Baggage Check by M.J. Pullen Page A

your mind?” Dylan said. “Afraid to take the plunge?”
    The challenge seemed to bring her back to herself. “Dylan Burke, you know damn well I am not afraid of anything. You least of all.”
    â€œThat’s my girl,” he said, and scooped an arm around her waist.
    Marci sniffed loudly and tore a piece of the toilet paper garland with one hand. She passed pieces to the other three women, and they all dabbed at their eyes.
    Dylan Burke and Suzanne Hamilton exchanged vows simply as the sun sank over the Atlantic. The groom and his groomsmen wore Hawaiian shirts, shorts, and flip-flops. The bride and her attendants wore various cotton sundresses and skirts they’d packed in case of a sporadic night out at a local Italian restaurant, which was as fancy as they’d expected the weekend to get. None of them had anticipated a wedding.
    Suzanne had planned nearly every must-attend upscale event in Atlanta for the last five years, and had dedicated her life to making sure everything was perfect for her clients. Dylan had spent every waking moment since his teenage years in front of cameras, stage lights, and flashbulbs. And yet, here they were, at the wedding that would break the hearts of women everywhere, beneath toilet paper streamers strung between fishing poles. The portly judge gave the rites, after fast-tracking their marriage license. Rebecca snapped a few photos on a disposable underwater camera. It was perfect.
    As Dylan reached for his new wife and gave her a soft kiss, Rebecca felt a thrill of pride that she had set this in motion. For once, her contribution to the group seemed to be more than just filling out a seat at happy hour. Though they hadn’t always seen eye to eye, Rebecca had come to appreciate that Suzanne’s quirkiness and snobbery hid a kind of sweet vulnerability. And while it had never been said by either of them, Rebecca thought maybe Suzanne was learning this same truth about her.

 
    7
    After sunset, they built a bonfire. Kate and Jeff brought out the buckets of beer and champagne, and paper plates overflowing with appetizers. The group sat on folding chairs and towels and chatted loosely, as though people got married on the spur of the moment every day. As though the groom weren’t one of the most recognizable people in all of country music. Jake had brought out speakers, so they listened to music on his phone and stared out at the blackness of the ocean.
    â€œSorry to ruin your girls’ weekend,” Dylan said to Suzanne, who looked more relaxed in the firelight than Rebecca even thought it possible for Suzanne to be.
    â€œSorry to ruin your big wedding,” she said, kicking his bare foot with hers.
    â€œDo you want to hear your song?”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œI’ve been writing a song for our wedding. It’s not finished, but…”
    Dylan picked up his guitar and began picking out a few chords. His voice was melodic and perfect, even without rehearsal. “Baby put your hair up, or wear it down, or shave your head…”
    Suzanne shook her head and chuckled.
    â€œWe can go out dancing, to a ball game, or just stay home and rock the bed.”
    Jeff whistled loudly, and then yelled, “Ow!” as Kate elbowed him in the ribs, nearly knocking him off a tiny fabric camp stool.
    Dylan was unfazed. “Honey, I don’t care, what you do or what you wear. You don’t have to be perfect, because you’re perfect for me.…”
    Marci stood abruptly, glancing apologetically at Dylan. She clamped a hand over her mouth, turned, and sped toward the house. She only made it as far as the bushes, however, where she stopped to vomit loudly.
    â€œWell, like I said, the song’s not done yet,” Dylan said, smiling. “That’s not exactly the reaction I was going for.”
    Suzanne pulled him toward her by the sleeve. “I love it. I love you.”
    The group broke into separate