Page 27 of Mr. Swoony

My eyes shift to his mom again. She’s sitting next to his grandma. All prim and proper, back straight, ankles crossed and tucked under the chair, her hands clasped in her lap. Was she once a vibrant woman who was pushed down by her husband’s mother? Is that going to be me in twenty-five years?

I need to say something.

Say something.

But there’s been so much money spent.

So much time arranging everything.

Important people have taken time out of their busy schedules to be here.

They’ve bought presents.

There’s been an engagement party, a wedding shower, a bachelorette party.

It will be so embarrassing for everyone involved if I put a stop to this.

Everyone’s expectations weigh down on my shoulders until I feel as though I want to scream.

The officiant asks whether anyone objects to this union, and I open my mouth to put an end to this, but the church doors burst open. Everyone turns in the direction of light pouring in at the end of the aisle.

Conor.

He bends over and heaves for breath before raising his hand.

He searches me out, and when our eyes lock, a smile creeps up his lips, wrapping around his face as though I’m his sunshine after a destructive storm. “I object!”

Eleven

Conor

“Where the fuck are we going?” Tweetie asks.

“You wouldn’t understand,” Alvin says, elbowing Simon, who elbows Theodore. I guess none of them are going to tell Tweetie.

I sure as shit am not going to say anything because he’ll stop me for sure, the commitment-phobe he is. He wouldn’t understand.

“You didn’t have to come,” Simon adds.

“We had this handled,” Theo says, the three of them having some nonverbal communication with one another. They’re like creepy triplets or something.

It’s almost comical seeing Tweetie in the dark. “What the fuck? Winnetka? I’d hoped we were heading to a bar crawl or something. And why is Conor shitfaced?”

Tweetie turns around from the front seat of the Uber XL, but all three of the chipmunks shrug. He blows out a breath. I know he’ll only take being out of the loop for so long, but our driver asks him if he’s Tweetie Sorenson and if I’m Conor Nilsen, which retargets his attention.

“Yeah. You a fan, or are you going to criticize us?”

Leave it to Tweetie.

“I know the Cup is yours this year,” the driver says. “Last year was a hard break, but that first line is too good not to come through this year.”

“Fuck yeah, we are,” Tweetie says, looking over his shoulder. “And we got one helluva goalie.”

The driver looks through the rearview mirror at me. “You are a wall, man.”

“That’s why he’s got his nickname.” Tweetie winks at me. “Another brick in the wall.”

“I thought it was from your pinkie?” Theo asks.

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