And despite my countless texts and voice messages, J.T. won’t talk to me either. I could easily burst into a fit of regretful tears right now, but Hope’s delicate state has me swallowing my own heartache and instead focusing on getting her through this day without any additional drama.

  Just let us survive this freaking day . . .

  “Ugh. You’ve got something weird going on back here. Sit down. I need to fix it.” Looking annoyed, Jasmine, the hairdresser, drags me back to the salon chair on the other side of the room. She fusses with something at the back of my head, then douses me with another layer of Aqua Net. “There we go.” She steps back to evaluate her work. “Now you’re good. Remind me of your count . . .”

  “Thirty-seven.”

  “Now it’s thirty-eight.”

  “Thirty-eight. Got it.”

  Jasmine insisted we all know the exact number of bobby pins used to secure our twists and curls so we could be sure to remove every single one before we climb into bed at the end of the day. I’d grumble at having to fish out thirty-eight if I hadn’t heard that Hope’s count was seventy-four. Along with Mom’s enviable curves, she also inherited the thick-hair genes.

  I take in my reflection as I rise out of the chair: The pink dress fits well but does little for my figure—not that there’s much figure to work with—and though I feel like a sheet of drywall that’s been spackled and primed, the makeup artist did manage to cover up the dark bags I came in with, so I consider that a win. I’m not so sure about the halo of pale-pink flowers pinned to my head, but they could withstand a category 5 at this point, so I’m stuck with them whether I like them or not. All in all, I’d say I’m a perfectly respectable-looking attendant, as are the other girls (who are currently sucking back mimosas while they update their posts with prewedding pictures), while Hope, on the other hand, is a true vision in her ivory gown. She mentioned to me a few days ago—when she was still talking to me—that she had to ask the seamstress to let it out some in the midsection, but you wouldn’t know it by looking at her. She’s every bit the voluptuous Botticelli beauty she’s always been, and that baby secretly growing inside her provides an angelic glow no makeup artist could ever reproduce.

  Tammy, the wedding planner, suddenly charges into the room, clipboard in hand, and cries out, “Who’s ready to get married?”

  “I am!” Hope crows, sounding like the epitome of an excited bride.

  “Damn straight you are,” Meghan chirps back, her glass raised in a salute.

  “Well, I should think so. You’re absolutely stunning,” Tammy says, air-kissing Hope’s cheeks. “All of you are. And all the boys are looking pretty sharp, too, although we did have one little hiccup with Charlie’s ascot . . .”

  Charlie is Whitman’s cousin / best man, who will be escorting me up the aisle at the conclusion of the ceremony. He’s sweet—and cute as a bug with schoolboy dimples—but sadly is exactly my height. That wasn’t an issue last night when I was wearing flats, but now that I’m in three-inch heels, I’m starting to think maybe it could be.

  “What happened to Charlie’s ascot?” Mom suddenly appears in the doorway.

  It’s the first time we’ve seen her today . . . the first time I’ve seen her since my little chat with Dad. I had hoped she would look different to me somehow, more like the vulnerable person Dad said she was, but as I see her now—the epitome of self-confidence in her silver, tea-length dress and coiffed hair—I can’t help but think he’s mistaken. There’s no way that a lifetime of insecurity is hidden beneath all that chiffon and lace.

  “Oh, there was just a little tear in the fabric,” Tammy says easily while she kneels to fiddle with the buttons on Hope’s bustle. “I just had to put in a few quick stitches, but it’s looking good now. Can you believe how gorgeous all of these women are?” she asks, wisely changing the subject. “Just look at them. And your baby girl . . . she’s stunning, isn’t she?”

  “Yeah she is!” Harper cries out, and Meghan adds, “The most beautiful bride ever!”

  Hope beams at the attention from her giggly friends, while that ridiculous smile slowly returns to Mom’s face, though this time it’s accompanied by a strange twitch of her lower lip.

  Without even looking at me, Mom says, “Yes, you’re all gorgeous. Especially you, sweetheart.” She looks directly at Hope, smile spreading, lip twitch deepening. “You are stunning. You’re going to take Whitman’s breath away.”

  Hope adopts a disturbed smile of her own and says, “Aww, thanks, Mom. You look beautiful too.”

  My stomach wrenches.

  Apparently she also inherited the bullshit gene . . .

  “All right. I think you’re about as perfect as any bride can be,” Tammy says to Hope. “Let me just get a quick peek at the rest of you.” From where she stands in the center of the room, she takes a visual inventory of me, Meghan, and Harper. She nods with approval, then says, “All righty, all that’s left to do is walk down the aisle.”

  She motions for Mom, me, and the other bridesmaids to follow her out into the hallway, where we’ll assemble with the rest of the family and bridal party, just as we rehearsed yesterday, but before we’re able to, Mom says, “I just need a quick minute with my daughters, if that’s okay . . .”

  Tammy glances down at her watch but astutely doesn’t say anything about the time. “Yes, of course.”

  Mom ushers Hope and me to the corner of the room by our elbows, like children caught swiping candy from the jar. In a clipped voice she says, “Clearly this weekend has taken an unexpected turn”—her gaze darts to Hope’s belly—“but today is not the time or place to discuss it.” The twitch deepens. “There are two hundred and eighteen people in that chapel, and we’re not about to make a spectacle of ourselves.” Now the right side of her mouth is joining in. Twitch. Twitch. Twitch. Like little jackhammers are tucked up under her lips. “We’ve worked too hard to put this wedding together to let it fall apart now. Everyone just put on your best smile”—twitch, twitch, twitch—“and get through this day looking like the capable and lovely Huntress women we are, understood?”

  It’s the worst pep talk in history, but it still motivates Hope to say, “Absolutely.”

  Mom turns to me, her lips now in full seizure mode.

  I cringe, half expecting her head to start spinning. “Okay.”

  “Good. Then let’s have a wedding.” With a satisfied nod, she turns to leave but casts a quick glance over her shoulder and says, “You both do look beautiful,” before she stalks out of the room.

  “What the hell was that lip twitch?”

  “I don’t know . . .” Hope mutters absently, clearly unaware that she’s actually talking to me.

  I take advantage of her befuddled state and, with a gentle touch to her arm, say, “Are you feeling okay?”

  “What?”

  “Are you feeling okay? I saw that your blood pressure was climbing again—”

  “Ugh, stop.” She yanks her arm away from me. “You don’t get to ask me how I am.”

  “Hope, please. I’m worried about you—”

  “No. You made it perfectly clear last night that you don’t care about me—” She winces.

  “What? What’s wrong? What hurts?”

  “Nothing.” She pinches her eyes tight and inhales a deep breath through gritted teeth. “I’m fine. It’s just a little gas.”

  “Hope—”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Sweetie, please just let me check you out real quick—”

  “I said I’m fine,” she growls. “Just do like Mom said and walk down the damn aisle already.”

  Despite the worry now rattling my veins, I comply with a reluctant nod, because agitating her any more won’t help the situation. I head out into the hallway, where the rest of the bridal party is assembled. Tammy was right. The boys do look nice in their tailed suits and ascots. My throat starts to swell again. J.T. looked so good in his suit . . .

  “Hey, Goose.” Dad comes in from my side and gives me a hug. “How are you feeling today?”

  “Don’t ask.”

  “Well, you look beautiful.”

  “Thanks. You’re not too bad yourself.” I tap the rose pinned to his lapel.

  “How’s the bride holding up?”

  “She says she’s fine, but I have other thoughts.”

  “The baby?”

  I nod. “I’m worried about her blood pressure, but she won’t let me check her out.”

  “Okay, it’s go time, people!” Tammy suddenly calls.

  “I’ll talk to her,” Dad assures me while giving my arm a gentle squeeze. “Maybe she just needs a few minutes of quiet.”

  “Yeah, maybe,” I say, even though my gut is screaming otherwise.

  “Mac, I need you up here, please,” Tammy orders.

  “Better get going, Goose. And don’t worry about your fella. I’m sure he’ll turn up. I’ve got a good feeling.”

  I sigh. I wish I did . . . Tammy hands out the bouquets—fresh-cut pastel roses tied together with silken, ivory-colored ribbons—and we take our positions, me at the front of the pack, alone, with Meghan and Harper linking arms with their respective groomsmen behind me.

  “Here we go . . . ,” Harper chirps.

  “Dun, dun, duunnnn,” Brandon, her groomsman, singsongs from beside her.

  “Remember, chin and eyes forward,” Tammy instructs me while fussing with my hair one last time. “And smile. A big beautiful smile like your mom’s.”

  I roll my eyes. Sure thing, Tammy.

  She opens one of the big wooden doors that leads into the chapel. Today the pew ends are adorned with romantic sprigs of ivy and rosebuds and filled with happy, well-dressed guests. As expected, it’s a lovely event. The stringed quartet segues from the unfamiliar piece they’ve been playing to the recognizable Pachelbel’s Canon, prompting all heads to turn toward us.

  “And now you’re walking . . . ,” Tammy instructs from behind the door.

  I swallow back my nerves, force out a smile, and begin my solo march down the aisle. My cheeks flush hot as all the attention in the room settles on me. I do my best to ignore their wide eyes and whispered greetings and instead keep my attention fixed up front—on Whitman, Charlie, and Reverend Howell—but Dad’s hopeful words, Don’t worry about your fella. I’m sure he’ll turn up, start gnawing on my brain, and I find myself wondering if maybe he’s right. As subtly as possible, I survey the bride’s side, hoping to see my fella blended into the crowd . . . I don’t. The only person who catches my attention is my cousin David. He’s on the exterior aisle about halfway down, scowling at me. My eyes narrow in confusion until I see that Aunt Ginn is sitting beside him.

  Shit.

  He was not supposed to be the one babysitting . . .

  I offer him my most apologetic look, then recommit my attention back to the pulpit. Despite my mood, a genuine smile tickles my lips as I see Whitman fidgeting with schoolboy excitement. My heart softens with gratitude—and a bit of disappointment. Hope found herself a good one.

  So did I . . .

  “You look great,” Whitman mutters as I take my position on the step.

  “And really tall,” Charlie adds.

  Reverend Howell chuckles under his breath.

  Stifling a giggle of my own, I turn my attention back toward the doors but stop short when I see that, from her front-row seat, Mom is staring at me rather than the rest of the processional. She blots her eyes with a tissue and offers me a smile that looks even stranger than usual thanks to the still-present lip twitch—an involuntary movement, I’ve determined, that comes from trying to restrain her anger. Clearly, she’s just realized how much taller I am than Charlie and how unbalanced we’re going to look when we’re walking up the aisle.

  I blow out an exhausted breath and watch as Harper and Brandon, then Meghan and Chad, make their ways down the aisle; their smiles are wide, their strides confident, just as Tammy instructed. Whitman offers each of the girls the same kind greeting he did me as they take their positions on my right.

  “How’s she doing?” I whisper to Harper, who’s standing nearest me.

  “So great.”

  I smile. Even though she’s oblivious to the real meaning behind my question, I take her enthusiasm as a good sign. Hope is doing great. Everything’s going to be fine . . .

  “You ready for this, man?” Charlie mutters to Whitman.

  “Oh yeah,” he whispers back to him. “More than ready.”

  The musicians slowly transition into the traditional wedding march, prompting Meghan to squeal and say, “Here we go . . .”

  “Enjoy your last breaths of freedom,” Charlie teases.

  My heart starts thundering with the same palpable anticipation that’s humming through the room as the doors swing open and Dad and Hope appear in front of us.

  “My god . . . ,” Whitman mutters as he takes in his bride for the first time.

  My heart swells at the reverence in his voice.

  Yeah, she got a good one . . .

  Dad is all prideful grins and stifled tears as they take their first step down the aisle. I glance at Mom and see that she’s already reaching for another tissue. I can’t see her mouth to confirm, but I can’t imagine her lip is twitching anymore. What could she possibly find wrong with this perfect image?

  Hope’s smile, already as radiant as the sun after a summer storm, seems to grow bigger and brighter as they pass the first row of pews, then the second—

  “Aaaaaaagh!” She lets out an agonized wail and falls to her knees.

  My breath catches.

  I know that sound too well . . .

  A collective gasp explodes through the chapel as Dad kneels next to her, saying, “Sweetie, what’s wrong? What’s wrong?”

  “The baby . . . ,” Whitman mutters.

  “Baby?” Mrs. Gentry gasps, then turns to her husband, who looks as stupefied as she does.

  Whitman and I exchange a quick glance and then leap off the stage and race up the aisle, while Mom scrambles out of her seat, tearing away the floral adornments hanging across her pew, crying, “Mackenzie, help her! Please, god, help her, and the baby!” from behind us.

  The word baby spreads through the chapel like wildfire, inciting the guests to gather on the interior aisles for a better look at what’s going on. Ignoring their curiosity, I drop down onto the floor next to Hope. “Sweetie, what’s going on? What are you feeling?”

  “Aaaagh! It hurts—”

  “I know it does—”

  “It hurts so bad, Mac.” She pounds the floor with her fist. “And I’m wet—” She winces beneath the tears streaming down her cheeks. “I’m wet! Everything’s wet. My water broke!”

  Contrary to her assessment, being wet doesn’t necessarily mean her water broke—it’s possible she just lost control of her bladder. And the pain could very well be Braxton-Hicks and not active labor. That’s what I’m hoping for, anyway.

  “What’s wrong?” Whitman pleads.

  “I don’t know yet . . .”

  Because she’s on all fours, I reach under her and gather up the dress so I can get a look at the floor below. Dammit. The puddle has a familiar pinkish hue to it.

  I sit back on my haunches and quickly formulate my plan.

  “Hope, I need to examine you to see if you’re dilated, okay?”

  Teeth clenched in pain, she’s only able to nod her response.

  “Dad, you and Mr. Gentry need to clear everybody out of the back rows; push them up to the front.”

  I’m not at all comfortable moving her at this point, so the least we can do is offer her a little privacy. These are not the kind of wedding photos you want showing up on your Facebook feed.

  “Right,” Dad says.

  “Let’s go, people. Move to the front!” Mr. Gentry steps right into action.

  “What can I do?” Mom cries helplessly.

  Truth be told, I’m the only one who can actually do anything right now, but the anguish on her face suggests she needs a purpose, or she’s going to lose her mind.

  “You’re going to sit behind her so she doesn’t have to prop herself up.”

  Without concern for her $1,000 dress, Mom heeds my instruction and drops to the floor. We slowly transition Hope from her knees to her butt, then carefully get her cradled in Mom’s lap while Dad, Mr. Gentry, and now the other groomsmen corral all the guests to the front of the sanctuary.

  I hike my own dress up above my knees so I can move without impediment, then crawl around Hope so I’m kneeling at her feet. Using her dress as a modesty curtain, I spread her legs apart and, mentally removing myself from our personal ties, pull down her wet undies—oh shit. That’s a head.

  “Tammy!” I call out, aware that she’s been watching nervously from the back corner of the chapel.

  “Yeah?”

  “I need you to call 9-1-1 and tell them to send an ambulance here right now—”

  “Oh god!” Hope cries out. “What’s wrong?”

  “—and then I need you to bring me some hand sanitizer and some clean towels,” I go on with my instruction.

  “Okay,” Tammy says, then takes off toward the door with her phone already up to her ear.

  “Whitman, get over here, and hold her hand!” I order while putting my hands in place to help guide the baby out.

  Without hesitation, Whitman sprints over and drops to the floor beside Hope’s shoulder. “It’s okay, babe. I’m here,” he says, voice trembling with fear. “It’s going to be okay.”

  “Mac, what’s wrong?” Hope wails out again.

  “Nothing’s wrong,” I reassure both of them in my calmest voice. “Your baby has just decided to come a little early—”

  Whitman gasps.

  “No!” Hope cries. “It’s too early! I’m only thirty-six weeks! That’s too early!”

 

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