An NSB Wedding

by Alyson Santos

  She twists a grin back at me. “I could be here all day.”

  “The first thing we’re doing when we get our own place is setting up a tea station for you.”

  “Really?” Those eyes. Damn. I can’t.

  “Really. Whatever you want, babe. Everything you want.” I kiss her hair, swaying our bodies to the rhythm of Jesse’s guitar over in the corner. That kid’s voice elevates even a donut reception to the next level.

  “I think I might start with the Paris Blend. Do you think it’s actually from Paris?”

  No clue, but the way she says it makes me pray that it is.

  “I don’t know. Bet it’s delicious though. You hungry? I’ll grab you a donut before Derrick eats them all.”

  She casts a disgusted look at the table where Eli and Sweeny have joined Derrick in their quest to rid the planet of all pastries.

  “Sure. Just a glazed one, please.”

  “You got it.”

  It’s freaking hard to let her go, but right now I’m less important than whatever “Paris Blend” is anyway. Besides, a storm’s brewing. I feel it in the air with my sixth sense for family drama.

  “Nestor Barrett, you put that back!” Ms. Hawthorne shouts, right on cue. She launches an indignant point at her beau. “You know what the doctor said about your cholesterol!”

  “Donuts don’t have cholesterol,” Nestor counters.

  “Of course they do! Everything has cholesterol,” she huffs.

  “Celery?”

  “Pfft.” But her head is doing the math. Nestor crosses his arms with all the smugness of a spoiled royal.

  “Carrots?” he continues. “Romaine lettuce? Iceberg lettuce? Batavia lettuce?”

  “Fine! None of the lettuces! But there are no Batavian lettuce donuts on that table, are there? Are there!”

  Nestor grumbles something about ranch dressing before grabbing a sugar-coated donut and marching off, a furious Ms. Hawthorne chasing after him.

  “How you feeling?” Luke asks, pulling up beside me.

  “Good, man. Really good.” The smile in my chest can’t even be quelled by Uncle Nestor today. “What you did for us…” I shake my head, willing the tears to stop before they hit my throat. I’m not going to be that guy. But when Luke’s gaze softens with a lifetime of brotherhood, there’s no hope for me. I swat at my eyes and pull him into a hug. “I love you, bro. Thank you.”

  “I love you too, Case. We couldn’t be happier for you and Cal.”

  I nod, pulling back before I totally lose my shit.

  “Anyway, it wasn’t just me,” he continues, slapping my shoulder. “It took all of us to pull this off. Holland, especially.”

  “She’s amazing. You struck gold too, man. Hey…” I squint around the room, scanning the guests. “Where is she anyway? I’m sure Callie wants to thank her.”

  “Um…” Luke quiets. Wait, is he blushing?

  “Okay, dude. What the hell is going on with your girlfriend?”

  He bites his lip, gaze darting to the door. “She’d kill me.”

  “Why? She have some weird foreign stomach flu or something?”

  “Well, no. Not exactly.”

  I shrug. “Okay. Well, I’ll just send Callie to go chat with her and find out.”

  “No! I mean…” He pulls me close and leans toward my ear. “She’s pregnant, dude.”

  Waiiiiiit…..

  The shout forms. Rising, there it is, rushing from my lungs, up through my throat and—

  “Shh!” Luke says with a laugh. “You can’t tell anyone.”

  “What? Why the hell not? I want to tell everyone!” I whisper-shout, shoving him.

  “Because she’s not at twelve weeks yet. Plus, she doesn’t want to take anything away from you and Callie right now.”

  “Are you fucking serious? Callie would go nuts if she knew. Wait, does she?”

  Luke’s eyes widen. “No. And your wedding day will also be your funeral if you tell her. You have to let Holland tell her. She’s planning to soon.”

  Maybe I kind of understand Derrick’s seal-dance for once. “This rocks, dude. Congrats.”

  His grin makes me think it’s physically painful for him to keep this to himself. “Thanks, man. We’re pretty fucking stoked.”

  I glance back at Callie who still has not chosen a freaking teabag. “Tell Holland she needs to forget this deference bullshit. She has to tell Cal, like, yesterday. That will be the best wedding present you two can possibly give her.”

  “You think?”

  “She’s my wife, dude. I know.”

  ∞∞∞

  Holland’s news will have had to wait though, because apparently, our elusive suitor Marty Heilman has one last surprise for us. Jesse’s musical artistry fades into silence at the legit trumpet blast announcing the arrival of… something. I can’t see over the crowd, but I’m not optimistic. I know it’s from Marty because my phone lights up with a text from an unknown number at the same moment.

  May the dance of life commence with your new partner.

  And commence it does. My groomsmen aggressively clear floor space for the trumpet player to lead—are those people wearing togas?

  “What’s happening right now?” Callie asks, tucking her arm around mine. I’m sure my face mirrors hers: concern, curiosity, acceptance of the new normal.

  “Marty Heilman,” I say casually. She nods and sips her tea.

  “That the Paris Blend?”

  “It’s delicious. Want a taste?” She holds the cup up to me.

  “No, thanks. Hey look, a cithara.”

  “A what?”

  “Kind of like an ancient guitar.”

  “Ah. And there’s a flute. I know that one.”

  “Oh yeah. Huh. Ms. Hawthorne must be in heaven,” I say with a snicker.

  Callie’s brow scrunches into adorable creases. “Uncle Nestor’s girlfriend? She likes flutes?”

  “Long story.”

  The dancers are set, and damn they take their job seriously. By their grave expressions, they really are about to perform for the emperor of Rome. The rich twang of the cithara fills the room with its eerie cry. When the flute joins in, the handful of dancers begin undulating in all kinds of strange snake-like maneuvers. What’s the protocol for watching Roman-style dancing? I’m not the only one confused, it seems, as I look around the room. Some nod sternly, as if this is the tenth such performance they’ve been forced to endure this week. Others participate with some off-tempo silent clap that reminds me of Grammy Barrett in the front row of my violin recitals. Cal just looks perplexed.

  The other problem with surprise Roman-style wedding dance routines is that no one knows when they end. After the third applause that dies from more oblivious undulation, we stop trying to guess. The cithara though? Pretty cool. Kinda want one. Wonder if I can just order that shit online?

  I study the musician’s fingers as they pluck and glide over the strings. He’s doing something with his other hand too. What is that? I take a step closer, but the dancers keep blocking my view. Another step. And another. And then—

  I’m dancing. Well, I’m being led in circles by the hand anyway. The formations seem way more intricate when you’re being shoved from one toga-body to the next and expected to… I don’t know. Probably not scowl like I currently am. I keep trying to escape, only to be pulled back and surrounded by some freaking scrappy dancers, it turns out. And then I see it. My groomsmen. Snickering at first, and then full on belly-laughing when they see they’ve got my attention.

  “You did this?” I mouth, pointing at them. The glee escalates to unseemly levels, and I manage to wrestle myself away from my costumed captors.

  “You idiots. You’re Marty Heilman?” I say, charging toward them. They back up as far as the crowd will allow. The Limelight guys are laughing so hard I worry for their health. My own band is doubled over, even Luke who I thought was my kin. “Et tu, Brute?” I bark out, shoving him. His smirk only grows. “You losers are taking e
very one of those damn flower arrangements back to your rooms!”

  Apparently this amuses them even more, and by now, we’ve totally interrupted the weird Roman thing. I can’t believe this. Except, I totally believe this. Idiots. A smile plays on my lips as I shake my head. Fucking brilliant idiots who even helped me get arrested with that birds’ nest fiasco. Ever want to hug a person and deck them at the same time?

  “You should see your face, dude,” Derrick cries, seal-clap-jumping.

  “Yeah? Does it look like I’m gonna beat the shit out of you while you sleep?”

  “You don’t even have a key to my room!” he calls back, totally missing the point as usual.

  “Just sayin’ you all better watch your backs on tour,” I bark, adding emphatic points at each of them to offset the smile on my face. When Callie winds her arm around my side, chuckling sweetly, I know it’s over. The dudes won Wedding Gifting.

  “I can’t believe that was them this whole time. And Luke.” She lets go of me to shove her BFF. Luke reels back in dramatic acceptance. Callie goes in for the kill and screams when he grabs her. Lifting her off the ground, his smile is downright devilish as she smacks his back. “Luke!” she cries, legs kicking and arms flailing.

  “Casey!” she shouts over to me, pleading. I wave back, enjoying her glare. “You’re going to let him do this to your wife?”

  “Do what?”

  “This!”

  Luke laughs and sets her down. “Anyway, you can’t prove a thing,” he teases.

  “No? There’s no way those idiots came up with all that poetic crap,” she says. I flinch along with him at the finger jutting into his ribs. Been there. The girl can jab like nobody’s business. Pretty sure even the Roman dance troupe winces at her follow-up attack when he shows zero remorse for his role.

  Luke throws his arms over his head, laughing while my wife demonstrates her contempt for Marty Heilman. In a week of insanity, this might be the funniest part.

  “You’re just going to stand there?” Callie pauses long enough to scold me.

  “You seem to have everything under control, babe.”

  The break must have been enough to calm the adrenaline, because soon she’s all smiles and blushes tucked under Luke’s arm. I’m about to demand my wife back when she freezes, all humor draining from her face.

  I turn and follow her gaze through what suddenly becomes a portal to hell. Well, a demon lair anyway, because there they are, sneering at us with the smugness of groupies who snuck past security.

  “What the fuck are you doing here?” I snap. Officer Andy be damned; I have no problem going back to prison for this asshole. Two steps forward, and I find myself rooted for a fight.

  “Hey. Not worth it, man,” Luke soothes, his arm locked across my chest. Sweeny has my other side, and even Eli grips my shoulder from behind when I struggle to get free.

  “Casey, don’t.” This plea I can’t ignore. Not with those hazel eyes filled with fear for me. “Please. I don’t want to lose you right now.” I pull in a deep breath, limbs shaking, blood pounding. Would I kill Roger Roland? No. Would I get a real hit in? Hell yeah. My vacation to a jail cell at least earned me that.

  But Callie.

  My wife.

  Where’s security, anyway?

  “What are you doing here, Dad?” Callie asks, stepping between us. I’ve never seen those perfect brows knitted with so much contempt before.

  Slender fingers that playfully attacked Luke a second ago are now balled into small fists at her sides as she leans toward her father, venom in her gaze.

  “Of course I’d want to see my only child’s wedding.”

  Roger releases his trashy date to better engage in the battle, and I stiffen. The band’s grip on me tightens.

  “She’s got this,” Luke whispers. Does zilch to soothe my rage, but the appearance of security helps.

  Callie holds up her hand. “Just a sec, Lee and Tom.”

  Lee and Tom? Of course she knows the names of tonight’s security guys. Her eyes narrow back on her father.

  “You are not welcome here. Nor are you welcome in our present or our future. Next time you show up in our lives uninvited, you will have a hell of a lot more than some angry words to deal with. Do you understand?”

  Something flickers over his gnarled face. Hesitation? Uncertainty? I get the feeling he’s surprised by this side of Callie as well.

  “I asked you a question!” she roars, stepping forward.

  He flinches and clears his throat. “I was just—”

  “No,” she hisses, pointing again. “No words other than ‘yes, I understand.’”

  His gaze darts to me, to my friends, to security, to the crowd of witness, and back to Callie.

  “I understand.”

  “Good.”

  He starts to back away.

  “Oh, and while you’re at it. I’d suggest dropping those bullshit charges against Casey or I’ll tell the world about Pittsburgh.”

  “You wouldn’t.”

  “I damn well would.”

  I’ve never seen a grown man pale like that. Dude looks ready to hurl as he grabs Whats-Her-Name’s arm and drags her after him to the exit.

  “Yeah, that’s right!” Derrick shouts after him, air-punching a vicious strike.

  Stunned silence follows. Callie seething, me in shock, and Eli… snickering?

  I glance over at my bandmate who has a grin on his face.

  “What is it?” I ask.

  He bites his lip. “Callie just said ‘bullshit.’”

  24: SATURDAY 1:17PM

  Callie’s asleep when my phone buzzes with a call. As much as I would’ve loved to celebrate our marriage with all-the-consummation the second we got back to our room, it didn’t take a genius to see that she was exhausted. Me? I was still too fired up to rest and decided to guard my wife while she slept. I’ll be damned if anyone is going to disturb her.

  But here we are, my eternal soul in peril as I stare at Derrick’s name on my phone. Now what?

  As carefully as possible, I inch off the bed and tiptoe toward the exit. I hate how loud hotel doors are. You’d think a place designed for sleeping would invest in doors that don’t sound like a 19th century bank vault.

  By the time I get out to the hall, Derrick’s call is on its third round of rings.

  “What?” I snap.

  “Casey?”

  “Yeah. What is it?”

  “Um…”

  Now he’s silent?

  “Derrick, I swear, if you interrupted me for no reason—”

  “No, I have a reason. A good one.”

  “Which is?”

  “Well… You see…”

  “Derrick!”

  “I might’ve lost Uncle Nestor.”

  …

  …

  “What?”

  “Yeah. I mean, I was escorting him and Mrs. H back to their room after our couple’s massage and—”

  “Hang on. Couple’s massage?”

  “Yeah, it was Mrs. H’s idea. She had a coupon, so we thought—”

  “You know what? No. I don’t want to know. Just, back to Nestor, please.”

  “Okay, so I was escorting them home, and Uncle Nestor said he wanted a beer.”

  “He’s not supposed to drink.”

  “That’s what I said!”

  Silence.

  More silence.

  “And?”

  Derrick clears his throat. “Oh. Right. So he insisted, and what was I supposed to do? He’s my uncle, right?”

  “No. He’s really not.”

  “Well, you know what I mean. My surrogate uncle.”

  “Not a thing.”

  “And I couldn’t say no. The way he gives you those grandpa puppy eyes?”

  “Also not a thing.”

  “Well, he does. And so I said fine. I’d just leave him at the bar, take Mrs. H back to her room, and then go back for Uncle Nestor.”

  Well, shit. I see where this is go
ing.

  “So of course when we got to the room, Mrs. H insisted I watch Gardens of Love with her—” (okay, maybe not there)—“and oh my god it was so good, Case. I couldn’t leave until I knew if Esmerelda and Hector would be able to convince her father to give up the cattle ranch. It belonged to Ezzy’s mother’s family so it should have been hers anyway, not—”

  “Dude. Nestor!”

  “Oh, right. So when I got back to the bar, he was gone.”

  Air filters through my nostrils in a heavy inhale. “Okay, well, did you ask the bartender?”

  “Of course.”

  …

  …

  “And?”

  “He said he didn’t remember him.”

  “He didn’t remember a cantankerous old guy in his bar at one o’clock in the afternoon?”

  “Cantankerous, heh.”

  “Derrick!”

  “Right, he didn’t. Well, probably because the bar wasn’t open when I dropped him off which means the bartender wasn’t on duty. Geez, it wasn’t even noon. Place was all dark and shit.”

  My forehead finds the wall. Once. Twice. Three times in a silent bang that would be way more aggressive if Callie wasn’t sleeping on the other side. “D, can I ask you something?”

  “Sure, man.”

  “Why would you leave my uncle sitting at a bar that wasn’t open?”

  …

  …

  “Right. Huh. That doesn’t make sense, does it.”

  “No.”

  “Shit. I’m sorry, man.”

  Clenching my eyes shut, I draw in another deep breath. “Okay. Where are you now?”

  “Looking for Nestor.”

  “Okay, but where?”

  “In the bar. I just told you.”

  Patience, Casey. “Okay. Don’t move. I’m on my way.”

  “Cool, thanks. Want me to order something for you?”

  “What? No! We’re not hanging out, man. We’re going to find my uncle.”

  “Oh sure, I know. Just thought maybe we could do some Search Party Pre-gaming.”

  “Um, yeah. D?”

  “What?”

  “That’s definitely, definitely not a thing.”

  ∞∞∞

  Derrick paces the hotel bar entrance like he lost my newborn baby, not my seventy-year-old uncle. Fingers tearing at his hair, he looks downright broken shuffling around in assertive arcs.