The Bride Wore Size 12 (Heather Wells 5)

I glare at her. “I didn’t have a bridal shower.”

“I know,” Nicole says. “You wouldn’t let us give one for you, which was such a shame, because Mom really wanted to, and so did Tania. I don’t necessarily believe in the institution of marriage because it’s part of an outdated, patriarchal social system that for thousands of years only benefited men and wealthy women, but if you’re going to do it, you should at least allow your loved ones to throw you a bridal shower. Especially if they want to say how sorry they are for ruining your wedding by inviting a lot of people you didn’t necessarily want to attend the ceremony—”

“Speak for yourself,” Jessica says, springing lightly to her feet. “I didn’t have anything to do with that. That was all Nicole. I just really have to pee, so let me in.”

I glance questioningly up at Hal, who nods and says in his whisper-soft baby voice, “It’s all right, if you know them.”

If I know them? What does that mean?

I look back at the girls, then say to them sternly as I climb the steps, pulling my keys from my purse, “All right, you two can come in. But just this one time. I know I’m marrying your brother, but that doesn’t mean it’s okay for you guys to drop in anytime you want. In the future, please call first. Cooper and I are private people with personal lives we’d like to keep that way—private.”

“I’ll bet you two keep it personal.” Jessica shoots her sister a knowing look. “I told you. Now I know what to get you two for your wedding, a new spatula.”

I knit my brows as I work the locks to the front door. “What are you talking about?”

“Come on,” Jessica says. “Fifty Shades of Grey? Don’t act like you haven’t read it. Everyone’s read it.” She winks at Hal. “Am I right, big guy? We’re definitely not eating pancakes in their kitchen.”

Hal blinks down at her slowly. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says, shouldering his enormous duffel bag. “The last book I read was The Information by James Gleick.”

Jessica hoots at this. “A gentleman and a scholar,” she says. “Me likee.”

“I tried to call,” Nicole says plaintively, following me into the house as soon as I’ve gotten all the locks undone and the door opened. “But you never picked up. I left a zillion messages. You never called me back.”

“Things have been a little crazy,” I say as I punch in the code to turn off the alarm. “It’s check-in week at the dorm, and also—”

“I know,” Nicole says. She’s sticking beside me like glue, hauling her oversize wedding gift in both arms, so that all I can see of her above the sparkly silver bow are her Princess Leia buns and her eyes.

She isn’t the only one sticking to me like glue. My dog, Lucy, is delighted that I’m home from work—and with company for her to sniff, no less!—and is leaping around, barking, her tongue lolling out.

“I know about your mom,” Nicole says, trying to make herself heard above the barking. “Cooper already reamed me out about it. Heather, I’m so, so sorry. I didn’t know. I mean, obviously, I knew—the whole world knows how your mom stole all the money you earned when you were a kid. But like, I never thought if I sent her an invitation to your wedding she’d actually come.”

“What on earth did you think would happen?” I can’t help snapping.

“I thought your mom would call you,” Nicole cries. “In my precorps training institute for Teach for America—which, okay, I admit I didn’t pass, but that isn’t my fault, I have undiagnosed hypoglycemia—they said in order to reach their full potential, it’s important for individuals to communicate.”

I turn to face Jessica in the cool foyer, which Cooper’s grandfather had wallpapered in wide black-and-white stripes (to match the awnings over the windows outside) and that neither Cooper nor I have ever seen reason to redecorate. Jessica has already torn past us in her haste to find a bathroom, while Virgin Hal—mumbling an embarrassed “Excuse me”—squeezes by with his duffel bag in order to head to the basement, Lucy padding after him. She’s always been particularly fond of Hal, who has a soft spot for animals.

I don’t bother asking why Hal’s headed down there because there’s only one reason: the basement is where Cooper keeps his gun safe.

The only reason Virgin Hal is here and headed downstairs to the gun safe with a duffel bag is that . . . that . . .

I can’t think straight because Nicole won’t stop talking.

“So I thought if I could get you and your mom to talk it out, you would have a tearful reunion and make up after all these years of estrangement. I didn’t think you would be so . . . so . . .”

“Angry?” I ask her. My head is pounding. “Bitter? Resentful? Or that my mom would be such a backstabbing, conniving bitch?”

Tears begin to trickle from the eyes behind the silver bow. “Heather, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know you were that mad at her. You never talk about your mom. I thought you were over it.”

I tell myself to breathe. Everything is going to be fine. Sure, I haven’t heard from Cooper in hours, and he’s sent one of his buddies here to protect me—and also go through his gun safe—but that doesn’t mean anything is wrong.

Yeah, right. And I’m still number one on the record charts.

“Just because someone doesn’t talk about something doesn’t mean they’re over it, Nicole,” I say in the most even tone I can muster. “It might mean they’ve chosen to move on, but it doesn’t mean they haven’t been wounded, or that that wound, though partially healed, can’t be ripped open again, very easily.”

Nicole’s face crumples. “Oh God. I’m so stupid.”

The younger girl lets out a mournful cry, then turns to run away from me. Unfortunately, since she’s hardly able to see where she’s going thanks to the gigantic wedding gift in her arms, she runs down the hall farther into the house, and not toward the front door to leave.

Great. Now I’ve done it.

Sighing, I reach into my handbag and pull out my cell phone.

Coop, I text. Hey, not to be a nag, but where are you? Both your sisters are here, and so is Virgin Hal. He says he’s here to protect me, but it seems like he’s hiding in the basement instead. Ha ha just kidding. OK maybe not. Love you. CALL ME. Heather.