“I most certainly did not,” I huff, though I guess I said it out loud.

He laughs, exuberantly enough that his leg collides with mine. “I haven’t been called a butthole since sixth grade.” The mushrooms go in; he chews. “It’s my two favorite words.”

“Butthole is one word.” I sniff again.

“Okay Miss Know-It-All.” He chews on more of my food.

He doesn’t have to say the next few words; I can see him thinking them: Boring. Conservative. Shy. Obedient.

If only he knew…SevenTrippMy brother is saying his vows.

Like, now. As in, I’m standing at the end of the aisle waiting for Hollis to appear for the grand march or the whatever it’s called. All eyes on the door—kind of like at the beginning of every football game, when we run out of the tunnel from the locker rooms to a stadium full of people.

I pull at the collar of my white starched shirt, the stark black tuxedo professionally fitted but still uncomfortable, cutting off my air supply—and my dignity.

Yanking on it, I make the mistake of glancing out into the pews and catch the eye of Shoshanna Lohenstein, whom I managed to avoid last night at dinner, though she tried to catch me coming out of the bathroom after I took a leak.

Her talon-like nails were out in full force.

I snicker into my boutonnière; last night, with the help of Clark O’Brien—a childhood friend of my brother’s—I painted HELP on the bottom of one wedding shoe and ME on the other.

My mother gasps and I don’t dare look at her, because I know she’s looking at me.

Why would she just assume I’m the one who did something wrong? It could have been anyone, but of course, they’re going to automatically accuse me.

Typical.

The white acrylic paint I bought at the craft store stains the tips of my fingers; my paint job was messy as fuck.* * *Buzz is a married man.

Just like the Super Bowl or World Series, the celebration after the ceremony—i.e., the big game—consists of tons of food, confetti, and alcohol.

Even the paparazzi are staked out outside the reception, a few select stations and publications allowed inside for exclusive photos.

MLB Network hovers in a corner, having gotten the rights for the first dance and cake cutting. Two photos for two million dollars. SportsCenter outbid them for the shots at the church and two from the honeymoon.

The honeymoon, I’d like to remind everyone, I was not invited to.

Begrudgingly, I slurp my wine and push the soup around its bowl, barely listening as Madison—Hollis’s best friend and maid of honor—stands to talk. And talk, and talk, and—

“…and now I’d love for the best man to join me in standing. Tripp Wallace would love to say a few words.” She hiccups and sits down, kissing Hollis’s face and blowing one to my brother.

A microphone is thrust into my hand.

What the fuck does she want me to do, give a speech?

My mother somehow magically materializes from behind, resting her hands on the back of my chair. Leans down to whisper, “You do have a best man speech prepared, don’t you, dear?”

Um, no, I don’t.

I lock eyes with True, my sister, placed a few seats down—the sly expression on her face a gloating one. She knows I have nothing to say and is going to roast me about it for years, I just fucking know it.

I stand, reluctant.

Pick up my wine glass for something to hold, keep my hands busy.

Didn’t someone tell Madison I’m an athlete, not a public speaker? What the hell do I say? The last time I was at a wedding, I barely paid attention to the ceremony, let alone the speeches at the actual reception.

Shit. I should have googled what to say.

The small crowd of guests look on, half of them bored, half of them waiting on pins and needles for what I’m about to say, and that damn Shoshanna, seated at what must be the singles table, licking her chops.

Cleat chaser…

Stay away from her if you get drunk, Tripp. Stay away from her if you get drunk—when you get drunk.

I open my mouth.

“We are gathered here today…” I start, causing the crowd to laugh. Crap, I sound like a preacher in church. “I mean—thank you for coming. Um…” I pause. “I’ve known my brother for all his life.” More laughter, and a deep scowl from my mother. “I’m Tripp Wallace, the groom’s brother.” I refuse to look over at my family again, and I want to die. Or get tackled by Arnie Felder, left tackle on my team, during practice.

Anything but this.

“Um.”

From the front head table, where Buzz is seated with his new bride—the new Mrs. Wallace—I hear his distinct chuckle.

“Go on. You’re doing great.”

No doubt this is his doing, in retaliation for me painting his wedding shoes. I want to tell him to fuck off, but this is his party and I don’t want to be rude.