“Thank you so much for coming, everyone,” Isabella says. “We’ve achieved so much in a short time. I can’t believe we finally have the church and venue booked, and the bridal party’s outfit, and my dress.”
My dress.
“This one won’t tell me what it looks like,” Byron says, looking at Penny and me.
Isabella slaps him on the arm. “Don’t try to get hints off them. It’s a surprise.”
“It’s gorgeous—you’re going to want it off.” Penny follows this comment with a chortle.
“Penny!” Isabella scolds, blushing profusely.
She’s such a prude. I look at Keats to see his reaction to all this. He has his eyes cast on his drink but every now and again he glances up at his ex-girlfriend. His wide mouth is down at the corners.
“I’m so excited about the groomsmen’s outfits,” Isabella says, changing the topic. “You guys are going to look so great.”
“The bloody kilt looks like a mini-skirt on me,” Blake complains. “We don’t hafta shave our legs, do we?”
“Only if you want to, mate,” Byron says with a chuckle. He kisses his fiancée’s shoulder, the action so natural I don’t think he even realises he’s showing so much affection in public.
It’s my childhood all over again. Isabella is from a happy family, and it looks like she’ll be playing happy families with Byron very soon. It’s not that I don’t want that for her, but I wish I had a bit more going for me, too.
“Hey, don’t complain. Anything’s better than spew,” Penny says, looking at Blake across the table from her. Judging by the way she’s looking at him, he’s sitting far enough to look just the right size for her.
“Spew?” Blake asks, raising a brow.
“It was so gross, hey?” Penny says before she fills him in on what happened at Stones’ Corner. All three men lean in to hear how Fiona helped us decide what to wear for the wedding.
“I can’t believe you’re getting married in four months!” Penny says to Isabella, off again on one of her tangents as soon as the regurgitated celery story is finished. “And before me!”
“Tell me about it,” Keats drawls, mouth curved in a drunken simper. It seems all this drinking’s finally mellowing him out. “My baby bro’s getting married already. I remember when he used to crawl around the backyard and put snails he found in his mouth.”
“Ew!” Isabella cringes, and I watch Keats’ satisfied, humourless grin behind another glass of sangria.
It seems almost getting killed while racing each other tobogganing on the sand hills this afternoon hasn’t satiated his need to outdo his brother.
Byron leans in for a kiss, and Isabella squeals and pulls away, laughing the whole time. He lifts her hand and presses his lips to the back of it. She sits up normally and draws him by the nape for a kiss on the lips. I guess Keats’ little ploy has backfired. He drains his glass of sangria and refills immediately.
“You’ve gotta say that in your best man speech,” Penny tells Keats, still chuckling.
“I’ve got more where that came from.” He drains his new glass of sangria and pours himself another.
Byron looks at his brother but doesn’t bite.
“And Blake can back me up here.” Keats turns to his right for confirmation.
“You were both little shits,” Blake says.
“How old are you?” Penny asks. I don’t blame her. Blake doesn’t look more than a year older than us.
“Ancient,” Keats teases.
“He’s an old codger,” Byron says at the same time.
Blake scratches the bridge of his nose with his middle finger aimed at the McAllister brothers. “Thirty-three.”
“Wow. So you’re not even just a little bit over thirty,” Penny says to herself, but out loud.
We all laugh.
“So, Isabella, are you going to be back for good in November?” Blake asks.
She and Byron stop laughing immediately. She shifts ever so slightly closer to her fiancé while he tightens his arm around her waist.
“’Fraid not. I still don’t have work here and Byron’s still studying, so it’s better if I stay in London and save up for our first home.”
An awkward silence follows this admission, thankfully interrupted when a band starts to play.
“Let’s eat,” Isabella says with a shaky smile. She leads the way to the buffet table, taking Byron’s hand as she stands up.
There are about five kinds of salads drenched in mayo, lots of dishes with rich sauces, bread rolls, and deep fried stuff. When my weight loss adviser finds out what I eat this weekend, she would have a coronary. Though I probably would before she does. I’ve already lost fourteen kilos since the beginning of the year. It’s been like a freaking cha cha. One kilo off (after a long period of self-control), two kilos on (after one big meal). I cringe to think about what the scale would show me when I get back home.
I get some wilted green salad and a crumbed fish. Penny’s heaped food on her plate, and Isabella has a little bit of everything on hers. The guys’ plates don’t look like they’ve given any thought to their weights. Typical.
“I’m getting some beers. Anyone else want some?” Blake offers as we all set our plates on our table.
Isabella, Byron and Keats raise their hands.
“I’ll get a jug,” Blake says before he goes to the bar.
Two jugs later, Isabella and Byron retire for the night, holding hands and nuzzling each other as they walk away. Another jug later, Blake and Penny leave the table.
“What about you?” I ask Keats when it’s just the two of us left at the table.
“I’m just gonna stay here. My room’s right next to theirs.” He has his chin resting on the palms of his hands, looking forlorn.
“So?”
He inclines his head, waiting for
