed in by the crowd at the bar.

“Go out that door,” I call, mouthing the words dramatically because I’m sure he can’t hear me over the Marvin Gaye that’s coming out of the speaker directly beside him. I point at the patio behind him, and he turns and spots it. I gesture for him to go out and around and mouth that I’ll meet him out back, hoping to god he can read lips.

But when I get back to the entryway, I run directly into a cater waiter desperately dabbing at the white shirt of a man I recognize as a US senator. His white shirt bears a rapidly growing red wine stain, and there’s an empty glass on the floor at his feet.

“I’m so sorry,” the waiter says, and I can hear from the tremble in his voice that he’s near tears.

“Oh, it’s okay, son—just need a little club soda, I think,” the senator replies, and I quickly jump to the rescue.

“Senator, why don’t you come with me, I can get you that club soda,” I say, smiling at the waiter so he knows it’s fine and accidents happen and he’s not fired.

I lead the senator into the kitchen, where I know the backup bar supplies are waiting, and pass him off to the head caterer, who helps him with his shirt.

I try to head toward the garden tofinallymeet Toby, only this time I’m intercepted by the guy from the rental company where we got the extra exterior lighting.

“Fuse blew and the patio lights are out, do you know where the fuse box is?” he asks.

I don’t, but I help him find Frantz or Nora.

Each time I try to find Toby, another small fire crops up. There’s supposed to be one gluten-free, dairy-free, nut-free, keto meal for Polly’s high school friend Ronaldo the marathoner, but it’s missing—I find it in the back of the fridge, looking as bland and sad under its plastic wrap as you’d imagine. The valet runs over a nail and gives one of the guests a flat tire, so I make a quick call to roadside assistance to make sure it’s taken care of before they leave. The photographer can’t find the bathroom. The playlist ends, and Spotify decides Papa Roach is a good choice for cocktail hour—I’ve never run so fast toward a laptop in my life. Polly loses her bouquet, which she’ll need to toss later; I find it next to the toilet in the first-floor bathroom. The flower girl accidentally drinks a glass of champagne punch and looks like she’s going to hurl, and we narrowly avoided another red stain by whisking her off to a potted plant at the edge of the patio. And I have to help Polly pee by hoisting all that delicate lace on her dress. Twice.

Dinner is over and dancing has begun when I finally spot him. He’s sitting at a table near the back of the tent, picking at a filet, looking dejected. And in a flash of inspiration, I know what to do. Because Dr. Nora was right. It’s finally time to bereallyhonest with Toby.

I hustle toward the front of the tent, where Frantz is happily playing DJ. Earlier I managed to convince him that swapping vinyl would be a real chore, so he’s making Spotify playlists on the fly. And doing a pretty great job, I might add. Everyone on the dance floor is bopping boisterously to “The Power of Love” by Huey Lewis and the News.

“Hey, Frantz, can I throw a request at you?”

“Anything for you, Pippin!” Frantz says over the noise from the speakers. I’ve never seen a man look so happy at a wedding before.

“I need a little Billy Joel action,” I say.

The opening notes of “We Didn’t Start the Fire” explode across the dance floor, and despite the fact that it’s an odd choice for a wedding reception and not an easy song to dance to, the crowd goes wild. Turns out an awful lot of people know an awful lot of lyrics to that song.

I make my way back to Toby, who has obviously noticed the odd song choice, and as soon as he spots me, he puts it all together. The night in the Public Garden. The violinist playing Billy Joel. He breaks into a wide grin.

“Wanna dance?” I ask, holding out a hand.

Toby rises from his chair, takes my hand, and immediately pulls me into a holding-on-for-dear-life kind of hug. “I haven’t heard from you all day. I was so worried,” he says into my hair. “You disappeared, and I thought maybe you were freaking out.”

“First of all, I didn’t disappear! I texted you,” I say. “But then I left my phone at your house, and it turns out I don’t have your number memorized, so I couldn’t call to ask you to bring it over. I need to memorize it, by the way, because I should really know my best friend’s phone number, to say nothing of my boyfriend. But I figured it wasn’t a big deal because I’d see you here.”

Toby looks confused. “I never got a text from you.”

NowI’mconfused. “You didn’t?”

Toby pulls out his phone and shows me that the last thing I texted him was my response to his cheesy dad joke this morning when we were in bed. What I wouldn’t give to be back there right now.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry,” I say. I’msureI wrote a text, but now I’m not entirely sure that I actuallysentit. “You didn’t see my phone on your bed?”

“No, all I saw was that you were gone. I thought maybe you’d run again,” he says. And now he looks sheepish, nervously scratching at the curls at the nape of his neck. “Especially after I ran into Jen at my place and remembered our brunch.”

“I mean, that was a surprise. Especially the part about how she’s planning to move here,” I say. “I worried that maybe you only broke up with her because she lived across the country and that you’d get back together now that she doesn’t, but—”

Toby pulls back and looks at me, laughing. “I didn’t break up with Jen because I moved,” he says. “I broke up with Jen because she wanted to get married and I didn’t.”

I couldn’t be more shocked if Billy Joel himself walked into this reception to give a private concert. Jen wanted a proposal? That was a conversation they had? “You didn’t? Want to get married?”

“Not to her,” Toby says, and I swear my heart bottoms out in my shoes. “Pippin, I’ve been in love with you for so long I don’t think I remembernotbeing in love with you.”

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