Eddie glowers. “Joke’s on you. I get shit-faced regularly at college parties.”
“Good for you, kid,” Killian says dryly.
Dad clears his throat, cutting the conversation short. His gaze shifts to me still sitting in the armchair, nursing my drink, the copy of theNew York Timesdiscarded beside me.
He snatches the paper up, grunts, then tosses it back down. “It’s the big day. Many say the biggest of your life. Don’t fuck it up for us. We need this after Lochlan.”
I take a slow sip of whiskey, letting the burn torch my throat before I answer. “I’m glad I could finally be of use.”
“This isn’t the time to be a smartass,” he snaps, baring his teeth in what he calls a grin. His Irish brogue comes out the more agitated he becomes, over three decades in America be damned. “No fucking horseplay, Ronan. Just seal the deal and get her done.”
He turns and walks out, Eddie trailing behind him like a loyal dog.
The door clicks shut.
Killian waits ’til we’re alone again then leans against the minibar, swirling the whiskey in his glass. “Wedding starts in thirty. You ready to sign your life away for the family?”
I down the last of my whiskey, the glass hitting the table with a dull thud.
“Always.”
The nave of the Lady’s Chapel at St. Patrick’s Cathedral is historic, known for its soaring Gothic arches, stained-glass windows, and rows of dark wooden pews that sit two hundred.
Half from the Langstons. The other hundred from the Callahans.
Everybody’s dressed in their best designer threads, adhering to the wedding colors of emerald, ivory, gold, and navy.
I adjust my dark emerald tie and tug at the navy waistcoat I’m wearing, the fabric suddenly feeling too constricting.
But what choice do I have at this point? The wedding is here, and it’s time to go out there and face my fate.
I enter through a side door and take my place at the head of the altar. Killian and Eddie follow as my groomsmen, lining up beside me in matching navy suits with emerald accents and ivory boutonnieres.
I observe everyone in the room.
Ashante Langston is seated up front in a tasteful gold wrap dress, her posture regal and composed. Behind her are several of Simone’s male cousins, each one looking like protective older brothers as they stare me down with barely concealed animosity.
Then there’s my side, where Dad and Mom sit side by side without acknowledging each other, their faces polite masks. The rest of the clan fills out the pews—enforcers, arbiters, cleaners, old family friends—all on their best behavior for the formal occasion.
For music, we’ve settled on a live harpist straight from Ireland and a Black organ player Malcolm knows personally from his hometown in Georgia.
The harpist fills the room with gentle Celtic hymns, the notes floating through the air like something out of a dream.
It’s beautiful, I’ll admit that much.
I rarely get nervous. But as I stand here and wait for my bride, for the course of my life to change forever, I’m tenser than usual. My jaw is tight, my hands clenched at my sides.
I want to get this shit over with.
The bridesmaids come down the aisle in gold dresses, their bouquets wrapped in ivory ribbon. They take their places opposite the groomsmen, their faces noticeably neutral.
Then comes Simone’s best friend, Chantal Banks, in a gown that’s navy with gold beading to symbolize her role as Maid of Honor. She’s short and curvy, her hair swept into an elaborate updo adorned with more of the same gold beading. She catches my eye and gives me a look of curiosity mixed with concern.
Next is the flower girl, my nine-year-old cousin Chloe. She looks adorable in her emerald-tulle dress, her bright red curls bouncing with each step as she scatters ivory rose petals down the aisle.
The ring bearer is from Simone’s side. Her cousin Karter’s boy, a chubby kid in a suit and bowtie who takes his job very seriously as he marches through the room like a little soldier and makes everyone chuckle.
Then the organ starts, deep and resonant, filling the chapel with jarring sound.