“Cheers!” Keats says heartily, the only one to applaud my piss-poor performance with any kind of enthusiasm. “Okay, must be my turn. Well, I’m Keats—Byron’s older brother and the best man. Byron and I met Isabella at the same time, and as always, the boy genius realised a good thing when he saw it, before I did. Sixteen years later, we’re here celebrating their engagement.” Keats raises his beer, prompting the other guests to do the same. “To ending up with the one we’re supposed to be with.”
The crowd cheers genuinely while Keats downs the rest of his drink. He sees me watching him, and gives me a wink. His sly smile tells me his closing statement didn’t mean the engaged couple.
“Subtle,” I say quietly to my “partner in crime” while Mr Harper warns Byron to cherish his only child, or else, during his speech.
“I thought so. What about you? Could you be more jealous of Isabella? For someone not making a big move on Byron, I was sensing some bitterness,” he teases but with an edge to his voice.
“You’re bitter,” I retort, resisting the urge to poke my tongue out at him. His smirk tells me he sensed my supressed childish impulse. “I guess it’s easier to demonise her than to admit I have no idea how to get the guy.”
He’s not the only one who can mean something other than what he’s saying, but unlike me, Keats seems totally clueless to my double entendre.
Mr Harper finishes his speech when he gets too choked up to continue. Isabella runs up to her father and wraps him in a hug, inciting a collective “aww” around the room. Byron waits behind her, giving the older man a consoling pat on the back and they start chatting while the festivities gradually resume.
Keats watches the exchange, drains another bottle of beer, and excuses himself before he walks away. My stomach knots with jealousy at both Isabella’s relationship with her father, and Keats’ reaction to her. I stay near the wall and people watch. I hate how much Keats still seems to care for the bride. He was fine during my second driving lesson last weekend, jokey and cocky as usual. But it seems that as soon as Isabella came back to town, it was his good humour’s turn to leave.
I notice Mia and Penny chatting near a bookshelf where there’s a framed photograph of Keats and Isabella at the Year 12 formal—I’ve been jealous of that photo for eleven years, even though they hadn’t actually gone to the event together. Mia’s daughter whizzes past my ex-classmates, playing chase with Isabella’s cousins’ children, as well as the older members of Fiona’s brood. Fiona is plopped down on a sofa, looking more exhausted and haggard than usual while her portly husband ferries drinks and snacks to her.
“Hi, Jess.” I look away from the sweat-drenched Fiona and find Isabella standing in front of me. “Nice speech. Could you, uh, maybe make it more upbeat at the wedding, please?” she says with a little laugh to soften her request.
“Yeah, I didn’t realise we had to make a speech today. Maybe Penny or Mia can do it at the reception for you?”
“No,” Isabella says, unable to give up on anyone as usual. “I’m sure you’ll do a great job. And you’re the maid of honour. I want you to do it.”
She smiles at me encouragingly, and I instantly get choked up. It’s not always easy to dislike Isabella.
“Okay,” I manage to say past the lump in my throat.
“Actually, could I ask you another favour? Could you run interference between my mother and Aunty Heather? The in-law wars have begun. They’re getting on each other’s nerves already. Oh, hey, Keats,” she says as her ex-boyfriend joins us. Her slightly high pitched tone and the way her eyes can’t seem to stay on his tell me she’s still uncomfortable around the guy she cheated on.
I do a quick study of Keats’ face. He doesn’t seem to realise how much his eyes reveal all his questions for her.
“I was just asking Jess to help me with Mum and…Mum,” Isabella continues, still avoiding looking at him. “They’re bickering about the centre piece on the dessert table, and I’d rather not touch that with a ten-foot pole. Would you be able to help with that?”
Isabella’s mobile phone suddenly rings. She looks at the screen and says, “It’s Sofie—my friend from uni. I’d better take this,” before walking away.
“Well, at least she’s back to talking to me,” Keats says, his tone filled with irony.
“She’s not going to get the ‘friend’ vibe off you if you keep looking at her expectantly.”
He turns to me with a surprised expression, as if he didn’t realise he was being so obvious.
“Come on, time to deal with the in-laws,” I say. “You know, if you manage to pull off your little scheme, it’ll be the same shit you’ll have to deal with—Isabella’s mum and yours competing for the title of Best Mother.”
“I better go practise,” he says, in his usual unfazed manner. “Anyhow, Aunty Lorenda loves me, so I’m not too worried.”
“All right, you sweet talk her, and I’ll take on your mother.”
We head outside without getting accosted, unlike the engaged couple whom everyone stops to talk to. At the dessert table, we find the two mothers. They seem to have moved on from the centre piece to how the dessert selection should be laid out.
“Hey, Aunty Lorenda,” Keats drawls, draping an arm around the older woman’s shoulders. “That looks fantastic. Did you make the crème caramel? You know, the gifts table is overflowing. Could you show me where to put the pressies? Maybe I can stash some away for you now.”
He leads Isabella’s mother away towards the house, looking over his shoulder at me only once to flash me a triumphant wink. Heather is too busy to
