by Ember Leigh
It’s an apology for pushing—not for the other cryptic thing he said, which conjured some Ouija-board-style demons out of my dad.
“Hey, it’s fine,” he says, running a hand through his Lake Erie-drenched tresses. “But I’m pretty sure we fucked up the fishing for the rest of the day. Might as well call it, boys.”
I splash some lake water on my face before I haul myself back onto the bench. Everyone is quiet and tense as Grayson wrings out his clothes. Some of the other fisherman are looking our way, shaking their heads. But my unexpected puke therapy has bestowed some clarity upon me. I look between the two men, squinting.
“When are you two going to get over this shit?”
A stunned silence ripples across the boat, but it only prompts me to continue.
“I don’t even know what happened or why it still matters, but now seems like as good a time as ever to just sit down and hash it out,” I say. Wow, that projectile cocktail really did cleanse me. “This might be the only chance to save this wedding that my fiancée is slowly becoming less and less excited about because of this bullshit.”
Jack crumples at that.
“Son—” my dad begins.
“She should be excited,” Jack says at the same time. “And it’s going to be a great wedding.” He starts the engine again. My brothers make quick work of putting away the lines and reels. “We just know better than to try to fix something that can’t be fixed.”
“Because you two have ever tried?” I ask, looking at my dad.
He looks wearier than I’ve ever seen him. “It’s not worth trying.”
“That’s the spirit,” I mutter, grabbing for my reel.
We’ve accomplished something today, though it’s the opposite of what I intended.
Instead of bringing our fathers together, I’ve revealed that the rift between them is deeper than anyone imagined.
Chapter 5
KINSLEY
It’s Thursday, finally. It means a lot of things—like moving into our cute lakefront rental house which thankfully does not smell like plumbing issues. Also, there’s only one day until the rehearsal. And maybe most importantly: it’s my final dress fitting.
My friend Lena has flown in from San Diego. She quit E-bid not long after I was fired, which meant that we quickly roped her into the fold at Wizard Initiatives. Our friendship has been going strong and steady ever since. On today’s docket is a girl’s day: Lena, Hazel, my mother, and I, convening upon the luxurious Necessary Needles bridal shop in downtown Bayshore for the final fitting and some complementary beverages.
I want today to be as relaxed as possible, especially since I’m still reeling from what Connor told me happened yesterday morning on the lake. I haven’t talked to my parents about it. And honestly, I’m not sure if I should just pretend that my fiancé didn’t puke off the side of my dad’s fishing boat. Is that what pre-wedding etiquette dictates? There is no handbook for this sort of thing, at least not one that Emily Post has publicly shared (and yes, I checked).
“Oooh, it feels so nice in here,” Hazel says as we breeze into the cool interior of Necessary Needles. It’s excessively hot today, so the cool air and luxury before us is very welcome. It’s part showroom for a limited collection of wedding dresses, part appointment-only alterations and fittings. Two long sofas line the mirrored area I am led to by the Necessary Needler herself, Nancy. Lena relaxes into one of the cream-colored couches, her jet-black bob contrasting with the couch. My mom and Hazel sink into the other. Everyone sighs with relief as Nancy returns to the fitting area with a tray of champagne flutes and a cheese platter.
“This is the life,” Lena says, kicking up her feet.
“I like to make dress fittings fun,” Nancy oozes as she passes around the champagne. I am already standing on the fitting podium, a full two feet above the ground and on display, even though I’m still dressed in my street clothes.
“This is exactly the sort of fun I like to have,” I tell her, taking a grateful sip. It took me all of yesterday to recover from our cocktail party; I’m lucky I hadn’t been invited on the men’s fishing trip, because otherwise there would have been two of us doubled over the edge, which I know Emily Post absolutely would not have suggestions for in her books.
Once drinks are served and my audience is happily munching on cheese cubes, Nancy calls me away from the podium and into the dressing room, where my wedding dress is waiting.
And yes, I get a little emotional when I see it again. It’s been a while. And well, the champagne hit me fast. I skipped breakfast and almost skipped lunch during my hectic day thus far. So I’m surprised and maybe a little embarrassed when a tear slips out.
“Wow. Hi. There she is.” I finger the lace edge of my bodice. “I forgot how pretty she was.”
“It’s a gorgeous dress,” Nancy reassures me. “And I can’t wait to see how the alterations work. Just let me know when you need me to zip you up.” She leaves me to my own devices, and I smile at my watery reflection in the mirror while I shed my clothes and step into the dress. I pause there, a hand on my chest, looking myself up and down. Is this really happening? I’m getting married in two days. To Connor Daly. The man who stole my heart, changed my life, and puked off my dad’s boat during a skirmish.
I’ve never loved that man more than in this exact moment.
I blink away more tears, fanning my face before calling to Nancy to zip me. She looks supremely pleased when she pulls the curtain aside, beaming at me in the way only a proud mother or accomplished seamstress can. I follow her out of the dressing room like this is the wedding itself. When I round the corner, the three women gasp in unison.
“Kinsley!” Lena screeches. “You look amazing!”
“That dress,” Hazel says, a hand to her chest, “is gorgeous.”
“Oh, honey.” My mom’s chin is trembling, and she sweeps to her feet. At least I’m not the only one crying now. She pulls me into a hug, and I’m yet again at a loss for what to do in this situation. Emily Post, where the fuck are you? I feel like sobbing in my mother’s arms during the dress fitting is not entirely appropriate, but who knows—maybe Nancy sees this daily.
“I love it,” I say, looking down at myself once my mom has slipped back into her seat. I reach for my champagne and down the rest in one gulp. “I could not love a dress more, in fact.”
Lena and Hazel coo over the details—the plunging back, the satin train, the lace-up corset style bodice complete with feathers, lace, and beads. Nancy guides me back to the podium and positions me just so, staring at my reflection in the angled mirrors in front of of us. Then she notices the state of our champagne flutes.
“Are we ready for seconds?” she asks.
“Yes!” Lena says triumphantly, her glass in the air.
While Nancy whisks away our empties, I twirl back and forth on the podium, admiring my reflection. “Mom, take some pictures on my phone, will you?”
“Of course, honey.” She rummages through my purse, producing my phone a moment later. She tuts lovingly as she takes photos from all possible angles. When Nancy returns with more champagne, everyone cheers. I hold my newly refilled flute in one hand while Nancy gets to work on the last-minute adjustments.
“Saturday is going to be so amazing, I can feel it already,” Hazel says.
“You think so?” I ask, meaning it to be lighthearted. But too late I realize the fear beneath my own question. It’s more than just pre-wedding jitters. It’s entire family calamities.
“Of course,” Hazel says. “With you two getting married, and this dress involved, it can only be a fairytale.”
“Says the woman who actually had the fairytale wedding,” I tease her. To Lena, I say, “You should have seen her wedding this past spring. It was at the Bayshore Theatre and totally gorgeous. She had a mauve wedding dress, even.”
“It fit the theme better,” Hazel says.
Lena and Hazel talk a little bit about the particulars of the wedding—Lena tends toward
all things dark and macabre, so Hazel’s wedding gives her hope she can pull off something similar someday—while I watch Nancy gather fabric and take measurements. My mom sinks into her phone, leaving me thinking back on what I meant by my comment.
I’m not looking forward to Saturday.
The thought ripples through me like an oil slick. Unpleasant, thick, hard to get rid of. But it’s true: I’m not looking forward to my own wedding. I’m a nervous wreck, in fact, and the closer we get to the big day, the more our families prove that they cannot be trusted around one another.
If my dad could push Grayson off a fishing boat on Wednesday, what will our families be capable of come Saturday?
I try to stuff the anxieties back into the Pandora’s box they sprang from, but it’s not easy. Not when I’m in this dress, surrounded by all the trappings of a wedding, watching Nancy fuss over my bodice. I down the rest of my champagne. The alcohol buzzes through my veins.
Hazel and Lena start talking about Grayson after a little bit, and it’s at that point my buzz has transformed into drunkenness, kind of like the way Peter Parker turns into Spiderman.
“Hazel,” I blurt. “Be honest with me. Grayson’s not upset about what happened yesterday, is he?”
Hazel’s eyes go wide, and I realize I’ve broken a self-imposed rule: Do not talk about the awkward family shit in mixed company. But, well, too late.
“He’s fine,” Hazel reassures me.
“No hard feelings? For real?”
“Girl, I promise you.” Hazel bats away the suggestion. “He told me when he got home that he’d been wanting one last dip in the lake anyway.”
Lena snorts. “Oh my God. What happened?”
Tension stretches across the fitting room. My mom dips her head, and I can tell it’s up to me to answer this one. “My dad pushed him into the lake during the men’s fishing trip yesterday.”
“Accidentally,” my mom adds.
“Yes, accidentally,” I clarify. “Because really he didn’t want to push Grayson into the lake. He wanted to punch their dad in the face.”
“Kinsley,” my mom warns in a low voice.
I scoff, trying to muster a laugh that says oh come on guys, it’s fine but instead, I sound manic. “Well, it’s true.”
“Why would your dad want to punch their dad?” Lena asks with a laugh. And bless her heart. She has no idea. She probably thinks the answer will be something funny, like a dispute over a beer koozie. Opposing football teams. Or maybe even which style of BBQ is supreme.
Now both Hazel and my mother look supremely uncomfortable about how to proceed. A heavy silence emerges as we all grapple with where to begin the story. Once again, this explanation is left up to me. And I’m drunk enough to go there.
“In a nutshell?” I begin, smoothing my hands over the satiny fabric of my wedding dress. “Because of some bullshit.”
Hazel laughs nervously. I can tell my mom is gearing up to give her side of things.
“All we need to say—” Mom begins.
“Is that my mom hates Connor’s mom because thirty-some years ago, my future mother-in-law tried to fleece my dad for money after claiming Dominic was a Cabana instead of a Daly.”
Lena blinks rapidly, as though struggling to follow the circuitous path I laid out there. Hazel drags her middle finger back and forth over a brow. I just stare at all of them with a look that says Am I wrong?
“Kinsley, was that necessary?” Mom asks in a withering tone.
“She asked. I told her.”
“I shouldn’t have asked,” Lena says. “I didn’t realize—”
“You didn’t know, and it’s fine,” I tell her. “I’m sick of this shit being buried and ignored. Do we have any more champagne?”
“Why don’t you have a snack, Kins?” Hazel suggests.
“Yeah, I’m starving.”
“I have sandwiches,” Nancy offers suddenly, reminding me she’s been here the whole time, quietly absorbing our drama. While she’s gone in the back room, my mom is shaking her head, staring off into the distance.
“It’s some Jerry Springer shit,” I go on. “And you know what would be great? If they could get over it already.”
Mom’s outright glaring at me now, but her face softens when she turns to Lena and Hazel. “What Kinsley is trying to say is that it’s just a very old wound that has never properly healed.” To Hazel specifically, she says, “And as you can attest, it has never gotten in the way of our relationships with the rest of the Daly family members.”
I scoff loudly. Drunkenly. “Oh, right. Like you guys are so warm with Connor.” This is a truth-telling geyser now, a no-holds-barred confess-a-thon. I can’t stop it. And I don’t want to, either.
“Honey, we have done our best. There are plenty of families who would do far less and call it a day.”
“Well that’s not what Connor and I want for our lives. Two openly hostile sets of parents calling it their best effort.” Now I’m feeling saucy but also sad. Nancy comes back out with a tray of tiny sandwiches, and I head toward her.
“Where’s your restroom?”
“Back there, honey,” she says, gesturing down the hallway she just came from. I scoop up three tiny sandwiches and follow to where she pointed. I gobble one sandwich down in front of the bathroom door, and my rumbling stomach reminds me how much I needed that. I stand there, shaking my head and chewing, before heading for the second sandwich. I don’t even know what I’m eating—I’m just that level of starving where anything remotely nutritious tastes like the most amazing recipe ever. I inspect the last sandwich in my hand as I inhale the second one. Looks like sliced ham, white bread, and mustard. Genius. Somebody should call Gordon Ramsay and let him know about this amazing combination. I down the third with abandon.
After I’ve taken my time-out, I feel slightly recuperated. I never had to pee to begin with, I just needed to compose myself. So I return to the fitting area, feeling leveled out and more clear-headed.
As soon as I step toward the podium, my mom gasps so loud it sends a chill down my spine. She points to me, her eyes saucer-wide.
“Kinsley!”
Nancy mutters a swear word and darts away. Hazel clamps a hand over her mouth and Lena just watches me like she’s seen a ghost.
“What is it?” I demand, twisting to find Nancy. “What happened?”
“You—you got—” Lena starts.
“Mustard! On your wedding dress!” Mom finishes.
The words don’t entirely make sense. I look down at myself, and that’s when I spot the stadium mustard–colored blob. My mouth parts yet I can’t make a noise, though on the inside I’m screaming.
“I can fix this!” Nancy trills, rushing back out to the fitting area. “I have exactly what we need.”
A high-pitched laugh rolls out of me. This is fine. Everything is fine. “Wow, that was an oopsie, huh?”
Nancy grimaces as she sets to work delicately wiping away the mustard, followed by spraying me down with something in an unlabeled bottle. “Quite an oopsie.”
As I watch her work the stain over, all of the stress of the week descends upon me. And on top of it all? I just ruined my wedding dress.
A sob hitches in my throat, and then the tears come. I cover my face with my hands, feeling everything at once. Hopeless. Pathetic. Ridiculous. All the bad things, swirled into a melting sundae and poured over my head. My mom is at my side instantly.
“Honey,” she begins, her tone firm and reassuring. “We will get this stain out. Look at how much Nancy has helped already.”
“You won’t be able to even see it after she’s done,” Hazel adds.
“I’m the expert, my dear, I promise!” Nancy quips as she keeps working amid the bride-to-be meltdown.
But it’s not just the dress, though that is definitely the cherry on top of my melting, disgusting sundae. I just can’t stop crying long enough to say that.
“Your wedding is going to be perfect, honey,” my mom says,
rubbing my back. “Nancy will fix this stain, and you will be the image of perfection on your big day.”
I sniffle, finding a break in my tears to blurt out, “It will never be perfect.”
“Honey, why would you say that?”
This isn’t the champagne talking. This is the repressed stress of years of inter-family bitterness. The mounting tension of unresolved drama finally coming to a Vesuvius-style finale.
“How can it be perfect?” I ask her, wiping away some tears. “It’s impossible when you hate my future husband, and my future mother-in-law hates me. And maybe you don’t hate him, but you’ve hated his family, and that still hurts. Because they are good people, and we are good people. And we deserve to be together and happy. But this bullshit you guys bring along is only ever going to be a dark cloud over all of us. You guys think you can contain it and act like it stays on the sidelines, well…not anymore. Because I’m about to be a Daly, mom. And what then?” I toss my arms out to the side. Poor Nancy. I bet she never expected the level ten drama today. Hell, either did I.
“Honey, I have never hated Connor, and I promise you—” Mom begins softly.
“I’m not upset about the dress,” I tell her. “Honestly, I could go get married in a mustard bottle, with my dress shredded by cougars, and I wouldn’t even care. As long as these two families make the fuck up, I don’t care. I will recite my vows draped in marshmallows if I have to.”
“Atta girl,” Lena says. “Marshmallows.”
Once that’s out of me, I take a cleansing breath. “Holy shit. Sorry Nancy. This got weird.”
She smirks up at me, her eyes glinting with understanding. “My dear, that’s not even close to the worst I’ve seen in here. And besides, you’re fighting for family. That’s not usually what starts the arguments in these parts.”
However noble the fight feels, I still don’t trust that I’ll win in the end.
Chapter 6
CONNOR
“Ohhh, finally.” Kinsley’s appreciative sigh brings a smile to my face. She stretches out on the lounge chair, tucked between me and Lena on the deck of our rental house.
