Chapter 8
He’d heard it was bad luck to see the bride before the wedding; but right now, Mike didn’t really give a damn about luck or anything else. He didn’t believe in that kind of thing anyway. Superstitions, urban legends, fairy tales, honest politicians … they were all a load of hogwash, as far as he was concerned.
What wasn’t hogwash was Angelina knocking on the door to their makeshift dressing room with that timid little knock of hers, then whispering something in her brother Caleb’s ear when he answered instead of saying whatever she had to say out loud, to Mike himself. Secrets passing between the best man and the matron of honor this close to the actual “I Do’s” couldn’t be a good thing, as far as Mike could see; and while he wasn’t much for believing in superstitions or fairy tales, he did believe in bad luck and tragedy.
God knows, he’d had enough experience with both to last a lifetime, with change left over.
“Got a confession you want to share with the whole class?” Mike asked, grinning lewdly.
Despite Mike’s inability to resist talking out of his ass—something Mike was prone to do —Caleb afforded him little more than a glance as Angelina pulled the door shut again. “Not a big deal,” he said, turning his attention to Mike, his tone a warning that whatever he was about to say was something he was going to consider a very big deal, “but Angelina thought you might want to know that Sadie’s crying.”
Mike’s gut clenched. His heart rate tripled, and he stepped into motion without even realizing he’d done so. He was half way across the room by the time Caleb added, “You might want to think for a second before you act here, Mike. Sadie’s a bit of a traditionalist. She may not want you to see her right now, especially if she’s crying.”
“Ask me if I give a damn,” Mike said.
His hand was on the doorknob, twisting it to an open, when Caleb stopped him by putting his shoulder to Mike’s, slowing a headlong rush predicated on nothing more than pure gut instinct by putting himself bodily in its path. “Stop,” Caleb said, his voice quiet, calm, stable, inflexible. “Think.”
“Move,” Mike replied just as calmly. “Or pay.”
Mike and Caleb, had gone toe-to-toe more times than either one of them could count; and it had gone to blows a fair percentage of those times. The simple fact that they’d stopped short of killing each other any of those times was exactly why it never occurred to Mike to consider anyone but Caleb as his best man. They were brothers, in every way that really mattered.
Daunted by the room’s sudden change of temperature, Caleb tried to address it, saying, “Come on, Sanderson. Lighten up. Women cry on their wedding day. It’s what they do. You can’t be the kind of pussy who hops to it every time she turns on the waterworks, or you’ll never get anything done.”
Mike didn’t even look at him. He was working to keep it together, concentrating on staying calm instead of just going off on Caleb; not because Caleb deserved it, or even because he was angry at Caleb; but rather because Caleb could take it—Caleb would take it—and he’d understand why he was taking it.
And he did. Caleb understood exactly what was going on. He read Mike like an open book as he fought to get hold of himself, struggled not to over-react, not to over-protect what he was still so scared he’d lose for no good reason that sometimes it was all he could do just to accept he had it—accept he deserved to have it—so he wouldn’t destroy it simply because the fear of having it was sometimes so much worse than the joy of having it could ever be.
Caleb understood that irrational panic. He knew where it came from, and he knew it was trying to detonate itself at the base of Mike’s spine, trying to turn him inside out with one sharp snap. And he was ready to defend Mike against it. Ready to take him down on his wedding day to protect him from his own worst instincts, protect him from his own capacity to screw himself and everyone around him by acting first and thinking later.
Protect him from being driven instead of driving.
When he spoke again, Mike forced his voice to cede Caleb’s point, make it clear he was making a choice, not letting a choice make him. “Angelina wouldn’t have come if I wasn’t supposed to go to her.”
“You’re not going like this,” Caleb said calmly.
Mike’s jaw clenched. He felt one hand double up, become a fist. He relaxed it with an effort, tried to make himself calm the damn down and be rational. Or at least appear rational.
“I’m fine,” he said.
“Uh huh. You look fine.”
Mike cracked his neck, rolled his shoulders, shook his hands out. “I’m fine,” he said again.
Caleb waited, watched, continued to stand his ground.
“I’m fine,” Mike said a third time. “Get out of my way and let me go to her.”
Because it was an order this time instead of a threat, Caleb relaxed. He held his stance for several more seconds, then nodded and stepped aside. “Knock,” he advised. “And take no for an answer, if that’s what the answer is.”
Resisting the urge to remind a man who knew better (on both counts) that he wasn’t an idiot or a fucking Neanderthal, Mike opened the door and strode down the hallway to the “girls” side of the church. His decidedly un-timid knock must have tipped Stella it was him at the door, because when she opened it, she only opened it a crack, and she had even that small point of entry completely blocked with a pink wall of dress cut from the same cloth as Angelina’s. She was in full-on goalie mode when she said, “You are not coming in here, Mike Sanderson. You just go back to your own side of the church and let us handle this.”
Which was exactly why Angelina was Sadie’s best friend instead of Stella … because knowing when to get in the way and when to step aside was sometimes more important than anything else a friend could offer.
He didn’t waste time arguing. Instead, he put a shoulder to the door, applying only as much pressure as was required to force it open and slip inside. Stella really needed to pack on about a hundred and fifty more pounds if she was going to try and stand between he and Sadie. On the other hand, he didn’t want to knock anybody in the wedding party on their ass unless he had to either.
“Sorry, Stella,” he said as he passed, “but anywhere Sadie’s crying is my side of the church.” He looked at Angelina. “Where is she?”
Angelina nodded to a hallway that led out of the main room to a smaller one in the back. Mike headed down the hallway without bothering to thank her. Angelina wouldn’t have come to tell him Sadie was crying unless she wanted him to do exactly what he was doing.
Because the door was closed, he knocked once just to warn her, saying, “Sadie, it’s me. I’m coming in.” He was prepared to take the door down if necessary, but it wasn’t. It was unlocked; she was waiting for him.
The room wasn’t much bigger than a good-sized closet, and the only things in it—other than his crying bride—were the chair she was sitting on, a mirror on the wall, and a counter under that mirror scattered with all the makeup he was never going to believe Sadie actually needed.
“Hey, baby.” He closed the door behind him before dropping to a crouch at her side.
She was all petticoats and bustier in a way that would have normally put every cell in his body on high alert, but he didn’t really notice it now, other than just in passing. What he noticed were the tears streaked down her face and the way her eyes were red and puffy, like she’d been crying for a while now, not just a couple of minutes. “You okay?”
Clearly she wasn’t, but she nodded, trying to say she was. Sliding a hand around her shoulders, he started to pull her into his arms; but she put him off with a small shake of her head, a subtle resistance from her body.
She wouldn’t even look at him, so he didn’t push her. He just waited, watching.