Page 39 of Roundabout

“Then who would give you away?” Beckett asks, coming up beside my Jeep as Bentlee teases my hair in the back seat.

Beside him, Marc asks seriously, “Me?”

“Pssh. No. Not without me.”

“So who’s officiating?”

They step aside, gesturing to the man who used to be my stepbrother, his auburn hair styled to perfection and his usual preppy outfit finally fitting the occasion.

“Drew,” I say, smiling so big my cheeks hurt. He made it. He’s just as busy as the rest of us now with his own family.

“You look beautiful, Angela,” he tells me, giving my cheek a kiss before stepping back.

“Yeah, Angie. Our boy’s gonna cream his pants when he sees you.”

“Romantic,” Bentlee mutters behind me.

Marc shoves Beckett while I look down at the dress I bought right off the floor an hour and a half ago, using Coty’s money, which he insists is now mine. The triangle-cut top is made up of black lace with a very, very low back, and the floor-length tulle skirt is ombre black and mulberry. It is anything but traditional, just like us.

This is more our style than a big wedding at a big venue with a big audience. We’re getting married on a hillside overlooking where our home is, where our family is, surrounded by the people that matter most to us. We’re doing it the way we live our life, on our own time, and at our own speed.

“Who’s watching the kids?”

“Coty,” Paige says, making the guys chuckle mischievously.

“Marc, you know how that ended for you at our wedding,” Bentlee scolds her husband.

“Don’t worry, the Christensen men will pitch in as soon as they get here. Karina’s already over there helping him out right now.” Fake coughing, he adds, “Hunter and Rebel, too.”

Everybody, including Drew, goes quiet.

“Those two are actually together and not fighting?” I ask, peeking up at Marc from under my long, mascara-coated lashes.

“They don’t fight each other,” Bentlee says. “Just…” Her hands pause in my hair.

“Each other’s crushes,” Paige offers.

Marc shakes his head. “Hunter doesn’t fight anybody.”

“Double standard,” Beckett gripes, causing all three of us women to groan and cuss him out at once. He has no room to talk.

I don’t know what the deal with Rebel and Hunter is—I don’t think any of us do really—but I hope they get it figured out because they can’t keep going down this path. Rebel could end up in juvie before she even makes it to high school, and Hunter will probably die a virgin because Rebel refuses to let any other girls near him. She’s like a human force field that zaps anyone that gets too close to her stepbrother who’s not technically her stepbrother.

“What if it’s because they’re…”

“They’re fourteen and fifteen,” Marc says quickly. “They’re not doing anything.”

“You wanna know what I was doing at fourteen and fifteen?”

Every single one of us replies, “No,” to Beckett, effectively shutting him up…if only for a moment.

“Hunter’s a good boy,” Paige says, pushing to standing. Wearing a leather jacket over her striped maxi-dress, she gives her book-page flowers an impressed look, and murmurs, “Who knew all that napkin rolling would’ve paid off?”

I told her about seeing the literary blooms at another ceremony and she offered to recreate them for me. She did a great job. They look exactly like the ones I remember.

“And Rebel’s a good girl,” I agree, taking the “flower” bouquet from her. “Together, they’re…”

“My kids,” Marc growls. “Can we drop this? Isn’t there a wedding or something we’re supposed to be doing?”